#that old image? yeah its Haunting me.

[kindheartedgummybears]

"Im gonna go to bed no"

WRONG! PFP UPDATE!

[astral-schools]

you are the most important person in this story.

you are dead.

this story is your own drawn out funeral. you are not the main character, and yet your ghost lives in the shadow of every step they take. you have been consumed, body and mind, and words spill from your voice without your direction. your actions are judged in your absence; you are on trial and you cannot defend yourself. you have no defense.

you are not the main character. you are not a character. you are a foundation. you are an idea. you are a lesson. (you are a villain, in every story but your own.)

there are two ghosts in this story. one is at the center of it all. the other is you. the first one is also you. he decided to be. (and then he decided not to be.)

(he killed you and decided you weren't good enough.)

you didn't have a voice. you didn't get a say. you weren't even there.

no one knows how you felt about dying. they didn't need to. you are not a main character in this story. (this story is not about you.) you are the most important piece of this story. (this story could not happen without you.) you do not have the power to change anything.

you have the power to change nothing. (whether you want to or not.)

you are in checkmate.

(you've never been very good at chess. what an infuriating game.)

[nunyabznsbabes]

Katniss is like Lucy Gray this, Katniss is like Sejanus that, and yes fine that's all good and true and lovely but Katniss Everdeen is also a direct parallel to Coriolanus Snow and people NEED to start talking about this because it's driving me crazy.

Think about it: they both grew up poor and deeply vulnerable, losing parents at a very young age, with a matriarchal adult (Katniss' mother and Coriolanus' Grandma'am) who fails to provide for them emotionally and physically. They intimately understand the threat of starvation, even developing with stunted growth because of it, and their narrations in the books share a fixation on food. Throughout their childhoods, both experienced constant fear and suffered a fundamental lack of control over their circumstances. Because of this, they're inherently suspicious of the people around them. They resent feeling indebted to others, especially those who have saved their lives. They're motivated almost entirely by family and deeply connected to their communities. Both are used and manipulated by the Capitol, both are forced to perform to survive and despise every inch of it, both are thrown into the Arena and made to kill. Both have a self-sacrificial, genuinely sweet sister figure acting as their conscience. Peeta and Lucy Gray - performers and love interests with a fundamental kindness and sense of hope about them - fulfill markedly similar roles in their narrative. Both contribute to the development of the future Hunger Games, Snow throughout tbosas and Katniss towards the end of Mockingjay.

It's easy to ignore these similarities because, as mirrors of each other, they are exact opposites. Katniss is from District 12, viewed and treated as less than human; Snow is the cream of the Capitol crop, given the privilege of a name with social weight, an ancestral home, and the opportunity of the Academy despite having no more money than a miner from 12. Katniss has no agency over her life, and responds by being kind whenever she's able, while Snow justifies horrendous evils in order to continue his quest for complete control. Katniss does everything she can to protect her family; Snow does everything he can to protect his family's image as an extension of his own ego. Katniss loves her District and connects with its inhabitants on a meaningful level, but Snow is indifferent at best to his peers - the apparent "superior people" - and only engages with his community for personal gain. Katniss emerges from the Arena horrified at herself and the system, but Snow takes his trauma and turns it into an excuse to perpetuate the violence with himself at the top. Katniss cares for Prim until her death and then snaps at the loss of her little sister, while Snow survives on Tigris' blood, sweat, and tears and then torments and abandons her, presumably because she calls him out on his insanity. Snow actively adds to and popularizes the Hunger Games because of his vendetta against the Districts following his childhood wartime trauma - Katniss briefly agrees to a new Hunger Games in the pursuit of vengeance, but later stops them from happening by killing Coin and choosing a life of peace and privacy. Snow is obsessed with revenge, but Katniss empathizes with the Capitolites and does what she can to keep them from suffering. He exists in a cruel system and selfishly upholds it; she exists in a cruel system and works to dismantle it for the good of her family and community, at great personal cost. And Peeta and Lucy Gray are incredibly similar, but Katniss and Peeta forge a relationship of genuine love and understanding that shines in comparison to Coriolanus' obsessive projection onto Lucy Gray.

So, yeah, Katniss is Lucy Gray haunting Coriolanus. But I bet you anything that eighty-something year old President Snow looks at her, the girl on fire, bright and young and brilliant, emerging from a childhood of starvation with a relentless hunger for success, a talented and charming performer helping her win the Games, and he sees the ghost of his own past. And that's why he's so afraid of her! Because if he sees himself in her, then he's up against his own cunning, his own talent for manipulation, his own charisma, his own genius. He's up against the version of himself that he once wished to be, with the nightmare army of his childhood at her back and her star-crossed lover at her side, spewing Sejanus' truths in his own voice. This isn't to say that Katniss ever achieved the level of power and agency that Coriolanus did during her time with the rebellion, but it is to say that Snow was taken down by what truly terrified him - his own morality, come to finish the job.

[hattersarts]

okay im doing cringe (yes i am free but this is still category cringe even if i don't feel it) and putting the most homoerotic images of jeeves and bertie in a read more cut bc i cannot STAND to be looking at these pictures alone anymore.

also the wink wink potential of pg wodehouse being either gay or sympathetic and bertie never marrying and fry being part of this production of J&W sends me into tail spins bc like everyone knew right. anyway.

first is this insane moment???? hello???????? handing drink and then sitting down to play with a man (also lilies?????????? like it didnt mean anything for the set designer but NOW?)

this cap in particular makes me loose my mind bc it implies jeeves putting flowers in bertie's button holes in public is just a normal thing that he does (like i know its his job but....this is like, out in the open? your fixing your y.m.'s flower? okaaayyyyyy)

bertie in full grooms fit standing in the church next to jeeves being like the last scene of the series????? HUH???????????

okay this one is obvious but ALSO the plot of "we much pretend to be TWO PALS, TO FRIENDS, COMRADE WHO LIVE TOGETHER" was prime fic territory and delightful.

idk something about this.

and now follows the promo pictures that will haunt me to my grave of images you'd find going through an old family album with the explanation of "this is an image of my great uncle and the man he lives with and spent the rest of his life, they were good friends" meanwhile your queer ass sat there like. yeah they were in love and fucking, good for them.

anyway thanks for reading

[blissfulbarbie]

Deaf Ears, Loud Hearts / Joel Miller x Reader

Description: Haunted by guilt over an accident that injured you, Joel pushes you away, urging you to find someone better. As you grow closer to someone else, Joel wrestles with his jealousy and regrets, realizing his own mistakes but unsure if he can reclaim what he's lost.

Word count: 1.4k

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the homes that surrounded Joel’s in the little commune in Jackson. He sat in his room, lost in thought as he cleaned his revolver, each metallic click echoing in the quiet room. You had left him just a while ago after spending the day together, but your absence felt heavy in his heart. He realized he hadn't even said goodbye to you, mind too occupied with the thoughts that wouldn't shut up.

"Joel, you alright in there?" Ellie's voice called from outside the door. He'd been in there for a while and she was getting worried. His admission about the bullet that missed his head had stayed with her, and she was always wary about leaving him alone when he was in a mood.

"Yeah, fine," Joel grumbled, not wanting to admit the truth.

He replayed the events of the day in his mind. You all had been out scavenging, laughter mingling with the desolate sounds of the overgrown world. But then, a clicker had appeared out of nowhere, its monstrous form lunging at you. Joel had reacted quickly as soon as he saw it, but the deafness in his right ear had made him slow to hear it in the first place.

By the time Joel had got his arms around you to pull you away and shoot the clicker, you were already dripping blood to the ground. What should have been a preventable altercation with a clicker turned into a deep gash on your arm. The scream you let out when it got you would become an addition to his nightmares.

“It’s okay, it’s not that deep. We can keep going,” you had insisted after your wound was dressed and wrapped.

“No, we’re going home.”

“But I’m–”

“Right now.”

Joel couldn't shake the guilt that weighed heavily on him. The walk back home was silent - a stark contrast to how you had set out on the journey today. Even Ellie sensed the tension and didn’t dare to speak a word. 

"She deserves better than this," he thought to himself the whole way home, repeating like a mantra in his head. 

When you reached your neighbourhood, you both parted ways silently with Joel not even sparing a glance backwards to see you get into your home. 

Days turned into weeks, and your wound healed. But the distance between you and Joel only grew. While you still hung out at his home with Ellie most days, Joel found himself retreating into himself, unable to shake the image of your pain, the godawful terror that ripped through his body when you screamed, the image of you trusting him to protect you. Trusting him to protect you when he was fucking deaf in one ear and too damn old to move fast enough to reach you in time. 

One evening, after a tense dinner, you spoke up. The silence was eating you alive and Ellie didn’t deserve to be in this awkward situation anymore. "Joel, we need to talk."

He stared at his plate as he pushed his food around. "What?"

“Really? You have no idea what I’m about to say?” 

Joel sighs and rubs his face. “Can we not–” 

“No, I’m not gonna put up with this anymore. You’ve been shut off ever since the incident with the clicker. It’s not fair to me, or to Ellie for that matter, to have to tiptoe around your mood. What’s going on?” 

Ellie senses an argument brewing and quietly gathers her dishes and leaves the dining area. 

Joel clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his glass. "Don’t act like you don’t know. You know this was all my fault. I couldn’t hear the goddamn thing. I was slow to reach you. If I’d been just 2 seconds late? If– God, you would be dead or worse by now.” 

You reached across the table to grab Joel's hand. "Joel, we don’t have control over everything. I could walk outside tomorrow and get trampled by a horse and you’d still find a way to blame yourself. You need to stop this. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Joel pulled his hand away harshly, his gaze distant. "Maybe you should."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"I've been thinking," Joel began, his voice heavy. "Maybe you should.. Go.” 

Your eyes widened, hurt and anger flashing in your gaze as you let out a scoff in disbelief. "Are you serious? You think I should just walk away because of one accident?"

Joel's jaw clenched even tighter. "It's not just one accident. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last."

Your anger softened into something more sorrowful. "Joel, I love you. What happens out there is not your fault.” 

But Joel was stubborn. He started to stand, gathering his dishes in his hand, his voice rough. "Think about it. I have, and I think it's time for you to go." He leaves, leaving you stunned. Not wanting to stay where you’re not wanted, you leave too. 

Weeks turned into months, and Joel's heart grew heavier with each passing day. He watched from a distance as you began to spend time with Adam, that young and lanky idiot who helped at the doctor's office, who seemed to make you smile, who was probably stronger and more capable. No but this is good, Joel thought. This is good. Now she’ll be safe. 

One day as he was returning from patrol, Joel found himself outside your home. He stared at the illuminated window, watching the silhouette of you laugh with the new guy. It was like a scene from a movie. A pang of jealousy and regret gnawed at his chest. He clenched his fists. He couldn't stand the thought of you being with anyone else, but he knew it was for the best.

Which is why Joel surprised himself when one day he found his feet taking him to your doorstep, his heart pounding in his chest. When you opened the door, surprise and wariness in your eyes, he cleared his throat.

"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice rough but sincere.

You studied him for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, come in."

You sat down in the living room, the silence heavy between you both as you sit on opposite ends of the couch. Joel stared at his hands, struggling to find the right words. Finally, he looked up at you.

"I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Or more like Ellie.. has been making me do a lot of thinking," he admitted, his voice gruff but vulnerable. "And I realized I let my guilt and my anger and my frustration drive you away. But those are my demons. Not yours. You don’t deserve to be hurt over the things that hurt me.” 

You stared at him in silence, processing his words. You thought that Joel had given up on you and you were prepared to move on with your life. Seeing him open up to you was a shock to your system. 

“I come here with no expectations, sweetheart. I don’t expect you to forgive me or take me back, but I am so sorry. I have a lot to work on. I can’t promise you I won’t be like that again. But if you.. If you still want me.. If you would still have me.. I will try my hardest to be deserving of you.” Joel’s eyes were filled with tears at this point and he reached out to hold your hands. 

Your gaze softened as you took his hands. "Joel, I will always want you.” 

Joel stared at the floor feeling slightly abashed as he admitted softly, "I love you. I don't want you to be with someone else.” 

You pull him into a tight embrace. "Well.. I guess I’ll have an interesting conversation with Adam when I see him later,” you say to lighten the mood. The truth is you and Adam both knew that what you had was just for fun. You had even told him about Joel and you knew he’d be happy for you.

At the mention of another man’s name, Joel’s arms tightened around you and he buried his face into your shoulder saying, “No more Adam. No more whoever-the-fucks around this town. Just Joel.” 

You laughed at the way he sounded like a possessive child. You stroked his hair and think for the first time in a while, that maybe you and Joel will be okay.

-

Tags: @just-some-random-blogger surprise! (again)

[gatoraid]

As someone who loves ghosts and hauntings as a metaphor, the ghost imagery around Ouyang is just sooo out of this world to me. As if the first layer of the ghosts following him as a literal manifestation of his past haunting him and his own inability to let go of his revenge wasn’t enough, there is also the other layer of presenting Ouyang himself as a ghost.

Like when he feels as if he has become a living ghost after killing Esen and subsequently his old self:

His Mongol self was dead, but there was no other to take its place, only a hungry ghost containing the singular purpose of revenge, and the inevitability of its own death. —She Who Became the Sun ch 22

Sometimes he had the idea that, at the moment of Esen’s death, he’d followed him across the barrier between worlds, and the only reason Zhu could see him now was because he could see ghosts. —He Who Drowned The World ch 12

I think the image that Zhu alone would be able to see Ouyang even if he was a ghost is so powerful, bc it’s another way of showing how Zhu can truly see Ouyang for who he really is and how connected they are.

It becomes even more powerful at the end of the story where Zhu meets Ouyang's ghost, when he has literally become the hungry ghost he had felt himself to be for a long time. And how he is then summoned back to resemble his human self by Zhu bc she reaches out a hand to him both verbally and literally, offering him salvation and comfort that he is finally able to accept.

She let her right hand flicker back into being. As she reached for the ghost, he finally raised his head. For an instant she saw that hungry, nightmare face, but then the light touched him and made it once again that beautiful, pale, terrible face she had known. His eyes weren’t black emptiness, but a human’s, as if she had summoned him back—the true essence of him—by speaking to him. —He Who Drowned The World ch 24

Sooo yeah……. Ouyang becoming like a ghost when he was alive because of his pain, and then Ouyang's ghost becoming like a living person because Zhu gave him what he really needed instead of more revenge.......

[thefirelookout]

Dead silence

This post is an attempt to share or let out some of my complex feelings about the situation in Bangladesh.

We went to our city's protest yesterday. It was a silent, peaceful protest. The Bangladeshi student community here in Kingston stood in a human chain with placards. "Save Bangladesh student", yes grammatically wrong, yes, it assumes that young revolutionaries need saving, so on and so forth. The protest started and ended quietly. My non-Bangladeshi friends were a bit confused, since they're used to chanty protests for Palestine, or union picket lines with cars passing by, honking in support. There was more noise even for the Iranian protests, Zan Zendegi Azadi. The silence of a graveyard in this one, though.

Who cares about little old Bangladesh? I sometimes wonder. We're not in the eye of the middle eastern storm like Syria, Lebanon or Palestine are. We're not strategically important, we don't even have many natural resources like Sudan or Congo do. The Prime Minister visited China recently to ask for an aid or a loan, and came back pretty much empty handed. China isn't very interested in us. India has gotten what it needed to get, and can milk more out of us, but they can do the same with Nepal or Bhutan too. We're never in the headlines, the US or the West in general isn't interested in us at all. And Pakistan denies that the 1971 genocide ever happened.

Which is why, the world isn't missing our voices due to the internet blackout.

The voices were all over my Facebook newsfeed. Aunties and apus on Facebook live selling sarees, jewelry, crafts, elderly boomers sharing gardening tips, quick fixes or herbal remedies that they swear by, people sharing posts about cricket or which cricketer's wife wore what, food bloggers calling every possible dish juicy (be it a burger or the meat in biriyani), celebrity drama, political drama to the extent of what was allowed back home. That sort of thing.

Now, again, there's the silence of a graveyard over here. And I feel like screaming till I snap my vocal cords. Can you all please come back? Please? The silence is unbearable! Please! I won't judge you if you sell your wares! Please! I won't judge if you think turmeric water can act as a miracle detox! Please, please I won't say a word if your post about your stupid cricket match! Just something, please say something! I haven't seen a single one of you online. Please don't die, please stay safe. When the internet comes back, please, post about your vacations and your pets. Not the dead, please, don't post about the bodies. I can take a bit of silence but not more bodies please!

Speaking of bodies. There was an armoured vehicle, painted navy blue in the colours of the police (fuck them). And there was a body on top of it. Dead, obviously, very dead, because it flopped down with the slightest nudge, and was left on the streets. Before that happened, the vehicle drove about as if parading its spoils of war, with the body on top. Sending a message. This will happen to you if you raise your voice.

That image has been haunting me for two nights now. So yeah, I'm not man enough to get some incisive political analysis out. I have no either or predictions for what happens if the regime falls or doesn't fall. My body feels numb, I've been binge eating because I still have food in the house and I won't be gunned down if I go out to get groceries now. My non-Bangladeshi friends, bless their first world hearts, have never had to live under fascism. Bless their hearts, have never had to stifle their voices to the extent that we've had to. Bless their beautiful hearts, could hardly pronounce Bangladesh. But they still showed up to that docile little protest because they care about my spouse and I. I can't even begin to thank them.

My insides are tearing up. I'm sitting with a poker face typing all this word vomit, but my insides are nothing but a scream. No clever realpolitik comes out of a heart that's screaming, because our mouths are sewn shut.

[eupheme]

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE | part ii: stay with me

[masterlist | part i]

joel miller x f!reader

Rated E - 6.2k

Tags: mention of wounds/care, brief canon-divergence (spoilers for ep. 6 & 7), reader is mid/late 30s+, mentions of death, use of weapons, found family, angst, wounds, hurt/comfort, the start of feelings, competency kink(s)

He wakes up. And slowly, the cabin starts to feel alive again.

The long evening stretches into a longer night. You’re exhausted from the last 24 hours, the dull throb in your head that echoes against your ribs.

Not wanting to take anything for the ache, now knowing it could be needed. Stretched out on one of the old hickory chairs - watching through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

The girl - Ellie - stayed up as long as she could. Dozing now, curled up in the wooden chair that matches yours, at the foot of the couch.

He murmurs in his sleep. Knocked out from the pain and the medication, forehead hot with a fever as he fights off the infection.

Some of it senseless - rough mumbles as his eyes move under closed lids.

Sometimes names.

Breathed out, with the rise and fall of his chest.

Gasped, with a creak of the couch as he shifts. Hand twitching at it reaches out, searching for someone who isn’t there.

You can’t leave him. So, you let him take yours. His grip firm and strong even like this, as he settles.

The hours, slowly passing.

But, he makes it.

Through one night. And then another.

A slow routine starting.

Catching sleep in the morning, when Ellie takes over watch. Never imaging you’d be comfortable with strangers in your house - but you figure if they attacked you now, then there’d be a special place in hell waiting for them.

A routine of pain killers, the man’s eyes fluttering open when you wake him. How he frowns each time - looking for the face he knows, too incoherent to understand.

But he gulps down the water you offer. That sharp frown easing as he sleeps, where you brush the sweaty curls from his forehead, adjust the blankets when they get kicked off.

A small realization forming, during this time. You had thought they needed you, in those late-night hours. That he wouldn’t survive, without your help.

But you see the way he fights. How she’s the first thing he looks for. How she hasn’t left his side. A bond there, stronger than you’ve seen in a long time.

Maybe they didn’t need you at all.

Maybe you’re the respite. The soothing hand, the warm food, a safe place to rest - before they moved on. Like Aunt June and Danny had been for you - when your little group turned up on their doorstep all those years ago, battered and broken.

Even if they never ended up moving on.

Even if you’re still here.

It’s comforting, in a way. A means to finally pay back everything that was given to you, over the years.

You hope they’d be proud.

———

A little more time passes, and you find that it’s not so bad. Having more people around.

Ellie is funny.

A breath of fresh air, in your silent, stuffy cabin. Where everything is in its place because you’re the only one that moves it. Where there’s been no one but you and the ghosts of those before, haunting it’s halls for years.

Excited over the things you’ve taken for granted. Eyes shining over things like canned fruit cocktail and instant noodles. Innocently poking around everything you own, to a point where you just sigh and shake your head.

Seasoning conversations with the word “fuck”, peppered in expertly. Fuck this, fuck that, and a fuck yeah.

A side-eye thrown your way the first time, catching the small curl of your smile instead of a reprimand. You remember what it had been like, to be her age.

Not exactly in the same way - you can’t imagine that. Living through this hell, back then. But, just that sense of feeling grown up, wanting to be taken seriously.

The tenuous friendship formed in these first few days reminds you of your childhood.

Befriending a feral cat that slept beneath the porch - tempting it out with bits of food. Sitting on the stoop as she became used to you, until the shift of your stance no longer scared her away.

With Ellie, the food certainly helped. But what got her was the books.

Most of them were old - what you would think a middle-aged couple in the 80's would bring to a cabin.

Guides filled with local birds and flora. Collections of old, short stories. A stack of local maps, the pages well-worn and creased, everything lined up in the handmade wooden bookcase.

You've read them all. There were days in the winter where there was little else to do. A few scavenged, brought back by the others. But now it helps, as you pick the ones you think she'd like - setting them by the chair she's claimed.

The hours become a little more comfortable.

She reads, while you cycle through the small pastimes you have. Your own book you've been working through. Some projects - the beginning of a scarf, crocheted with salvaged bits of old sweaters, a moth-eaten afgan.

Passing the time while he sleeps and heals with the turning of pages, the slide of the yarn.

She had been interested in your work for a little while - an afternoon where you showed her how to yarn over, make a chain.

Her fingers clumsy as she miscounted, too eager for the end result.

Turning what began as a rectangle - the start of a scarf, like yours - into something with wavy edges, each row shorter than the last. The frustration evident as she handed it back to you with a resigned shrug.

But you still weave in the ends, block it out next to some granny squares. With some fringe, it becomes a bookmark - her fingers playing with the ends as she reads.

It’s close to four days in, when things change. When he starts to be awake more often than he’s asleep.

"I think he's turned a corner." You tell her, after the bandages have been changed.

When it came to this - she learned everything you showed her quickly. A quick study, once shown. Resourceful, too - telling you how she had found the antibiotics in an old mall, one that you knew well. The very mall you were certain had been already cleared out - but today, you were happy to be wrong.

This time she takes the lead - peeling back the stained medical tape. Carefully checking the wound before replacing the gauze, fixing it back into place.

That long-held breath exhaled. A small nod, "He has to be. I don't know what I'd do-"

"He has turned a corner." You amend - the words firm, "He's lucky he had you."

"More like, we were lucky I found you."

There's a sullenness that tinges her words then, arms crossed over her knees.

It makes you frown, as you move from the chair. Lowering yourself down, until you're both on the same level, on the wooden floor.

She doesn't meet your eyes, fingers tugging at a loose string on the quilt, dangling off the couch.

You think you understand, a little.

The complexity of the situation - how hopeless she had probably been feeling. How much she had to do on her own, all while thinking she didn't do enough to help. Thinking she failed him.

"This was all you. You know that, right?" Your words are careful, your head ducking to make eye contact, "He wouldn't have made it without you."

Ellie's jaw grits, a quick look your way - before her eyes drop.

"He didn't start getting better until he got here."

You sigh, leaning back on your hands, "You just gave him the antibiotics. They just needed a little time to start working."

Her head turns, as she thinks about that.

"I helped ease some of the pain, but he's strong. He survived, because of you."

Eyes meeting yours. Narrowing, but in a way where you can tell that she’s inspecting you. Seeing if you’re lying.

You’re not. The smile you offer is small, as he starts to stir. Eyes cracking open - finding hers like they always did.

As her expression brightens. You’re not sure if it’s a mask - wanting to appear cheerful for him - or if she’s still at that age where emotions are fleeting, changing with the wind.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” She chirps, his forehead creasing with the name, her loud voice. He grunts an answer, glancing around the room.

Pausing, those dark eyes boring into yours. You hold the gaze, still curled on the ground next to the edge.

A small nod. Just a little jerk of his chin.

Your answering smile is equally small, before you push yourself back up. Heading over to stick another log into the fire, from the iron rack just off to the side.

There’s an understanding, after.

You were a threat, until you’re weren’t. Until they sniffed you out and you passed some unspoken test, somewhere between that first sleepless night, and now.

Their guards aren’t down. Not completely. Yours isn’t either. But there’s an ease to your steps, as you move around the space together. A sleep that comes a little more soundly at night.

Because, you’re not alone anymore.

———

She reads to him, sometimes. The books you pluck from the shelves and leave for her to find.

Keeping Joel company as he stays bedridden a little while longer.

He had tried to get up, on that fourth day. A wince that crumpled his face as he pushed himself up, Ellie’s scold of “what in the hell are you doing?” raining down as her arms braced on her hips.

The look of alarm on his face still makes you want to laugh, days later.

You’re cooking dinner as she reads another chapter - secretly pleased that she seems interested in one of the volumes you treasure. The pages dog-marked, the spine cracked, and cover faded.

Warming up canned pasta in the Dutch oven simmering over the fire, listening to her words as you stir.

“It was after tea-time; it was pouring with rain, and had been all day; his hood was dripping into his eyes, his cloak was full of water; the pony was tired and stumbled on stones; the others were too grumpy to talk.”

“Sounds familiar.” She adds as an aside - her words filling the space as her eyes peek his way every few lines, to see if he’s listening.

Tripping over the names of the dwarves and locations with the confidence only a teenager could have.

"And I'm sure the rain has got into the dry clothes and into the food-bags," thought Bilbo. "Fuck burgling and everything to do with it!”

“Ellie.”

A tired lid cracks open - he had been listening after all, “He didn’t say fuck.”

She sighs, eyes rolling as she slumps in her seat, “Well, he should be allowed to. After the way they barged in and messed all his shit up.”

You grin, from your crouch near the fire, “Mm. I agree with her on this one.”

Clearly outvoted, he rolls onto his side, facing the back of the couch. Pointedly ignoring her as she runs through a few more reasons why she’s right.

Giving up, her voice a stage-whisper - hand cupped around her mouth as if telling you a secret, “He’s just pissed because I compared him to Gandalf earlier. Old and cranky.”

Joel’s head turns, a glare hurled in her direction - her grin as she pulls the book up again. Your own teeth biting the inside of the cheek to hide your smile.

But from your angle, you don’t miss the way his face softens.

The small smile, as he settles back down.

———

It's not long before you all get a little antsy.

Despite the much-needed company that Ellie and Joel bring into your home, after years of solitude it almost tipped into too much at times. Your cabin feels too small for you all to occupy the same space for the entire day, with Joel taking up most of the seating.

Even if at one time, there were many more. But it's been ages since then.

You're certain they feel the same. Not used to idleness.

The twice-daily walks you take around the perimeter of the fence helps. When he is finally able to move a little, sitting up instead of laying down.

Able to roam around the kitchen, eventually wandering outdoors. There, the air is lung-achingly crisp. A sizable porch that looks across the hill, across the miles of trees, down to the old barn.

Once the danger is over - once he starts to heal - that is where you spend some of the afternoons. The thick wooden walls keeping some of the chill out.

Close to cozy after you spend an afternoon putting a small fire pit together, the golden glow keeping all of you warm as Ellie brushes down Callus.

Finding treasures as she pokes around the storage in the first and second floor. A lot of it is supplies, things to be used for repairs.

Planks of wood, a crate filled with tools. A few barrels of gas for the generator - just for emergencies. The walls are lined with the things you use most often when tending the small field just outside - shovels, a pitchfork, an axe.

It's in these rooms that she finds a treasure - disappearing over a crate, until all you can see are the soles of her boots. Coming back up with an "oof", and something clutched in her hand. Covered in cobwebs from where it's laid hidden on the dusty floor.

A small, monobloc bow. You must have set it down one afternoon, and forgot. Trading it for something louder, stronger.

"Woah, this is cool." Ellie tries to pull the string back, the dull 'thump' as her fingers slip.

Still taut, after all this time. You smile as you hold your hand out, the muscles in your arm flexing as you pull it back with a smooth, practiced movement.

"I thought I lost this." You let go, the satisfying 'twang' as it snaps back into place, "Did you see any arrows?"

She's already scrambling back over - coming back with two clutched in her hand. A determined shine in her eyes as she asks breathlessly, "Can I try it?"

You glance over your shoulder, at the man sitting in one of the camping chairs. Staring idly into the flicker of the fire - a hand pressed against his side.

Once he was up, he started refusing medication.

Saying he was just fine. You had protested at first. That he needed it, that it would speed things along.

"'ve had worse." He eventually told you. When it was just the two of you - as you were getting ready to go to bed yourself, “You should keep it. In case someone needs it more."

Wanting to save it for you, or the next person that came along and needed help.

"We'd better ask your-" You catch yourself - correcting, "Uh, ask Joel."

Her nose wrinkles, "He lets me shoot his gun. I don't need to ask him about this."

That makes you laugh, your voice lowering as your head turns back to face her, "Maybe. But I think he will hate me a little less if we just ask, anyways. You get me?"

"He doesn't hate you. He's just..." Her face twists as she thinks, a vague wave of her hand, "Grumpy. Took him months to talk to me, and I'm a goddamn delight."

You had half-meant it as a joke, but her sweet reassurance warms you. Teeth biting your tongue to hold back another laugh.

Finding it surprising to think about how nice that would be, if it was true.

If he truly didn't.

Not knowing why you want his approval so badly. But it's something you've been thinking about since that first meeting. You want him to see you. To notice you.

Years of that piece of you missing, suddenly pushing to the surface like the first buds of spring.

"You sure are. Let's just check, anyways.”

She’s already bounding off, bow in hand. You watch as she asks, the way his eyes flick over the weapon, then back your way.

“Suppose you can.” Joel allows - after a long moment, “Don’t think I’m in the right shape yet to show you, though.”

Ellie wilts, clearly hoping he would. After a moment of hesitation, you join them.

“Been a bit, but I could set a little something up. For practice.” You offer.

The appraising look he gave the bow flits your way, down to the two aluminum arrows in your grip. His tongue poking his cheek as he thinks it through, before he nods.

“Alright.”

Ellie’s excitement is palpable, as she helps you drag out two bales of straw. A crude target drawn on some paper you grab from the house, fixed under the strings.

Standing at your shoulder as you grip the bow in your hand. Showing her how to notch the arrow, fitting the shaft against the arrow rest.

Drawing the string back to your cheekbone, as you aim for the middle of the target.

“You’ll get better the more you use it. This one doesn’t have a sight. Have to get a feel where the arrow aims,” You explain, feeling the tension in the string. “Use the point of the arrow.”

Inhaling a slow breath, holding it in.

A release, exhaling as it fires. Soaring across the yard, hitting just shy of the dark mark in the middle.

Not bad. You still got it.

Ellie’s whoop startles you - a fondness settling, after.

“Holy shit, that was so cool!” She gushes, as you hand it over. Glancing back over her shoulder, “Don’t you think, Joel?”

You can’t help but to turn, to glance his way. Where he’s caught, watching. Clearing his throat as he gruffly answers - his eyes meeting yours, before sliding away.

“Yeah. Real cool.”

———

He follows a half-dozen steps behind her.

Could never stand being cooped up for too long. Staying still made you a target, and this past couple weeks had made his skin itch. When it wasn't throbbing, or burning up.

The cold air makes his lungs ache, but at least he's moving. She hadn't protested, when he had shrugged on his coat. The exercise would do him good, help get him strong enough so they could leave.

Get back on the road.

Ellie had been watching, her feet kicked up on the coffee table. A different book on her lap, the pictures bright, even from here.

"Doing anything fun?" She asked, looking hopeful.

"Just a walk."

Her eyes sliding to the wide window, the snow falling that looked closer to sleet. Slumping further into her seat with a flat, "Eh, pass."

He hadn't pressed. Be happier if she stayed where it was warm.

"Lock up after us, okay?"

The words had come automatically, from deep in his mind. Ones that had been dormant for years, over twenty now. A lump in his throat as he ignored the woman's quick glance his way, before he pushed the screen door open - not waiting for an answer.

Now, her fingers trail across the wire fence, snow falling from the wooden posts when her gloves pass over it. Walking the perimeter, as he's noticed that she does - every morning and as the sun sets.

A small frown forms, the crease deepening between his eyebrows. Watching her fingers, the way the pom-pom on her hat bounces with each step.

He doesn't take well to kindness.

Before Boston, kindness got you killed. A weakness.

In the QZ, it came with a price. A debt, and he never liked owing - only collecting.

He wonders what his is, here.

Set off-balance by the situation he finds himself in. Unsure of his footing with this woman. One who seems frozen in time.

Everything about her and this place seemed to stop when the world went to hell.

The same sort of eerie feeling when he passed through the gate that led to Bill and Frank's place - an uneasy normalcy to everything, that felt unnatural.

So strange, how that could be.

Not quite sure what he thinks of her. There’s a hidden strength that he hadn’t seen at first. Not just anyone could have survived out here for so long. The way she handles the rifle, the bow, clear that she hasn’t been idle all these years.

Her eyes find his often, flicking away when he looks back. Catching the smallest details.

It makes him wonder what she thinks of him.

Actual words, instead of the thoughts he sees written so clearly on her face - gone in a blink when she collects herself. Still remembering the fear when they first met, though she hasn't worn that expression again.

Her smile is kind, he does know that much.

It comes easily for Ellie, a fondness already in the soft curves.

Sometimes, it comes for him, too.

Flakes from above settle on her knitted hat, clinging to her hair, her eyelashes - when her face turns, making sure he's still behind her.

A gun slung across her back, each step easy.

His own rifle is firm in his grip, eyes sweeping back and forth. There's nothing so far but miles of trees - natural slopes and dips. The occasional small creek to cross, not liking the way his body feels like it's moving a few seconds behind.

Discomfort flitting across his features, as he steps across the gap. A moment of imbalance, before he's on solid ground again.

Her hand twitches, as if wanting to hold them out to him. Thinking better of it, as they curl into fists.

A gentle suggestion instead - a nod at his rifle, "Don't have to carry that, if you don't want. Been ages since I saw a soul out here, 'sides Ellie."

He frowns at that, unsure.

But she moves ahead, hands shoved in the pockets of her oversized coat. Slowly, the strap goes around his head, slinging it across his back.

He isn't so slow that he couldn't grab it, if needed.

"You don't get Infected out here?" His voice is a rasp, hoarse from disuse.

Her head shakes as it turns, "Not here. Only see them if I go out."

A moment, his thoughts flickering back. To words he half-remembers, in that dark basement, "You said it wasn't safe. That you wouldn't have come."

She stops then, and he almost crashes into her. A hand steading himself on the wire fence, her face tilted up to his, but eyes not meeting.

"That was by you, not here."

"What was there?"

There's a beat, before she starts walking again. Her voice carrying over the wind, "The Infected aren't the only monsters out here. But both will sink their teeth into you, just the same."

He inhales a sharp breath - had heard about things like that. Desperate people, desperate measures. It sickens him, an uncomfortable roll of his stomach as she continues.

“It's damn lucky Ellie came this way, I'll just say that. That we all made it out of there without catching any notice was a miracle."

The thought about them touching a single hair on Ellie's head fills him with fury. Half-tempted to hunt them down himself, just to ensure it could never happen.

Injury be damned.

His voice low, deadly level, "They don't come this way?"

"No." Hers is equally firm, "Nobody comes this way, not if they know better. There's an old campground not too far from here. Rumor is that it's a nest of Infected, there. Completely overrun."

His steps stall at that, making him a further pace behind. She catches it, and her eyes roll, "It's just a rumor. People around here are superstitious."

He doesn't like her tone, her easy disregard. She hadn't seen the massacre at KC. The horror of all those bodies spilling from the ground, rushing faster than you could blink.

"How do you know?" The words have more bite than he means, enough that she's glancing back again.

She smiles at him then, the first he's seen since they left. Already so different than the first meeting in the basement, when that tone would have had her frozen to the spot.

"Because it's my rumor." The smile pulls a little wider, "There is a camp, sure. But the outbreak happened in September. Camp was over. Been there myself, it's empty."

A shrug, arms crossing over her chest, "Been telling it for the last ten years. Have had it told back to me by people I don't even know for the last three.”

At that, she starts moving along the trail again, "No one is coming out here."

He can't help the small smile that comes, just the slightest curve of his lips.

The gap between them closes, just a little.

———

Hmm, not here.

The large wooden chest closes - solid as you use it to sit on. To think.

Taking a moment, while you poke around the guest room - where she had started sleeping, now that Joel was awake. Looking for the old leather quiver, the extra arrows. Certain that they had to around here somewhere, since you haven't been able to find them in the usual places.

Ellie had been practicing. She's getting good - going out moat afternoons to fire at the bales. You've replaced the targets a few times already - finding some sturdy cardboard - moving them around the yard for variety.

But it was hard, chasing after the only two arrows she had.

You look up from your seat at the end of the bed, to find her standing in front of the closet.

Touching the shirts inside, always coming back to one to the far right side. Dark green plaid, patterned with charcoal and white stripes.

Startling, when you come up behind her - shoving the shirt back into place, "I don't think it's in here.”

"I'll have to check the attic." You answer. Pausing for a moment - before asking, "Did you like that shirt?"

Her cheeks pinken, "It's cool."

You smile, tugging it off the hanger. A memory from years ago surfaces - time spent together in front of the roaring fire.

The sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, your fingers sliding over the buttons. It's been well-loved - but in a way that makes the flannel soft and warm.

It makes you wonder if it still smells like smoke. Like them. If it clings to the memories like you do.

She takes it, holding it limply in her hands. Unsure what to do with it.

You help her, "You can have it, if you want. It could use a good home."

Make it seem like she's doing you a favor.

Her eyes dart down, uncertain - but the wanting wins out. Her zip-up jacket is shed, flung on the bed as she pulls it on over her long-sleeve tee.

It runs big, and she lets you roll the cuffs up to her wrists - the shirt hanging down around her thighs.

"Very 90s chic." You tell her, and she smiles as if she knows what that means. Maybe it's just the approval in your tone, and the unexpected gift.

Ellie parades out to the living room, where Joel was working - sorting through their gear.

"Check it out!" You can hear her laugh from here, the joy in her tone, "We match! Bet you just love that."

The last two words are drawn out, long and teasing.

You can't help but smile - picturing his face, and the grumble that follows.

Certain that he’s hiding his own small smile, as well.

——-

The dust makes you sneeze, the ladder wiggling beneath your feet. It's been ages since you've been up here. Never had a reason too - most everything had been tucked up here for a reason.

Either because it was taking up space. Or because it was too hard to bear. Boxes filled with treasures that aren't yours, from another life.

The floors creaking beneath your feet, as you finally step into the cramped space. A dim light filtering from the tiny square window in the back, the roof slanting so you have to crouch as you check the edges.

Sorting quickly through the piles of stuff that they thought they might have needed, but never used. Skipping over the cans of old paint, some old tools.

Eventually finding a crate that you had thrown a threadbare blanket over. A piece, clicking into place, when you see it. Where you had brought their weapons - unloading them before tucking them away. It had felt like looting, to take them.

Even if you could have used them, it felt wrong.

The yellow and red feathers of the arrows peek out from where the blanket pools on the floor. You scoop them up - 10 in all - along with the quiver they spill out of.

"Found them!" You call down, as Ellie's face peers up through the square scuttle hole. Kneeling on the dusty floor to lower it down to her, before wiping your hands on your jeans.

Taking another look - certain you won't be up here again for a long time. Hesitating, when there's a glint off the flashlight you borrowed. Moving a side table, an old chair aside, to get to it.

A frame, the edges carved and painted with gold. The photo inside is one you remember from when you first arrived. It used to hang above the fireplace - a painting of the mountains, capped with snow. Pockets of pines clustered together.

You measure it with your hands, and after a moment - you take it. Lifting it with two hands as you drag it towards the exit of the attic, glancing down.

Unsure how you're going to get it down there. Maybe if Ellie can grab the end - keep it steady until you can get a good grip on the ladder.

You call for her - but you get someone else instead.

He hovers at the base of the ladder, peering up like she did. Hair slicked back from the shower, grey-streaked - already starting to curl again at the temples. The sight has you clutching onto the frame a little more tightly.

Silently beckoning to you, with a curl of two fingers.

You have to kneel to lower the picture, carefully fitting it through the opening - waiting for him to take it. He grasps it with one hand, easily lowering it to the ground, as you climb down.

His other hand extends, the briefest touch at your hip when the ladder wobbles. You instinctively seek him out for balance, his hand firm and strong as your fingers wrap around - pressing into his palm.

Close enough now to smell the woodsy scent of the shampoo he used, clinging to his skin. Trying not to think about him in the shower, your shower, just moments before.

Your boots finally hitting the ground as his hand releases yours, fingers flexing.

The frame still in his other hand, making no effort to give it back.

"You redecorating?"

That makes you laugh as you fold the ladder up, closing the entrance to the attic again.

Starting to walk into the kitchen, his steps heavy behind yours. You pat the dinner table and he sets the frame there, as your head tilts towards the taped-up window.

You've spent time cleaning the floors, the sink beneath. But hadn't had the time to figure out how to fix the window that shattered.

Today seemed as good a day as any.

"Not exactly." Your eyes slide unconsciously to Ellie, pulling her boots on by the cabin door - the strap of the quiver around her shoulder, "Need to replace this window, figured I could use the glass in this."

Her eyes lift then, a look of guilt crossing her features.

"Ain't the right kind of glass." Joel muses, his voice flat as his thumb presses down against the edge of the frame.

His tone, the words, make you bristle. An embarrassment at not knowing, just thinking glass was glass.

Hand resting on your hips as you answer, "Well, it's better than a hole."

He glances up from where he leans on the table. Pose mirroring yours when he sees the flat press of your lips.

Words coming slowly, "Just don't want you gettin' cold. Glass ain’t as thick as it should be."

A pause, as he considers - as your cheeks heat, "But sure… it'll do."

"You oughta help her out, Joel." Ellie is pushing to her feet now - her voice turning proud as she glances his way, "He used to be a contractor."

Saying the title like it was something precious, something important. His expression turning into one you've come to recognize as embarrassment - when she pokes fun or brags about him.

It feels right - this little reveal. Explains a bit more about him. A lot can happen in twenty years, but you’ve watch the way he looks at things, examining them.

Even down to his frame. Broad shoulders - strong in a way that only hard labor can bring, muscles layered under the softness that comes with age.

A prickle runs from your neck down to your belly at this thought, and you tear your eyes away.

Watching as she opens the door, his call following her into the cold, "Don't go too far, okay? Stick close to the barn."

Her acknowledgment coming as the door bangs shut, leaving the two of you alone. Your arms fold instead, a small sigh as the defensive thoughts thaw. As he looks at you, hands shoving into his pockets.

"Don't know why she's pressing me to help," His voice is low, "Seems like you've been gettin' along just fine here."

You bite back a smile - knowing exactly why she offered. A form of repentance for breaking it in the first place - offering him up to do the work for her. Your eyes slide away, as you sigh.

Coming back, your arms slowly uncrossing, "I actually don't know what I'm doing. Not for something like this."

A small shrug, as you start to pick open the fasteners on the back, "Was just going to wing it."

His voice comes then, slowly and softly.

"I could show you."

The offer is genuine, this time. A rare moment where you meet each others eyes. The soft brown of his, ones that you've looked often in silent admiration.

Your nod is small, like the smile you let through.

"I'd love that."

He helps you peel back the tape, the air outside drifting in the opening - chilling the room. Taking down the bits of cardboard, examining the damage.

"How did this happen?"

"Oh, you know." You hedge, shrugging. Not wanting to explain, if Ellie hadn't already, "It happens."

His eyes flick sideways at you, but he doesn't press.

You help him tug the remaining shards of glass free from the frame. One splintering and jabbing the tip of a finger - a small hiss as you press it between your lips without thought.

As his eyes follow - snagging, lingering, for a long moment - before he's nudging you out of the way with his hip.

"Let me handle this part."

Watching as he finishes cleaning the frame, until it's ready for the glass.

Somewhere along the way - you find that he's the one doing all the work. Listening as he explains each step, as you make a batch of instant coffee for the two of you. His black, yours with a tiny bit of maple syrup - harvested from the ridge behind the cabin.

Taking the glass out of the picture frame, measuring it against the window. Marking a mark of the size, scoring it with a utility knife that he fishes out of the pocket of his heavy coat.

It's impressive, watching him work. Especially with what little tools you have - making his own putty with things found in storage. His thumb smoothing down the compound on the last edge, a quick glance your way that you miss.

"What did you do? Before." He asks - his interest catching you off guard.

Your hands wrap around the mug, "I, uh... didn't get a chance to be anything. I was still in college, when everything happened."

There's a low hum of sympathy. A quick lean out the window to check on Ellie when you don’t continue - before he's sitting down in one of the chairs. The frame left to dry, before he fits it back into place.

A knee bumping against yours as his legs adjust under the table, long legs spreading wide.

Fingers tracing the edge of the frame now, a stilted silence settling. Unsure if you are in the mood to delve into then. Thinking about what you could ask him instead, if that's what you're doing now.

Getting to know each other.

"You been traveling with Ellie long?" You wind up asking.

He gives you a long look, under the curls that have sprung free. A hand scratching the scruff of his beard - the dark hair flecked with grey - his eyes not leaving yours.

"Couple months. Since summer, best I can guess."

You nod - that was what she had told you, on that first journey to find him.

"You got a ways more to go?"

There’s nothing intentionally prying about your questioning. It just feels strange not to know anything about the people staying with you - little opportunity or an opening to ask before now.

Ellie offers some, but she nearly as wary as he is. More prone to narrate what’s going on, questions about the books she reads.

“Think so. Heading to Utah, once things clear up.”

His wound, and the weather.

Winter was harsh in Colorado - with the heavy snow, it was near impossible not to get lost in the dense lines of trees. Assuming you didn’t freeze to death, first.

“Is it hard? Traveling with someone so young, I mean.” You can’t help but think about them. Wondering what life would have been like, if you had gotten home in time, “Just, the responsibility and all…”

It’s a selfish question. You don’t even know what you want his answer to be. The pause stretches longer then, and you're sure you've pushed too far.

"I'm sorry. You don't-" You start, but then he's answering.

“It is.” Eyes tracing the wood grain of the table, “But it’s not my first time. Lookin’ after someone her age."

Falling silent for good, after that.

The realization aches. Pieces fitting together - things he's said, almost on instinct. Old words from another time. How he looks out for Ellie - a softness under the gruff exterior.

You reach for him - moving slowly. Giving him time to pull his hand back, to retreat.

But it stays in place, a twitch of his fingers as they open - making room. Letting yours curve around them, like before.

You give them a squeeze, just a soft acknowledgment.

After a moment, he squeezes back.

Thanks for reading! 💖 would love to know what you thought!

[14thgalerie]

25 — part 3 (alt/ext. ending)

• pairing: exhusband!james potter x reader

• now playing: scott street by phoebe bridges / this is me trying by taylor swift

• word count: 6.1k

• genre: angst (as expected)

— based on this request, i unconsciously changed up some details as I was writing this but here you go! I'm not really the biggest fan of this as I haven't been feeling up to writing recently

part 1 part 2

There is silence around him, and there is time. For a while, he thinks he has all the time in the world, but the heavens have never been on his side and they never will.

James

It was cruel. To feel the ropes that tightened each day on his beating organ even in his sleep. 

Above, a dark navy sky drifts with flurries of clouds, moving in slow motion.

James

When his eyes fluttered open, his vision remained the same of the dark surroundings. Something that was not news to him.  The sound of birds chirping outside of the house along with the gentle stream of the river in the distance largely contradicted the condition of his closed-off room. 

James

He hears it again. The voice rang through his ears constantly in the past weeks. When he tilts his head to the direction of where it came from, it doesn’t take long for his vision to be filled with warm, hazy hues of orange. Only then did his mind register the light that entered through his swept curtains.  

“Darling.” He called so softly that even his ears could barely register the sound.

He leaped up, ignoring the groan of his limbs. He blinks once, twice, and then he says your name. Realising his mistake when he first called you by his preferred call name from when you were still together. “What-” He stammers. “What are you doing back here?”

A brief pause before his eyes widened. “Not that I mind! It’s just- you know-”

You let out an amused exhale. “Yes. Frank let me in and asked that I wake you up myself because he has to rush off for something.” You explain as your eyes kept their focus on the body that was fidgeting across from you.

“Oh! Yeah, he has this appointment for the dentist that Marlene met when she settled in London for a while.” His eyes never stayed far too long on one object, constantly shifting and yet it often settled on you. The red Mary Jane flats that you always wore. Hair that seemed to be a lighter colour than when he last saw you. 

“It’s his wisdom tooth, huh? I just got mine removed the other day actually.”

But his eyes never meet yours. They remain fixated on the bump that is poorly hidden beneath your clothes.

A fusillade of questions went through his bewildered mind. Had you already found someone and couldn't help but plaster to his face the future he lost? Was this another image that would haunt him for the rest of his days?

“James.” You call out again. “Can we sit downstairs?”

He nods, unable to articulate a word for he knew it would all be a jumble of syllables.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting its warm light on his pale hands which sat on his lap. You had decided to sit in the backyard, finding your old home to be too cold and missing the warmth that kissed your skin on the way here.  James went ahead while you stayed behind to grab the two cups of tea you had prepared before you went up to the bedroom.

“Hey there, I hope you still like your tea like before.” You gently placed the fragile ceramic on the table in front of him before you sat on the seat beside him.

“Two teaspoons of sugar.” You simultaneously said. His shocked state was broken by the laughter that came over him at your action. You also giggle, especially as you see genuine joy finally creep through his mein.

“So um, I guess I should speak first then.” You say out loud, after taking a sip from your cup. “I’m quite sure you have seen this stomach of mine already earlier. I mean, it’s gargantuan, it would be impossible not to.”

You pause to check on him and see the reaction on his face. To which you received none, for his face remained as blank as a whiteboard on the first day of class. 

James couldn’t understand the emotions that waved over him at the worst fear of his coming true. Millions of thoughts shift and begin inside his head, none of them coherent enough to be pierced together. All he knew was that everything within him lost sight and he is left dwindling at your whim.

Breathe. Breathe. 

“Yeah, how far along are you now?” He asks, trying to keep his voice still.

He watches as you exhaled heavily, your countenance now similar to his. You bite your lower lip, struggling to keep the flow of your sentences going.

“About five months now.”

James instinctively calculates the months in his mind. 

No.

He shakes his head. His eyes plastered intently on the wet grass in front of him.

“She’s yours. Not that I had been with anyone after you.” You reply, knowing it must have been the first question that came to him. Still trying to gauge the thoughts that he could be having. The latter, you muttered under your breath, unsure if he even heard it. So you quickly said something to cover it up. “If I counted right, it would’ve been from the last time we slept together a few weeks before we officially separated.”

The world slows down to an adagio, and he’s all caught up in the moment before he speaks. He heard it. His ears piqued at the words that were laced with a tiny hint of vindictiveness. But he didn’t bother to give it a second thought when his mind was still stuck on one thing. “A girl.” He laughs but it was more in disbelief. The world has apparently not been good to you either, giving you a gift that reminded you of his faults. “I wanted a girl.”

“Yeah.” You say, giving him a huge smile. “I know, and you finally won again.” 

Your hands reach out to wrap around his own pair, veiny and cold, a sharp contrast to his. His fingers curl around your fingers, laughing inwardly at his body’s automatic response to your touch. He doesn’t know how this was a win for him. His child would grow up, unknowing of her father who withered away miles away. 

He couldn’t accept it. The idea that another person would be taking his place beside you in watching her first steps. Laughing at her incomprehensible mumbles.

“Please,” He nearly shook at the voice that came out of his lips. Surprising both you and him. “Stay.”

He stands, without dropping your intertwined hands, and drops to kneel in front of you. His dark, searching eyes locked onto yours. In the depths of his irises, emotions swirled like a tornado, and in the middle of it all, a man lies. 

“I know I said I would not ask any more from you, but that’s the one promise I cannot stand behind. I’ll do better now. Just please, give me this chance and I swear I would forever be by your side.”

You pull your hands away to which you were met with resistance. He relaxes when he feels your arms wrap around him, combing through his dark hair. “Well, it seems you still have that habit of not letting me finish.” You joke. Though it could be seen in your expression, the hesitance, the drawback.

There is no doubt that you were still hurting from the repercussions of your ex-husband’s choices in the past. He couldn’t blame you for it, he is still suffering from it so he could not even imagine the level of your pain.

But before he could see it, you reverted back to your carefree expression as he pulled back to give you a playful glare, his red cheeks still smeared with the trails of his tears. “I was gonna ask you before you interrupted me if you want to give this a chance. An attempt to see if we could do this together. “ 

You made him stand and sit beside you, which he obediently followed. He finds himself being able to breathe properly again for the first time in a while, the smell of fresh air sifting through his lungs once again. The familiar comfortable weight on his shoulders that took the shape of your head in its place again.

“So, should we kick Remus out of the guest bedroom so we could paint for the nursery?” He jokes as you both silently watch the light blue sky covered with an abundance of clouds that looks so fluffy that you wanted to lay in them. 

You burst out in laughter, imagining the look on Remus’ face when he hears of this news. “He might just kick the both of us out when we do that.”

“But uh- I wanted to also ask you if it’s alright that we stay in my apartment instead?” You hesitatingly ask when silence befalls you again. “It’s just the idea in my head that so many things took place in this house that I would rather not be reminded of again.”

His heart clenches once again at the remnants of the consequences of his choices left on you. But he understood where you came from, and frankly, he felt the same. “Whatever you ask, darl- Y/N.”

“You can call me that. Don’t worry.” You assure him, knowing that he was walking on eggshells and you didn't want it to be like that now that you were welcoming this baby to your lives.

“I missed having someone hear me call you by that, darling.” He says. Was this suffering enough for all that I caused her? He asked himself. Was it even close to the hurt and anguish that I have traded for the ceaseless love she untiringly gave to him?

He doesn’t believe it is. He doesn’t even believe that all of what had just occurred in the past hours were real. He was fully expecting to be shaken awake by Remus, with a scowl on his face, muttering about how love is useless and shouldn’t be as needed as it is.

The tides have receded and all is calm and how it was.

James was surprised that you had left for another home miles and miles away. In a place where there is little to no trace of magic anymore. You were a step closer to the future you had always dreamed of.

A life away from the chaos and destruction that your world is currently in.

He doesn’t dwell on this fact any longer, instead taking it as a moment to appreciate that you had accepted him into this life. He remembers, from your trip on the way here, that you instantly got approved to be dismissed for a while from the missions all of you had been taking to ensure your and the baby’s safety.

Although he wasn’t quite as lucky, as he still needs to report back every now and then to perform his duties to the wizarding world. But they must’ve been in a good mood then, to allow him to take less time so as to assist and accompany you before your birth.

“I’ve been working at this cafe around the block.” You mindlessly mention, hanging your coat by the closet as he enters the bright and homey apartment. The natural light that comes in through the large French windows and the balcony lights up the whole place.

“That’s nice, are they treating you any good?”He inquires, wanting to absorb as much information about you as he could. You nod. He rushes back towards his bags which he had left by the stairway when he sees you about to pick them up. “I’ve got it! Why don’t you settle down for a while and rest up from our trip? I don’t want you carrying all this heavy stuff since it could hurt your back.”

You snicker, “I’ve been carrying much more heavy stuff in the past weeks since moving in. I don’t think two duffel bags of clothes will do much damage.”

“Still. I’m here now, and as much as I know you can surely carry this, I don’t want you to. I’m scared for you and the baby.” James worries. 

“Yeah, use the baby to guilt me. I can almost see a little girl version of you with a smile so wide asking for things that she doesn’t even care for.” You say, leaning both of your arms on your waist.

He laughs wholeheartedly, “Hmm, I might but I also might not.” Coming forward to pull you down on your cream couch. “Maybe she will grow up to be as nice, loving, and loyal as her mother. I’m sure she’ll be attached to your hip.”

“Yeah right, as if your stubborn ass would allow that to happen.”

He doesn’t reply anymore, instead exhaling an amused breath. The rest of the day was spent in mostly comfortable silence, while the two of you bicker over each song that plays on the radio; he had stood up to turn it on when his eyes glanced at it. Only coming to an agreement when it came to Laufey— a fact that surprised you by a whole lot but also made you the happiest woman on Earth. He laughed when you squealed in excitement. It was like the two of you were back on stage one, a chance to do it all over again. A small movement by his side caught his attention. 

Your warm fingers slowly inched in around his hand before enclosing it in the palm of your hand. The soft skin of your hand as it rests on top of his made his heart race in his chest and it takes a moment before James could manage to get a hold of himself. A minute has already passed when he also clenched her hand tight and placed their hands on his lap.

It’ll be a while before everything goes back to the way it is, but he’s got all the patience in the universe. 

— Two months later

James had never been so honest in his life than when he promised he would do everything within his power to be there for you and your family. It would be a long and difficult process but even when the two of you are well below 6 feet underground and your daughter has made a life of her own, he would still be at your will.

When the world reached its final stage of collapse, he could do nothing but watch it unfold. He didn’t know when exactly it happened. He was content with the roof that hid the dark sky away from him, in peace with the light you brought him. But when your world is built with the scraps of destruction, it is bound to crash onto you. 

It just so happened that it was his that fell off the axis.

James felt that the more he tries, the more he’s losing you. A thought that made him chuckle dryly because it’s so ironic when you lay peacefully asleep in the room you both share. He knew that you also were trying, even forcing yourself to feel the love that was even remotely close to the love that you used to have for him.

It wasn’t to say you felt nothing for him anymore, it was only that it wasn’t what you both expected it to be. It’s just that he is nothing but the father to your child now, not the one you saw yourself spending years alongside. 

This wasn’t all simple insecurities for him, he knew it was a fact. He did not mean to, but he happened to overhear a conversation you had with your neighbor who you had become close friends with. 

But to him, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was to make you feel loved and safe in his arms.

He feels you nestle your cheek in his arms.

“I’m sorry.”

He hears you mumble in your sleep, he had half a mind to wake you up. But he found himself unable to do so, investing in the way the wind flowing from the open window made your eyelashes flutter. 

He studies you carefully. You had all these little intricacies that he would like to believe no one else saw except for him— something of you that he would like to keep to himself.  He desires nothing more than to think that no one but him knows about the birthmark behind your ear, nor the scar on your hand from when you scratched yourself while riding a bike.

He longed to have every detail of your being ingrained in the deepest parts of his brain. He wanted to feel the intricate texture of your existence.

“Hi there…” You groggily say.

“Hi.” He leans down to press his lips against yours. You have gotten used to the feeling of connecting your lips to his, but the look in his eyes when he pulled back instantly filled you with a surge of anxiety that made you fully wake up. They reflected a kaleidoscope of emotions— too many to process but what stood out was the misery and acceptance behind it.

“James…”

“I love you.” Yet, he still tried to play his luck.

“James…I kissed someone else, we have to talk about it.“

The cold wind blasts with bitterness as you leave through the large heavy doors of your apartment building. Hugging your cardigan closer to you and holding your tote bag tighter to your chest, you rush towards the supermarket nearest you. James had gone back to meet with Remus and the others after Dumbledore had called them suddenly. Seeing as your plans to go to the park with him had to be put on pause, you decide to finish a few errands. 

“Welcome to Flamingo’s!” A staff greets you when you enter. Heading straight toward the long aisles, grabbing whatever item you need, and placing it on the large cart in front of you. A ridiculously large one. Truth be told you were completely baffled at its size when you grabbed it.   

But as much as you claim to hate it, you’re having the time of your life; feeling like a child pretending the cart was a formula one car and the aisles were a race track. The lack of shoppers made it all the better because you didn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. Quickly grabbing your items like they were some boosters from a game as you swiftly went through the aisles. It felt nice to completely let go and just pretend like she’s living as a carefree person, especially with how busy she has been lately.

You had just turned the corner when a sudden yelp brought you out of your daze. You drew your bottom lip in between your teeth at the sound. Scolding yourself for thinking that you wouldn’t accidentally hit someone. You turn to face the person to apologise for your careless actions when a clear, deep voice cut you off before you could even do so. “Y/N? What are you doing?”

His brown hair was damp and pulled back, indicating that he probably took a quick shower before he headed outside. His tall form was clad in a pair of old jeans, a plain white shirt, and a dark hoodie.

“Remus? What are you doing here?” You were confused, you thought when James said he was meeting with the group that Remus was a part of it. 

“Grocery shopping?” 

The two of you walk-in unison toward the cashier. “Oh, I thought you were meeting up with the rest of the Order.” You mention. “I wasn’t needed when I asked. But James and Sirius were called specifically.” He explains as you were lining up, his hand gesturing for you to go first.  

You feel a weird flutter in your stomach all of a sudden. You dismiss it as one of your pregnancy things.  With weak legs, you moved forward as the line progressed. Trying to compose yourself before he caught up.  

 “Why didn’t you call to tell me that you were dropping by?” You ask. Genuine curiosity scratching at your brain. During the time that you and James were still apart, he had been driving up to your place to help you out. He was one of the few people you told of your pregnancy.  “I wanted to give you a surprise since it’s been a while since we met up.”

“So, what are you cooking for me today, Chef Lupin?” She observes while taking a quick scan of his basket. 

“Bold of you to assume this is for you, lady.” He chuckles. “This is all for baby Olive.”

“For the last time, Rem, I am not naming my baby Olive.”

 “Well, even if you don’t, I’m calling her Olive after you made me buy a kilo of olives just to make me eat it instead.” He snarkily replies.

Feeling a warmth creep up on your cheeks, your head shifts away so quickly that you feared you may have gotten whiplash from it. In your movement, you see one of the cashiers' signs for you to move along. Not realizing that both of you had already been at the end of the line. Before you could push the cart, a long arm beats her to it. Your cart gets pushed by your company.  

“Stop being a gentleman, you’re gonna make women fall for you.” You jokingly tease him.

You settled beside him, watching the man handle your groceries. Your eyes focused on the screen before you. “Only for you.” A silence ensues at his reply. Remus guffaws at the curl of your upper lips, not even a beat after he said the cheesy line. “But I’m being honest here, I only do it with you. Well, except for the obvious like helping other people when they need it, but I mean that I enjoy helping you. ”

“Why?” You ask incredulously.

“I just do.” He said while crossing his arms over his chest. 

But right before either of you could utter a remark again, the man in front of you called the total. “That’ll be $235 in total, should I separate your items?” 

You each make a move to give cash first before the other but alas Remus still beats you to it, quickly finishing the task. “Please do, thank you.” 

Free food for you, then. 

You take a seat provided just a few steps away from the counter, drumming your fingers on the blue plastic chairs beside you. While Remus leans on the hand bar of the cart, patiently waiting for the cashier to finish, occasionally assisting with lifting some items. 

Inside your head, as your ears circled in on the sound of the hustle and bustle of the market that had become busy as you were in line, your mind wanders to what it would be like if Remus was the one that you liked back then. The love you held for James was visibly wavering with every moment you had spent with Remus in the aftermath of your divorce, he had willingly helped you out even when you told him not to for fear of being a disturbance to him.

Just as the brunette began to straighten up and pivot the wheels of the cart to face your direction, you shake away the thought. Baffled because this would be a betrayal to James, despite what he did to you.

“Let’s go?” He asks. You nod, taking your place beside him, engaging in some more small talk as you head out the door. If you would call rants about the horrible noise that your neighbour makes in the middle of the night as small talk, however. 

The man instantly moves to help you with the bags. Taking four at a time, telling you as he neared to just stay by the trunk and organise each of them to make everything fit. You silently give a nod in agreement, swiftly moving to not make him wait while carrying such heavy items. After all, it’s a relief that you didn’t have to carry all of these all the way back while you were nearly seven months pregnant. Building an efficient system in less than a minute.

The picture of the two of you reminds you of your childhood, watching as your parents do the same before it all went to shit. An air of domesticity is no doubt always felt when you are in their affinity. You stifle a smile that was threatening to form at the thought. You need to stop thinking like this. 

The sound of the metal cart clanging as it hits the end of the line clamours in the parking lot. He walks towards you in the hazy yellows and oranges behind him.  “That should be it! Should we go or do you need to drop by somewhere else?” He gestures for you to move out of the way of the trunk door, finger pointing to the passenger door which he had unlocked already. You shake your head, quietly replying with the former option.

Prying your eyes away from him, you make your way inside the car. Quickly settling inside the car, although with less ease than you had before as the last time you rode this truck was when you were lighter during your early pregnancy. Emitting a low groan, eyebrows knitted and eyes staring off to nowhere, you lean back and rest your head behind you. 

To say you were delighted by the realisations coming to you would be a joke. It was an attraction that you knew should and would never fruition into something more. Accepting it as soon as possible would be right for your mental well-being. But nothing’s ever set in stone and you’re currently sitting in the passenger seat of a friend that you have stared at far more than any normal person would and waiting for him so that he could drive you home.  

Stop doing that to yourself, Y/N.

“Are you good?” Worriedly, he asks, “You look like you’re in pain. Have you got a headache or anything?”

You let your eyes adjust to the bright light that enters through the windows, shaking your head from side to side in reply. You force yourself to hold your head up high, locking contact with the gold optics, brightened by the varying hues of the setting sun. Remus flashes a soft grin with his eyes smiling alongside. “I’m glad, but are you sure? I could drive you to the clinic if you want.”

Then and there, all at once, the rest of the world blurred and all that you could see was Remus. Remus, who had granted you the opportunity to be at the receiving end of his care when you really needed it, looked at you with as much fondness as you would others, unknowing that you noticed it. Nothing had existed as beautiful as he was. He smiled and you felt yourself spiraling down deeper into the hole that you had dug and covered over and over again yourself over time. 

For once, you feel the apples of your cheeks rise again in true joy; not believing that you could ever feel this way, this happy, ever again and with anyone else. 

You reach forward with your arm and grab his face to pull him towards you until you feel the slightly cracked but soft lips pressed tenderly against yours. 

The softness of your kiss conveyed a depth of feeling that surpassed the transcendence of words. His hands were frozen by the steering wheel moved to pull her closer, as if afraid that she would slip away.

In the arms of one another, time seemed to lose its meaning and the world outside melted away.

“What do you mean that you know?” You whispered, your voice a trembling echo.

You force your body to sit up and face him properly. Checking over his entire figure, afraid to see one of your biggest fears of hurting him. 

It was inevitable and you knew it. 

You were on the other side of this only months ago, and despite it all, you had never wished for him to feel the same. It was excruciating.

“Remus told me himself, explained the whole thing.” He explains as he looks down on his lap. His fingers played with the wrinkled fabric of his pajamas. The sight leaves you feeling a sense of deja vu.

“I knew he was going to you back then, at first it was because I asked him to because I was curious how you were doing. But then he started to act differently, describing what was up with you similarly to how I did back when we first started dating.” He explains further. 

“I didn’t notice it at first, Sirius did. I thought it was something Sirius made up in his head just to mess me with me again but then when I met up with Remus around two weeks ago, he dropped the bomb on me.” 

“I- what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I mean- how could I? I had just heard from one of my best friends that not only did my ex-wife kiss him, one that I am still in love with, might I add, but he also reciprocated it because he wanted to.”   

“I don’t know what to say…” 

“Right, so can we please forget about this and go back to sleep?” His voice pleaded, cracking with the force of his emotions, desperate for you to meet his gaze and for you to close the distance between you that widened with every second.

“I know this might be just your form of revenge towards me, and I forgive you! I really do! So can we please-“ His voice faltered.

He paced back and forth, his voice breaking with each syllable. “Could we please move on now? Can you please love me again?”

His emotions were laid before you, like vivid paint that once again smears the stark white canvas which had just been replaced. Letting you see all that he could give.

“No, James.” Your response was firm, tone strong to leave nothing for discussion anymore yet it is also strained. The stars shimmer in the clear, night sky bearing witness to the tumultuous end of your love and most of all, your struggles.

“This is unhealthy, I tried. I tried relentlessly to dismiss the blaring warning signals that echoed within me solely so that I never took away your right to be a father to your child. Regardless of all that came between us, she did nothing to receive only half of the affection she deserved.”

Your words were laden with pain, a silent plea for him to stop, to wave the white flag, but his unwavering love was an unstoppable force that consumed him entirely.

“Y/N-“ He started. His voice cracking at the weight of his inadequacy. The inability to give the love she deserves and to be the recipient of hers. 

Yet, before he could even begin again, she interjected, speaking into reality the words that would solidify the end of your shared path.

“You are a great man, James. I really do believe that, but I don’t think I can love you anymore like you expect me to. That’s just it.”

“I don’t hold any hatred in my heart for you. I really don’t, even if you make me think otherwise. Nothing will ever change the fact that you were by my side for years, long years where I knew nothing except that I love you. That will never change, and I’ll always care for you albeit it’s taken a different form now.” 

He is silent, a sense of defeat in the celestial orbs that once brightened like the night sky.

“You have been an incredible  husband, I even dare to call you my soulmate. It’s just that we weren’t bound to last as husband and wife even if we wanted to. God, I wished for nothing more when I first went back home to you that this would work because this emptiness without you was unbearable.” 

With a heavy sigh, choked with emotion. “Yet, as painful as it is to hear me say this, I think it was because you were this one constant presence in my life that when I lost you, I missed you so terribly that even when I felt my love for you slowly differ by day, this urge to recapture the past had consumed me.”

In denial, in sorrow, in defeat was his only state at the moment. 

“I love you.” His voice was laced with despondency.

He moved to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear before he caressed your cheek as though he were comforted by the mere presence of you right now. He had no answer for everything you had said, as it always is, you were correct.

It only felt that there were a thousand knives being poked through him now as if he were a dummy as he chooses to accept that. 

In hindsight, if there were any person who he would’ve stood behind in confidence when it came to you, it would truly be Remus. The two of you were closer than with any of his friends, knowing each other before you had met James.

But it was the knowledge that Remus loves as wholly as one should that assure him that you were in perfectly good hands. 

Of all things, he never wanted to force you to do anything, even if it meant that he had to let you go for the second time. This time, however, it hurt so much more because it proved to him that even with a chance, he would never have you back.

The only thing he’s got is one last night with you.

“Y/N?” He meekly calls your name. 

You hum in waiting, tired and in pain similar to him. This wasn’t any easier for you, you truly did want to mend this hurdle in your relationship but it simply wasn’t meant to be.

“Can you hold me to sleep one last time? You can leave whenever you want but please let me have one last sleep where I am still yours.” He asks, even if it makes him feel so pathetic, to be asking you for something as small as this.

Without any hesitation, you move to pull him back with you to lie in bed. You wrap your arms around his back as you let your head rest on the top of his, cocooning him with your entire body.

James couldn’t stop his tears from falling.

“Do you know?” 

“What, love?” 

“There were days that I wouldn’t go out nor would I sleep, I would just sit at the desk and watch outside the window. Outside, there were those tall grasses, who swayed in unison with the records playing in my room, unaware of our differences.” He says. You stare out the window, imagining the view outside your old house.

“The ones we planted flowers on?” You wonder. He nods.

“I sat there till the sun came up and the blossomed into new beginnings, wondering why I haven’t when the only difference was that my sun was in a picture frame.” 

You remain silent.

“I love you.” He whispered. The genuineness and remorse are clear in his voice. “I know.”

He picked up the apologetic tone in your voice. The pain in his heart was hollow and deep, striking the centre of the organ and reaching throughout his entire body, throbbing, throbbing.

“Can you say it too? Lie if you have to. I just need to hear it.” He whispers.  

“I love you too.” It hurts you, to know that he believes that you have to lie only so he could hear you say the words that seemed so normal back then, words that now feel like you took advantage of. “I love you so damn much, James.”

James could do nothing but quietly sob in your chest until he succumbs to the heavy weight on his eyelids, aware of the fact that in the morning, his only companion would be cold sheets once again.

In the dead quiet of the night, with no one else to hear it, a hum in the tune of Happy Birthday remains the only sound to be heard.

James had only turned 26 when the gravity of his promise had become an ephemeral spencer that despite his earnest desire, had lost all semblance of significance. 

masterlist

[purplealmonds]

Extrapolating on my "Karakasa is an abnormally strong mononoke" theory.

Just as a refresher, this was my comment in @sarahwatchesthings's post in the Mononoke community:

I wonder - in the lore video Kusu confirms the existence of other exorcism swords and by extension, more Kusus. Narratively, this newly revealed information should have a payoff. The karakasa is a formidable mononoke - it manifests as a tsunami-like entity and creepy sky vagina. Far more powerful than any mononoke we've encountered. Perhaps we will have an "Avengers Assemble" moment in this movie to, err, shall we say, unfuck the Sky Vagina?

Let's examine the mononoke anime-Kusu previously encountered as a baseline:

The Zashikiwarashi were confined within the brothel-turned-inn and as far as we know, didn't harm anyone except the innkeeper and her assistant. Even Shino's child, who we thought died from miscarriage, was revealed to be alive and well at the end of the story arc.

The Umibozu, while attracting an ocean of Ayakashi, originated from Genkei's soul rather than the sea itself. No casualties here either.

The Nopperabou was bound to Ochou. It's highly implied the murder of her in-laws was a delusion (along with the rest of her daydreams with Fox Mask). The only thing that was metaphorically "killed" was her sense of self but even that is restored in the end.

The Nue probably has the highest body count, but it is all localized in Ruri-Hime's estate.

The Bakeneko is haunting one (1) carriage of a train. Most of the people involved in Setsuko's murder were spared when they showed remorse, and the bystanders were unharmed.

Even the original Bakeneko, as powerful as it was, haunted just the Sakai estate. Although everyone on the premises but Kusu, Kayo, Odajima, and Yoshiyuki were slaughtered, the palanquin drivers just outside the gates were unharmed and none the wiser.

There are a few common threads with these mononoke:

Their influence is constrained to a single location.

Save for the original bakeneko arc, these mononoke did not harm or haunt anyone that was undeserving of their wrath.

They are created from the intense repressed negative emotions of a handful of individuals.

@the-mononoke-facade If any of the Shu novel mononoke support this theory, let me know!

Now let's examine the Karakasa:

In Kusu's words, it is created by the grudge of women- plural. This is not just a few women working in a brothel like in Zashikiwarashi, this encompasses all women's suffering within the ooku. Because each woman's suffering is unique, the form, truth, and reason will be all the more difficult to unravel even if everyone's forthcoming with information.

The Karakasa's manifestations very much resembles the hellish geographical and weather conditions that Japan faces even to this day. The Sky Vagina = typhoons. The rising/exploding water = earthquakes and tsunamis. The Karakasa is not just an entity, it is a forces of nature. And like all forces of nature, it cannot be reigned in, only weathered.

There are massive crowds of civilians in the fourth trailer. Hell, even the faceless women in the ooku can be considered innocent bystanders. If Kusu doesn't solve the mystery quickly enough, the Karakasa will break confinement. The Karakasa is a mass casualty event in the making.

Judging from the second image below of the Karakasa-tsunami expanding beyond the ooku's walls, Kusu failed and people will die because of that failure.

And moments before that disaster, he was at its epicenter taking a bath in the hot tub.

Actually...you could even say that this explosion resembles like that of an atom bomb. And that's a whole other can of worms to unravel.

So, yeah. Although this mononoke originated from a ratty old umbrella, it's abnormally powerful. Too powerful, perhaps, for movie-Kusu and Shingi to best.

It is said that Japanese society is shaped by the forces of nature it must contend with. In order to survive these earthquakes and typhoons and tsunamis, a community must put aside their petty grudges and differences to work as a team. Simultaneously, this tribal mentality is also what makes the ooku a miserable place to live; an outsider who doesn't fall in line is punished no matter how small the infraction.

With these themes in mind, my conclusions/predictions are:

Kusu and Shingi cannot defeat the Karakasa alone. They must put aside their pride and ask for help.

When faced with adversity, the women (and maybe the men too, but they're on thin fuckin ice) in the ooku will band together to assist Kusu in warding off the Karakasa.

To reiterate what I said earlier, Kusu implied the existence of multiple other Kusu's and exorcism sword. Perhaps these other Kusu's will also make an appearance to help him vanquish the Karakasa. Because, you know. The Kun exorcism sword is affiliated with the earth element and Pokemon logic says earth is weak against water.

And as a final bonus observation, given Shingi's more human-like (shall we say down-to-earth? ha-ha earth puns) appearance compared to anime-Hyper, I believe he is not as invincible as one would believe even when the sword is drawn. To supplement this, I'll share a spoiler from the light novel. Putting it below the cut! As a disclaimer, I'm unsure if it is spoilers for the Shu or Oni novel, so look at your own risk!

So, Hyper and by extension all other manifestations of him are not always effortlessly slaying all mononoke nor invulnerable to harm. Like Mani, I'm also rather curious if this will be reflected in Karakasa. The production team's already throwing all sorts of insane lore nuggets at us. This metaphorical curveball of Shingi getting roughed up by the Karakasa is not entirely implausible!!

[snail-eggs]

1.1 Saturday | film

synopsis: It hurts. 2,191 days later and it still hurts. Juno Connors is haunted by the death of her best friend. Haunted by the unfinished documentary Juno refuses to let die along with him. But it has proved difficult. The subject---washed-up skating legend, Ronnie Allen; her best friend’s childhood hero who suddenly went missing sometime in the early 90s---is less than cooperative. She spends months in London trying to get him to cooperate and she gets nothing for it in return. Nothing of value, nothing to make all the dollars and time spent worth it. Until she meets a young sergeant, that is. Juno meets Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick and sets herself on a course for healing through this newfound intimacy. It makes her think that, just maybe, she can finish this fucking documentary and never have to face Ronnie Allen again.

a/n: my god, there's no way it took me a year to polish this one chapter. anyway, here it is over 365 days later.

masterlist | warnings on ao3 | read on ao3 | read on wattpad | playlist | divider by @/cafekitsune

The air in Carlsbad is different. Tinged with a saltiness from the sea that Juno can taste on her lips, the breeze at the perfect speed, perfect temperature. She knocks on the rickety old trailer’s door, wishing that she had taken a fleeting moment to film this. This beach—it's gorgeous. Tucked away into its own lonesome corner with a view to die for. Given the chance, Juno’d retire off to here too. She sighs. Bites her lip.

It shouldn’t be her that’s doing this,

She’s staring out at the waves lapping at the shore, a half step off the trailer’s poor excuse for a porch, listening to the way they crash against the rocks and land. She doesn’t deserve to be here, in his place. The door swings open with a creak so loud, she swears it's about to fall off its hinges. Actually, the hinges themselves look more ready to fall off the frame than anything. Charming, she thinks. Gives the whole thing some real character—

“You lost?” —like it needs any more. 

Before her, Ralph DiMaggio stands in all his leathery, sun bleached glory. But burgeoning against his loud button up. But he looks at her softly—kindly, cutting through the rough image she had about him entirely and she can see it in his eyes, in his slight smile with a missing canine. He looks happy. Sober. Completely unlike how Fish described him in the notes he left. Juno feels half bad for expecting to find him at the bottom of a bottle, a mess. 

 “No, you’re exactly who I’m looking for.” She finally takes that full step up to the trailer, extends her hand. He takes it. “My name is Juno Connors—you met my partner, Hayden Fisher, like around a year ago.” Eyes empty, searching for something in the recesses of his mind, Juno can tell he doesn’t remember Fish. It hurts a little. “For the Ronnie Allen doc…” Now she’s searching too— reaching , hoping that he remembers. “He was, uh, a little obsessive about wanting to… to solve Ronnie’s disappearance from, well, the public and then probably never called you back?” She’s fumbling now. Feels like a fucking idiot.

And then it clicks.

“Yeah,” he moves out of the way, gestures for her to come in, “Yeah, no, I remember him, Kid was a lot.”

Juno laughs—well, breathes out a laugh more so than actually laughing. He’s right, he was a lot. Too much, even. She gets it, really, she does. No one could ever entirely stomach him quite like her. Supposes she’s just adept at tolerating the intolerable.

“Why didn’t he ever call back?”

“Thing is, he was going to but he died back in March, so.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gives a shrug that feels all sorts of wrong. “Yeah,”

Reaching into her bag, she flashes him a tight-lipped smile. Her way of saying It’s okay because she doesn’t really know how else to without making it worse, the awkwardness, or sounding like more of an idiot than she already does. Because she’s faced it now: Juno’s blowing this interview and it hasn’t even started. This isn’t her beat, isn’t what she does. No, her job was to sit there and point the camera at someone while Fish did all the heavy lifting. All the talking, But Fish is gone now and there’s still lifting to be done.

The lavalier mic is heavy in her hand, heavier than she knows it really is. She gestures vaguely with it. “I’m here now. For that interview—only if you want to, obviously.”

“Gotta be a little more assertive than that, Junie. A lot more.” He says suddenly like he’s known her forever. Her brows furrow. “Be a bitch, it's the only way you’ll get what you want from old pieces of shit like me.” Ralph eases himself into a chair that groans under his weight, points his finger at her. “That’s a fact.”

“If that’s the case, is this old piece of shit gonna give me what I want or did I drive all the way down here for you to waste my time?” Juno cocks her head to the side. If assertive is what he wants, it's assertive that he’ll get.

Ralph spreads his arms out, smiles wide—proud—missing tooth and all. “Mic me, Junie.” She can’t help it, she smiles too.

And she does—has him clip the recorder to his waistband right on the small of his back as she loops the microphone on its wire wire through the inside of his shirt shirt and settles it on the collar. The camera comes to her like second nature; the setting up of it is a process that doesn’t take all that much thought. Ralph watches her and she doesn’t give him so much as a glance. In her periphery, he’s merely a skin colored blob. She pretends it's Fish sitting there instead as she screws the camera onto the tripod as tight as it goes. It's locked. Ralph shifts around in his seat like he’s never been interviewed before. Juno suddenly realizes that it's probably been forever since the last time. Makes her feel a little better about her uselessness. 

The journal is the last piece. One she has to cross the room for—left it on Ralph’s kitchen counter before she mic’d him—her strides and the weight of her warping the vinyl flooring. It burns her hands when she grabs it. Impossible, she knows, but it burns them. With grief, with the corrosive acidity of expectations not met and even worse, expectations she’s not sure she can meet at all.

But she has to try, that’s what this is all about. She looks back at Ralph. Relaxes her shoulders.

“So, what do you know about Ronnie Allen?”

He nearly hits her twice.

Wild, drunk hands wave around mere inches from her camera. From her face. Juno is sick of looking at him. At that ugly mug of his, at the tattoos that have bled deep into every wrinkle and crevice of it. Like runny ink on shitty paper. She looks at him with loathing. Juno’s sick of London now too. She sets her camera on the bar, takes a lazy sip of her beer, and just looks at him. He’s all washed-up. Fucking pathetic now. He’s nothing. He stares back at Juno, like maybe she’s a little off, when she sets down the camera. His wild hands fall into his lap, his story stops.

The rim of the bottle is still at her lips, “Ron, that’s not what I asked you.” 

“What?”

“I didn’t ask you about the fucking glory days,” she’s heard enough about the glory days to last a lifetime, “I asked you about what happened after.”

He squeezes his eyes shut real tight, “After?” How he manages to slur just a single word so monumentally, Juno doesn’t know.

“Yeah, Ronnie, after .” It’s still not clicking. “Jesus, Ron—I asked about Merced.” The location rolls off her tongue but it's Ronnie’s face that twists into one of disgust. She can’t seem to break him. It feels like pulling teeth, trying to get him to talk about Merced.

She doesn’t want to feel this way. Not tonight.

Juno’s sick of it all. The poking, the prodding, when she knows—deep down inside, she knows —that he won’t talk. He’s a stubborn old fuck. Ronnie will keep her in the dark until she gives up because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants her to run home with her tail between her legs but she won’t. She cannot and will not let Fish’s life’s work collapse in on itself over a lousy drunk. She doesn’t care that the drunk in question was his hero once upon a time. He’s nothing to her and nothing he’ll stay if he can’t give her what she fucking needs.

It’s been six years that she’s wasted on this. What’s six more?

“You’re still chasin’ this shit,” 

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it either.” Juno doesn’t like the way her voice sounds. It’s quiet, comes from deep in her throat, all tired and flat. This isn’t her. But maybe it is now. After Fish, after all this mess, maybe this is who she is. 

Fingers twitching around the neck of her bottle, gripping it just a little too tight, Juno looks out over Ronnie’s shoulder. Out at the other patrons of the bar that are surely having a far better night than she is. And then she feels it. The burning of eyes fixated on her. Juno’s own scan the crowd again more carefully now.

“When’re you just gonna quit?” She doesn’t hear it, not really. All her attention’s focused on the other lonely soul across the bar. The bill of his cap casts a shadow over his eyes but Juno knows, without a doubt that he’s looking at her. Staring. So she stares back. Narrows her eyes a little—hoping that if she squints hard enough, she can bend all laws of reality and really see him. 

But she can’t. So she inches away from the bar, breaks his gaze for just a second to tell Ronnie plainly, and maybe even a little too loudly that “If anything happens to this camera, I’m never leaving you alone, got it?” And he shrugs. Waves it off like he does with everything else that she says. But he reaches his arm out to where Juno was sitting. Lazily slides the camera into his chest like he’s protecting it in his own half-assed way. Juno doesn’t hover.

Stands of fading blue fall into her face as she wades through the crowd that feels like its only getting denser by the second. She doesn’t bother to tuck them out of the way. Just keeps making her way through. When the crowd breaks, the air feels lighter, cooler; her lungs have room to expand. 

And, finally, she can see the eyes that gazed upon her from across the bar.

“You have a staring problem,” there’s a grin there. The most genuine one that’s graced her face in, hell, six years, probably. 

“You came all this way to tell me that?”

She shrugs, “And a couple other things.” Juno sits down right across from him. Feels kind of giddy talking to someone new, kiddy like knowing without any real proof that you’ve met someone good. Someone solid. “So, do you always look at random women like that or should I feel special?”

He, whoever he is, smirks a little. Juno can tell he’s trying to fight it but it comes through anyway. “Like what?” He's handsome. Soft behind the eyes. 

“Y’know,” she leans into the table, smile reaching her eyes now despite the subtleness of it. “Like there’s no one else here but me. Like I’m the only one worth talking to—and I am, by the way. I am so worth talking to.”

“Can’t have much of a conversation if I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, who said that?”

Words catch in his throat a little and Juno smirks. Bottom lip caught in her teeth. Just tell me your name.”

“Juno.” Said so quick she’s barely even sure he heard it.

“Like the movie?”

She gives him a look. It’s a yes and no answer—more no than yes. “Just the way it’s spelled. They named me after the place in Alaska, just wanted to feel special, I guess.”

“It suits you,” they haven’t broken each other’s gaze. Not once and Juno feels like she’s drowning in the particular shade of brown of his irises.

“I’d hope so, it’s the only name I got.” There’s more of a twang there than she’d like. She wonders if he’d be able to place it, her accent. Knows there’s no way in hell she could place his no matter how hard she tried. “What about you; what’d you get saddled with?”

“Kyle,” Juno nods. Her own silent way of telling him that she thinks his name suits him too. “Most people call me Gaz, though.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t got a clue.” He takes a sip from his glass. Juno wants to reach out and grab it. Take a sip from it too. The impulse is so strong and she’s not entirely sure why. Maybe it's one of those weird intrusive things. Or maybe, it's her desire for closeness that hasn’t been sated in years. Hell, she can’t remember the last time she hugged somebody—really hugged somebody; fingers gripping at clothes, digging into skin, a mouthful of hair. All that. The closest she’s gotten is hauling Ronnie into bed when he’s too wasted to do it himself. And sometimes she lingers. Lets him keep his grip on her wrist while he begs her for a glass of water. She supposes that she likes the warmth.

Oftentimes, she wonders what it’s like to be held. In all honesty, Juno’s forgotten it and so now she looks at Gaz, a stranger she’s shared but a handful of words with, and—more than anything—just wants a hug. Is that so much to ask for; to be held for even a fraction of a second?

She needs to go home, she thinks. Desperation’s not all that good of a look on her. 

Gaz’s eyes narrow in on her in a way she can’t quite read. The feeling of his gaze is sharper. Precise. Juno feels naked. Feels like he can read her mind. But it softens and suddenly she can breathe. He nods at her, lowers his glass. “What’s that about?”

And her brows furrow before he points at her shirt. Juno looks down. Lindsay Lohan’s mugshot is decorating her torso and she breathes out a laugh. He laughs with her.

“What, you don’t like it?” She teases.

“Never said that .”

“You could wear it if you want—actually, we might be the same size.”

“Yeah?” Juno nods when he says it, smiling so wide that her cheeks are starting to hurt. “I mean, we could test out that theory.”

The chatter from the crowd behind her is getting louder. Bar stools scrape against the ground with an ear shattering screech. Juno shrugs, smirking a little, “I’m down if you are.”

Then, a resounding crack. 

Juno and Gaz both whip their heads in the direction of the bar. Juno’s mouth gapes as she watches the bartender clutch his nose. Sees the blood on Ronnie’s fist. Her heart pounds. He can’t get can’t get caught up like this, he can’t afford it— she can’t afford it. Juno lurches from her chair, toppling it over as Gaz calls her name. She shoves and elbows her way through the crowd now surrounding Ronnie and grabs him roughly by the arm. Drags him with all her might and it doesn’t take much. He’s already long gone—the lights are on and no one’s home. So he stumbles on after her.

Juno doesn’t even get to spare Gaz a glance as she and Ronnie barrel through the door.

The mini-bar in this hotel is piss-poor, Juno thinks as she lines up the third tiny bottle of vodka on the windowsill. Really. She’s had better liquor from forgotten bottles in the back of Ronnie’s cabinets. Maybe he just has better taste than the hotel staff. Juno doesn’t really care either way. Her night’s over before it even started and she wishes she’d gone home with Gaz. He was cute, nice enough. Would’ve been a fun time, she bets, but instead she’s stuck here in her room emptying the mini-bar and wondering if this is just some ugly habit she picked up from six years and counting with Ronnie. Day in and day out. She grimaces. Takes another tiny bottle and sits on the bed.

She’s got more notes for this documentary than Fish ever had. It gives her a pang in the chest, the thought. Makes her eyes water. She breaks the seal on the bottle. The transcript for Ralph’s interview haunts her on her desktop, among others. Juno goes for her browser instead. Her fingers work quicker than her mind—she’s looking at departing flights before she knows it.

There’s a few she can catch before Ronnie wakes up in the morning and calls her asking why his knuckles are all bloody.

It isn’t the first time that she’s thought maybe she’s gotten all that she ever will out of him. Even figured out how to wrap this doc up in a pretty little bow without knowing shit about the why of it all. Ronnie Allen, ex skating legend, is a good for nothing drunk that fell into obscurity because he felt like it. There is no real reason, no meaningful moment that made him run from everything he had. He’s a good for nothing dunk that abandoned everyone he knew and seems to feel just fine about it. Sure, it’s bleak but people’d eat that shit up. She knows she would.

Fish wouldn’t, though.

He always wanted to look deeper than the other documentarians, it’s why he started this one. He’d lose his mind if he found out she ditched it before seeing it through completely.

Juno downs the fourth bottle in one go. Her throat burns.

When she wakes, there’s hair all in her mouth. The room smells overwhelmingly like Fish’s living room. Juno buries her head in the sheets and refuses to breathe.

[aranarumei]

how much does sasaki talk about hirano?

hey everyone. I’m coming to you live with an INVESTIGATIVE REPORT about the one and only sasaki shuumei. the question above pretty much summarizes what I'm trying to find out. so I’ll expand on this under the cut. apologies in advance for any typos

—

there’s a scene that’s always made me confused ever since I first read it (which wow. I’ve been reading this manga as it updates since partly through volume 3… crazy how far its come!) and that is this sequence of two pages in the extras of Vol 7 (39.5), below:

hirano’s like “well, it’s fine to talk about me to miyano as long as you didn’t say any weird stuff about me” and sasaki goes. Silent. Now I at the time assumed like. ah sasaki’s talking about the hirano and kagiura relationshipisms. or the whole uke thing. right?

…right?

see, the thing is: when sasaki visits campus in ch 46, he asks the basketball team about a kagi-kun, and then when miyano questions him about what he was doing, he’s like “oh I just remembered hirano’s old roommate was on the basketball team,” and then refuses to even tell miyano his name. so it’s like… did sasaki EVER talk about hirano’s roommate to Miyano? like of his own initiative? did he offer any information? so I decided that instead of just bringing that question up, I’d reread all of sasaki to miyano and get my answer.

disclaimer that this deals with exclusively the manga: I have this hidden fear that I’m going to post this and get a reply like “oh this is 50% of the entire novel content” but! the scene in question comes up in the manga! I think it ought to then refer to an event in the manga! but seriously if stuff like that does come up in the novel feel free to chime in. also bc I was rereading the whole manga I have Other Thoughts Too but. those can hopefully marinate their way into other posts.

ch 2:

miyano: But I saw you! I saw you laughing as you chatted with a first-year boy from class 1A in the basketball club with a lovely smile!

this does not count. miyano brings this up to hirano himself. in fact a lot of miyano putting hirano into bl contexts happens In Front Of Hirano’s Face. not really a conversation starter for sasaki. it does make ch 46 way more interesting bc it means like. sasaki has remembered that kagiura’s on the basketball team to the point that he wants to check in on him? whereas miyano like Knows this info yet never really pursues it. suppose it’d be awkward to just go up and try to find him without knowing his name, though.

ch 4:

sasaki says “but hirano can handle alcohol fine” which is perfectly on topic since they were just discussing how sasaki can’t handle it. it’s miyano that spins into bl fantasies afterwards. also hirano is right there in this situation. does not count.

ch 5:

sasaki: Hirano’s playing Oiwa-san for the haunted house. Want to see? He’s crossdressing and wearing a wig.

this does count. sasaki is bringing up hirano and telling miyano something that miyano would totally get excited about. it is, I would say, not brought up out of nowhere, since they discuss crossdressing right before. unrelated to this I would love to see the image of sasaki as hanako-san of the toilet.

ch 6:

sasaki asks about miyano’s love life and when miyano says that he’s not romantically interested in anyone around here, and sasaki asks “what about hirano?” miyano says he ships him with his roommate and the conversation ends there. I would say this also does not count—yeah, he’s perhaps bringing up hirano as a romantic prospect, but I think this is more sasaki like. being jealous more than it is using him as a reason to talk to miyano. he’s like. a pretty jealous guy.

ch 8:

sasaki tells miyano that his grades suck and hirano’s been tutoring him. this does not count.

ch 11:

sasaki says “don’t you prefer black-haired ukes?” and “ah, you mean like hirano?” when miyano says he prefers manly ukes. this does count. while it’s in the topic of conversation, there’s not a real reason he has to bring hirano up. plus, he even continues it with “hirano’s pretty tall. can he still not be a seme?” so it’s using hirano to keep a conversation going with miyano, but I will note it’s not what starts the conversation.

ch 13:

sasaki talks about hirano getting banned from doing the ball toss. this does not count.

ch 24.5:

“ooh, if it was hirano, it would be taiko” says sasaki when miyano brings up all the girl names that he and his classmates would have. this does not count. it’s a natural extension of the various female names they’ve been talking about, sasaki included, and hirano’s their mutual friend.

ch 33:

sasaki brings up hirano’s dedication to studying and how he says that getting accepted to university isn’t the finish line. says hirano’s pretty cool for that mindset. this does not count.

ch 41:

sasaki says "haha, yikes! hirano was a terrible influence!" when miyano tells him about kuresawa getting a piercing. this does not count. it’s also after graduation, where the scene happened.

ch 42.5:

sasaki is like wow I can't believe hirano's roommate does THAT in the mornings to miyano, regarding vol 2 of sasaki to miyano. however this kind of thing isn't quite canonical since they know there are books being published about them so. this does not count.

halloween 2018 extra:

miyano asks if sasaki's friends got their items confiscated, and sasaki replies by saying that hirano's in charge of confiscation for their class, so their class had the idea to overwhelm him. this does not count.

dvd extra 4:

sasaki tells miyano about how they ripped the wallpaper on accident, and once he said it kind of gave it a badboy feel, they started doing it on purpose. hirano participated in it too. this does not count.

I’ve probably missed some, but we can see that out of all of these situations, only TWO are actually what I’d qualify as “weird” by hirano’s metrics. unless sasaki talking about the wild stuff Hirano gets up to includes his ball toss strategy and him ripping up wallpaper. then it’s four. my point is that sasaki says it’s “a lot” when it’s not. so… why is that?

I’ve been mulling over a couple of ideas regarding this, but I kind of don’t want to offer up my own interpretations first? plus when I tried writing my answer I spun off into a really bad tangent, so… post ends here. hope we all learned something here!

[o-uncle-newt]

Cabin Pressure Advent Day 21: Uskerty

I absolutely adore this episode as the origin of my single favorite Cabin Pressure line: "You know, between the dames and the horses, sometimes I don't know why I even put my hat on." Nothing will ever beat it for me.

So yeah, this episode is super funny, but I do want to talk a bit about something that's come up as my go to "look, a THEME!" here- vulnerability. Because as I was listening, trying to figure out what I was taking away from this episode besides "this is all really funny and well plotted" because at a certain point that gets old, it struck me that there are ways that both of our (absolutely brilliant) pairings this episode really strike a chord when considering the role of vulnerability- and lack of it- in relationships.

This is a bit less so in the Douglas-Arthur pairing in this episode, which is inspired (and yay, there's finally a nice airport manager!)- there are brilliant set pieces, and the premise of the bar conversation allows two very different people to kind of sort of attempt to understand each other. There's also a really nice father/son element- we already can perceive, even if it's not said outright, that Arthur doesn't have much of a father figure- his life is very dominated by Carolyn's influence, even in the majority-male flight deck, in a way that I think even tints his interactions with Mr Birling about sports (there's a tinge of eagerness for acceptance), which he's clueless about. Would Arthur know more about sports if he'd had a dad who gave a shit about him? Who knows. But this episode giving him an older man who's willing to open an as-yet-shut door into a men's world that excites him.

The men's world is, of course, the world of the pub. We've already seen a glimpse of Douglas in that milieu in Kuala Lumpur, and usually I'd say the less said about that the better, but I think there's something interesting about how mean spirited and surfacey it could be there, alongside Arthur's misunderstanding what Douglas means about "talking about their lives." He asks a question that is so unexpectedly and deeply personal that Douglas isn't even upset that he asks, he understands that this is another rule of masculine bar/pub conversation that he has to teach Arthur. On a certain level, this is fine on its own- there's a time and place for everything- but if you look at it a certain way, it can reinforce tropes about men and expressing emotions and feelings. And yet... even by following the rules of pub chat that Douglas lays out for him, and trying to fall into its ritualistic norms (like creative insults), Arthur, in part through his own open-book vulnerability, is able to bring things to a place where Douglas is pretty unselfconsciously vulnerable himself, about the place in the world where he finds himself. And by the end, he's fallen more into Arthur's more atmospheric image of two men in a bar. He's loosened up, and isn't playing by the rules anymore. It's just really nice (in addition to being hilariously funny).

The Martin and Carolyn pairing is maybe a bit less novel than the Douglas and Arthur one, but it still works really well in this discussion of vulnerability. Both of them have had pretenses/barriers they try to keep up- and both, incidentally, are related to their own interest in expressing that they are in control- but by now Martin has learned enough to have started to relax his. This actually really helps, as his actions aren't hampered by pretense or pride- he's basically able to function ALMOST competently with the cabbie as a result. But Carolyn is almost on overtime trying to keep her barriers up against vulnerability and it is clearly driving her a bit bananas, hence her complete dysfunction this episode- she has to be ironic and invulnerable about her gift to Herc, to prove that she may be seeing him but she doesn't have feelings (which will of course come to haunt her in Vaduz), and as a result loses all her judgment. And her overtime craziness is, unusually enough, what causes Martin’s misfortune, not his own incompetence! He's the functional one here, not her, because unlike her he's not filtering all his behavior through this one very constricting lens.

Once Martin is able to open her up a bit in the discussion of his salary- where she starts off in control as the boss and is forced to face the fact that Martin is loyal to her even when he shouldn't be*, which could very easily pierce the defenses of her invulnerability as she has to accept this reality- she starts to mellow out. Whereas she starts off saying that she's “not a little old lady” so she can’t do the totally reasonable thing until Martin begs, afterward she manages to chill enough that she can do the, you know, sane thing even though it dings her a bit in the self-confidence. She's not quite as in thrall to her inner barriers anymore.

I'll just end off by saying- this episode may also, in addition to my favorite line, have my favorite closing lines of any episode, with the possible exception of Zurich 2. Though that one's mostly about the nostalgia and emotions. So maybe this is it.

*On this note- when did Martin stop looking for jobs? He was looking in Rotterdam… given my St Petersburg post I wonder if it was before or after that.

[spearxwind]

Hiya, I’d like to put some thoughts out there on my blog (my house) bc I need to yarf some intense feelings or I fear I will explode on a nuclear scale. This is about hollowridge (not in a negative light!! just explaining + reminiscing of old stuff and talking about new stuff. Pouring my heart out more than a little bit.)

I will put them under a readmore of course, this is PRETTY long winded, so you can read or ignore at your leisure -w- 

I was in my adri tag a while ago looking for some images and ended up going through the whole thing and seeing the evolution of him as a character and HR as a story. Additionally, I recently organized my external memory where all my art files are stored and also saw my old stuff, old concepts, old documents with info and ideas, etc etc and like other times where I have looked through my old stuff I have been WRACKED with so many emotions about it. It’s always a dangerous game to go back into my folders/tags to look because I always end up feeling this whooole spiel all at once and very intensely.

Seeing my content shifts is jarring. Very much so. It always is. I don’t think I can pinpoint causes, some of my better creative highs were at really low points in my life, and then other times my creativity and worlds were subsequently really hardly hit during similar lows. I like to think that I am on the up now though, both mentally and creatively. I’m getting back into a lot of things I love, and I am surrounded by people who I love dearly and who love me back, and things in general are really good! I feel less… I wouldn't say wrathful, but way less frustrated when looking back at my old stuff and more inspired to go back to these concepts with a healthier more open mind + knowing that I have improved nonetheless. 

Specifically for hollowridge. Hollowridge feels like a home to me, simple as that. It's something immensely dear to me and I think this is clear by how much effort I have put into it over time, not all of it well placed or with good results, but effort to make it the best that it could be (at best) and effort to keep it afloat (at worst). HR is a strange thing to look back on because it has gone through so many iterations that its hard to pinpoint just one when looking back, but there's a specific time slot (2017-2018 roughly… I’m not gonna check) that I believe is where it was at its best, and that is specifically the vibe that I am trying really hard to go back to with the newest iteration.

I’ve always struggled with it a lot, I've often voiced this publicly, or to friends who would hear my woes out (god bless them for hearing me go on and on about this like a bass boosted and emotional broken record), often because there was so many possibilities that I could run with and I had a lot of really, really conflicting ideas that I wanted to explore. I also had a lot of trouble with lore in general because for many years I was haunted by the absurd need to “make things make sense”, whatever that means. Having things grounded so that people wouldn't be able to poke holes into the watertight plot.. which I never achieved of course. It was less watertight and more of a welded together pringle shaped monstrosity (This was not only true for hollowridge, but was true for everything I have ever made. like in general. It’s been a consistent creative problem for me). 

Eventually what happened iteration after iteration was that I throttled myself too much with rules, random limitations, all in favor of making something cohesive and deleting all the fun bits off the project in the process.

For this reason I also can’t just up and go “yeah i'm gonna turboscrap everything and go back to what worked in 2017” because it also DIDN’T work then. But that vibe specifically is what I am aiming for. The “classic” vibe, if you will (if that means anything to you as it does to me.)

What didn't work for me back in the day was giving everything a reason for existing, which is something I no longer wish to do (it’s better that way) and also something that failed back then both in HR, and in extinction (earlier drafts) and just about any version of a story I ever tried to make was THE SCOPE. It always spiraled out of my hands. God entities always escape me. Magic systems always escape me. How cities and such would be regulated in these scenarios escape me. Its just things I’m not comfortable writing about in general

So that’s why I have made changes to it currently (the whole lens of technology over it) because it makes it easier to think about, and easier to handle. Post apocalypses are fun to handle, and also easy to handle (for me, in this context). Technology going awry feels like its easier to think about than just vague “magic”, even if in the end the aesthetic looks literally exactly the same. Does that make sense? I hope it makes sense.

To give an example: Magic spells and circles → programs and code lines. That can be shot into machinery or meat (recodes your fucking genome in real time and gives you super brain hemorrhage idk). I guess it just gives my brain something to latch onto that isnt just vague rules of a magic system that could potentially be anything and everything? It essentially works the exact same way… its just the lens of looking at it is changed.

Mimics are their own thing now (nanotechnology, instead of vague.. shadow things). Adri is his own thing while still connected to mimics (an angel array made of the same stuff, instead of.. whatever else). Connected to the world. AND all the conflicting but dearly beloved concepts I had for him actually fit (snake, scarf, smoke, usurper of a body that is not his. Hey remember when he was made out of ashes/smoke and eventually out of goop. Well all of that is true at once now! It’s ALL canon! Bitch! The concepts have been reconciled!!)

There are also more “normal” creatures besides these, animals that have either evolved aboveground due to fit into new world niches (so I can design Whatever without being too limited) and there’s also machine/biomachine chimeras, and purposed grown organisms, and just Weird Shit made by machines in the belly of the earth (meat is just complex machinery. you know this. your heart is a piston and your blood gasoline. but I digress.) So I have the space to Get Weird if I so choose, on my own terms this time. And it will have a proper place in the world.

There used to be a lot of concepts that were cool that I missed a lot when I had to shift away from them. Like mimics infecting people and pretending to be them, and then being able to break the hosts bodies apart to make bodies for the mimic itself. That did not fly in pretty much 80% of the later versions of HR but I was able to bring it back for this one. I’ve tied mimics to the epidemic and to Adri in a way that MAKES SENSE but lets me go wild anyways

I guess… the short way of explaining is that. Instead of it being very vague supernatural stuff of dubious origin, now it's a ‘manmade horrors beyond your comprehension’ type deal (still of dubious origin). Which obviously neither the characters nor I would be able to explain to you the details of its origins but the distinction MATTERS to me (to my brain).

Something else about HR is that it’s made up of me having rounded up a bunch of ocs who’s stories were empty or were left to the void so that they could have a fitting home where they could shine. At the end of the day I just wanna do my characters justice. I don’t want to just relegate them to nice set pieces (even though they ARE cool set pieces), but each of them has years of backstory stuff that I would like to keep to not lose the essence of said character and its where I put the bulk of my writing effort into.

I want their connections to the story to be solid, but I also want their base vibes and the vibes I am familiar with for those characters to BE THERE too. So if I’m slow with revealing info, or writing in general, its literally because all the processing power in my skull is being used to think of how to best approach that and not just throw low quality spaghetti at a wall. (Sometimes the spaghetti method works very well, but often. It does not. And only makes things more complex in the long run, so I have learned to be more careful with it)

Dianne and Nirven are over 12 years old now as characters. That 's insane. And she still has the same core concept of how her magic works as I created it ages ago.

Same for Bei. He still has his same vibe back when I made him 10 years ago.

And Adam when I made him 9 years ago. Though I’m working out stuff for him still in this new edition, but I’ll get there. I promise. 

Sooo……….. What I’m really trying to say is that I’m learning to have fun again. And at the same time (re)realizing I used to have some super swag ideas that I have never fully let go of that I am VERY adamant on keeping. And my aim is to go back to that unhinged unbridled joy of creating for a world that is just So Fucked Up but it Works somehow. And yeah, if you’ve ever been frustrated at my changes don’t worry: me fuckin’ too buddy. A thousandfold. And if you’ve ever been curious as to the why of everything, then I hope this rant serves as some sort of explanation?

So yeah, if you’re an old fan and missed old stuff, I hope I am able to do it justice once more and from now on. I promise I am trying my best, I always have been. It just works better sometimes. And if you are someone new and dont know what the fuck I’m talking about, 1. thank you for reading this far and 2. I hope you enjoy the ride regardless

And who knows…. knowing me in a few years I might see this all changed again. Or maybe this will be the one, finally, that sticks. We’ll see. At the moment like I said, I am focusing on loving my characters, their world, their and my original intentions, and just having as much fun as I can with it. If I create confusion in the process then that’s something I will have to accept. I’m not a big media corporation with a team or writers, or even just one (1) accomplished author with a huge brain. I’m not tolkien. I’m just some guy having fun with made up guys in my brain

Thank you for reading this far, if you did, if there’s anything you’d like to comment or discuss (if anything, I don’t expect it) please feel free to reply or DM me, I try to respond in a timely manner when possible <3 

Thanks for sticking around too. It means the world to me that you have. Have a really good week, cheers

[bubble-tea-blossom]

Professional Horse Trainer, Joel Miller

Ok hear me out...

Modern times, and Joel Miller is a pro horse trainer, you’re his assistant trainer.  You, along with his nephew and his friend work under Joel, running the stables while Joel takes clients, and help train long term stayers. 

You worked mostly alone at the start, only occasionally working one on one with Joel. But as the years went by Joel saw your value and skill surpass even his nephew’s along with your clearly surpassing common sense development, Joel started having you accompany him on his trips to different states to do conferences or see private clients willing to pay to have him come to them. 

It’s been a while now that you’re now his always go-to for trips. Sometimes you wonder if his nephew is jealous. But you kinda don't really care.

Because honestly, long car trips across the flat open plains, sometimes venturing into the mountains just the two of you, getting every meal with each other, sleeping in the rooms next to each other, seeing the other sleepy eyed in the morning while you eat shitty motel breakfast across from each other at the much too small table; being in such close quarters with Joel for days, sometimes even weeks, is the most painful blessing.

Yeah, your little crush on him you had when you first started has only kindled into a full on forest fire. 

The first thing that kept your gaze lingered on him for a moment too long was his way with the horses. The way he is with them is gentle, firm but never mean, never cruel. When there’s even a small minor improvement he speaks to them with real pride in his praise as he coos at them, low and soft.  You find yourself sometimes shifting your feet when you listen to him praise the mares. You feel a little guilty about the reaction you can’t help but feel when he gives caressing praises like,

Good girl.

Atta girl, there ya go. 

The occasional Good job, pretty girl. 

His whispered praises haunt you in the dark of night while you stare up at the ceiling trying to sleep. Trying to ignore the pulse in between your legs. Pretend you don’t want to widen your knees, reach your hand down the length of your body, and touch where you so desperately want your boss to touch. But you can’t admit that to yourself. You’ve often rely on just pretending there’s nothing wrong, and it’s seen you thru many situations. 

So here you are, lying in bed in the Green Lounge Motel in north Arizona, trying not to think about Joel on the other side of the wall above your head as you lie there. You wonder what he’s wearing to bed. He seems like a underwear sleeper. Your traitorous brain supplies the image of Joel first lying in bed in his underwear (which you have seen him in real life, traveling together for so long means its bound to happen, you're just glad there hasn't been an awkward moment where he catches you in that state...yet.) Then your mind provides the image of Joel lying in bed in his underwear..."releasing steam."

You wonder what he looks like as he takes himself in hand, head against the wall, eyes closed as he groans, fist pumping up and down. You wonder what he thinks about, or if he watches porn on his phone or something. You can't help but to hope wonder if he ever thinks about you. 

You have limited info you gained when you were 15 talking to 15 year old boys, that said its more likely a guy you know has jerked off to you even if he’s not really interested in you, than not. But you don’t like that scenario. Joel’s nothing like those 15 year old boys. Joel’s a man. 

You used to not get it, the difference of boys and men. Joel’s nephew for example, you could describe him as both a man and a boy. But Joel’s no boy. He’s quite a bit older than you, shown through the crow’s feet by his eyes, and the gray hair on his chin and by his temple. Year by year the silver strands creep further and further. It also shows through his hands, often dry and cracked, callouses on his palm and finger tips both from work and from guitar. 

You think about his hands now, squeezing your eyes shut harder, legs clenched tight as if you can block out the ache.

You think about how thick his fingers are compared to yours. About how his fingers would feel sinking inside the wet pull of your pussy. He’d need to start with one, and work his way up to two. The rough pad of his thumb rubbing the pearl of your clit, his fingers inside rubbing at that spot that gives you shudders. He laps at your neck, giving the soft skin under your jaw wet kisses, breathing praise into your skin. 

Good girl, taking my fingers so well. 

You soaking my hand, pretty girl, does this feel good? 

You nod and whimper your approval. Back arching when Joel dips his head to take your nipple into his mouth. His tongue dances over the nub of sensitive nerves and sends a buzz to your toes. Your hand goes to his hair to try and ground yourself at the sensations he's sending through your body.  

You’re so wet now that you can hear him fingering you. Fuck, just the thought, Joel Miller fingering you, makes you clench down on him.

“You want me to keep fucking you with my fingers or do you want my cock sweetheart.” Joel asks you, watching you as you reply. 

“I want your cock, please Joel.” You’ve been aching for it for so long. 

“Ok, but I gotta stretch you a little more, sweetheart.” He husks, pulling his fingers out to replace with his tongue, making you gasp as his takes your pussy in his mouth. He tongue fucks you for a bit before replacing with his fingers, this time sinking a third finger in. 

You suck in a sharp inhale as you half sit up, the stretch smarting too sharply. 

“I’m sorry darling.” Joel coos, retracting his fingers carefully. Instead he rubs the sting away at the opening in your slit. Circling the muscle and tissue there, as he slowly adds more pressure. Then, ever so slowly, sinks all three fingertips inside your cunt. He knows he's taken his time properly when the walls of of your cunt almost suck him deeper. It makes him smile, your body's eagerness to accept him and take him inside. Joel takes his time until finally he's three fingers, knuckle deep. He picks up his pace, fucking you open. Getting you ready. 

Your older cousin once told you, that you have a good guess what a man’s dick is like based on his hands. And Joel has broad, thick and long fingers.

You feel your stomach muscles clench down as your back arches from the beams of pleasure you feel rushing through you. You've grown so wet you can hear the fingers as they stroke around and inside you. Your jaw drops open as you get closer and closer, eyes squeezed shut, practically an inch from release.

Your hear nearly stops when a loud bang from the room next to yours. You freeze in place, heart racing from being so close, you listen for any other sounds. Ears strained you can hear Joel's footsteps walk back and forth. You're guessing something fell, something kinda big from the sound of it. But after that you hear no more.

You look over at the motel's alarm clock besides you. It's 2:11 in the morning, when you thought the lateness would gain you added privacy. Apparently not and now you're desperately trying to remember how loud you were being. You hadn't been focusing as much on staying absolutely quiet when your imagination was running around like that.

You'd come back to yourself with your mouth partially open, to which you close it, feeling dread that you might have slipped up.

Oh god, what if you had said Joel's name out loud or something, you couldn't imagine a worse, worse case scenario than your boss finding out about your little crush by overhearing you frigging yourself.

Your knees clap together as you roll over your side, face in your hands as embarrassment flows over you.

What were you doing? Touching yourself imaging your boss fucking you, a thing that most people would agree isn't exactly grade A morals. You let your orgasm fade out and feel the last unsure thumps in your pelvic floor ebb away, wishing it was getting caved in by a certain someone.

See? It's thoughts exactly like that cross the line.

You slap your sweaty palm to your forehead, trying to knock some sense back into you. You settle on your side, curled in the fetal position, knees pressed tightly together. Eyes shut, you will yourself to sleep. You have to be up early to get on the road to start your journey back to Wyoming. You really hope the next 10 hours of being stuck in a car with Joel won't involve you being extra squirmy, being pent up. You can feel how mad your pussy is, being that close to what had been an impeding incredible finish.

After a much too long of a time, you do fall asleep. Your last thoughts after an overwhelming race of them, was of course the one you spent the whole time trying not to think about.

What had Joel been doing up so late.

[dee-writes-smut]

MY ENDLESS LOVE

FEATURING boyfriend!Steve Harrington x f!Mayfeild/Hargrove reader

CONTENT WARNING near death experience, sad stuff, angst, mentions of PTSD, crying steve

SUMMARY Vecna's curse enlightens you to the endless love you have for your boyfriend

AUTHORS NOTE this is shit. Like actual shit, but its kinda cute?

“Oh god!” I could hear Dustin's voice, distant but frantic, as he panted and screamed my name. His hands gripped my shoulders, shaking me desperately, trying to pull me back from the brink. But it was too late. Time had slipped through our fingers like sand. The enemy was going to win, and I was going to die.

I didn't want to die. Not now, not like this. I wanted to live—to see the future I had always imagined with him. I wanted to wake up every morning to his smile, to build a life together. I dreamed of us having a house filled with the laughter of our children, chaotic and joyful. I envisioned family vacations in a van bursting at the seams, every inch of space filled with love and noise. I saw myself in the throes of motherly frustration, tearing my hair out over spilled milk and sibling squabbles, but loving every moment of it.

More than anything, I wanted more time. More time to share lazy Sunday mornings wrapped in his arms. More time to explore the world together, discovering new places and creating memories. More time to argue over trivial things, only to make up and fall in love all over again. I wanted more time to love him, fully and completely. And I wanted more time for him to love me, to see us grow old together, weathering life's storms hand in hand.

But those weren't the cards I was dealt. Fate had other plans, and now, lying here with the weight of impending doom pressing down on me, I realized I needed to take you back to where it all began. You need to understand the journey that brought me to this moment. The choices, the sacrifices, the battles fought and lost. Let me take you back to the start, so you can truly grasp how I ended up here, on the edge of losing everything I held dear.

MARCH 17, 1986

“Babe!” I call from the kitchen, the pounding in my head so intense I can barely think. There's a rush of thumping footsteps from the floor above, and then, suddenly, my gorgeous boyfriend is standing in the doorway.

“Yeah?” Steve asks softly as he steps into the kitchen, walking toward me until he’s close enough to wrap me in his calming embrace.

“Do you have any Tylenol?” I sigh, allowing myself to melt into his embrace. His touch eases some of the tension in my throbbing skull, but the ache remains intense, bringing tears to my eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll get it. Are you okay?” Steve sounds worried as he runs his fingers gently through my hair.

“Just a headache, no big deal.” I smile and pull away from his arms. Steve's face scrunches in uncertainty, confused by my sudden distance. I quickly grab the two small pills from his outstretched hand and toss them back, dry-swallowing them. “I’ve got work in ten, so I’m outta here. I’ll see you later tonight.” I lie, pressing a quick peck on his lips before leaving the house.

As I start the car, I let out a long sigh. I hate lying to Steve, but ever since Billy, I can't help but blame myself. If I hadn’t been such a coward, my twin brother would still be here. Instead of rushing to his aid, I grabbed Max and watched as that thing took him away from us. The guilt gnaws at me, an ever-present shadow.

I drive through Hawkins, the small town seemingly unchanged despite the chaos that has unraveled my life. The familiar streets and quaint houses pass by in a blur as memories flood my mind—Billy and I racing our bikes, sneaking out late at night, sharing secrets and dreams. Now, all those memories are tainted by the haunting image of his final moments.

Pulling up to my trailer, I stagger into the tiny home, only to be jolted from my reverie by the blaring ringtone of the landline. I groan, rubbing my temples in a futile attempt to soothe the ache, and answer the phone.

“Hello ma’am, this is the Hawkins High School counselor calling.” A woman's voice informs me, and I inwardly sigh. Max.

“Hi,” I respond flatly, my head throbbing as I yearn to get to the woods and meet my dealer.

“Is this Ms. Mayfield-Hargrove? I have you listed as Max Mayfield’s primary caregiver.” Ah, yes. After Billy's death, my birth father (Max’s stepdad) left Hawkins, leaving Max’s mom to care for her. When Susan spiraled into alcoholism, unable to cope with her stepson's death, I took Max in, went to court, and gained custody. She moved in with me and Steve. Max completely shut down after Billy's death, and communication with her became impossible until the school called, asking for permission to check in on her weekly after her "tragic loss." Allowing them to talk to her seemed like the best way to keep an eye on her without invading her space. So, I agreed. Now, I get monthly check-ins from the school, providing a small measure of comfort despite her distance from me. At least she’s communicating with someone.

“Yes, this is she. Who are you?” I ask, noting that this woman doesn’t sound like the usual bored office ladies.

“Oh! My name is Ms. Kelly. I've been counseling Max.” Oh god, the counselor herself is reaching out to me. This can't be good.

“What’s up? Is Max okay?”

“Well, that’s the issue. When I called her into my office yesterday, I managed to drag some information out of her. Apparently, she has been experiencing headaches and nosebleeds. I think her trauma is starting to physically affect her, which is quite worrisome.” Funny, I’ve been experiencing the same symptoms. I wonder if Max has been having nightmares too.

“Alright, what can I do to help?” I ask, though I wonder if there’s anything I can truly do. Maybe she’s blaming herself for Billy’s death like I am. But it wasn’t her fault—there was no way she could have freed herself from the iron grip I had on her. As Ms. Kelly drones on with suggestions, my mind begins to wander into a dark place where Billy’s voice whispers in my ear.

“What’s wrong? Feeling guilty for having a part in my murder? Well,” Billy tsks, his voice as sharp and cold as I remember it. “We can’t have that now, can we? Own it. You didn’t try to save me. Not even after I called for you. No, you just sat there and held our stepsister. You are a sick, sick woman, sis.” He spits his nickname for me, sending chills cascading down my spine.

“No!” I scream, suddenly finding myself in the woods instead of the kitchen. How the hell did I get here? I take a seat on the picnic table where I usually wait for Eddie to show up, holding my head in my hands.

The familiar sounds of the forest surround me, birds chirping and leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The cool air helps to clear my head a bit, but the sense of unease remains. Eddie is late, which isn’t unusual, but today it grates on my nerves more than usual. I need my fix to numb the pain and drown out Billy's voice.

As I sit there, waiting, my thoughts drift back to Max. She’s been through so much, and I feel like I’ve failed her too. After Billy's death, she shut down completely, her once vibrant spirit now cloaked in a heavy shroud of grief. I try to be there for her, but she’s closed off, retreating into herself. The school counselor's calls are my only lifeline to understanding what she’s going through.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. I pull my jacket tighter around myself, shivering more from the memories than the cold. I remember the last time I saw Billy alive, the terror in his eyes, and the helplessness I felt. It’s a memory that haunts me day and night, a constant reminder of my failure.

Finally, I hear the sound of a motorcycle approaching. Eddie pulls up, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by a concerned frown when he sees me.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, dismounting and walking over to me.

“Yeah, just a rough day,” I reply, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Eddie hands me a small bag, and I quickly tuck it into my pocket. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me,” he says, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

“Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate it.” I manage a small smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes.

As he rides away, I sit there for a while longer, trying to gather the strength to face the rest of the day. I think about Steve and how worried he must be, how much I hate lying to him. I think about Max and how desperately I want to help her, even if I don’t know how.

Eventually, I stand up, brushing the dirt off my jeans. I start walking back to my car, each step feeling heavier than the last. The night is falling, and the woods are growing darker, but the real darkness is inside me, a gnawing emptiness that I can’t seem to fill.

As I drive back home, the radio plays softly in the background, but I barely hear it. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Billy, Max, and Steve. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move past this guilt, if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.

When I finally pull into the driveway, I sit in the car for a few moments, taking deep breaths to steady myself. I need to put on a brave face for Steve, to pretend that everything is okay even when it’s not. I walk into the house, greeted by the warm light and the comforting smell of dinner cooking.

Steve looks up from the stove, his expression lighting up when he sees me. “Hey, you’re back! How was work?”

“It was fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “What’s for dinner?”

MARCH 21, 1986

The revelation hit me like a brick last night: Eddie Munson, my oddball dealer with a heart of gold, tangled up in murder rumors. It seems absurd, the kind of gossip that churns through Hawkins with the regularity of a bad sitcom rerun. But there it was, whispered in hushed tones at the edge of the night, coloring every interaction with a shade of doubt.

Now, as I navigate through my day, there's a tight coil of anxiety buried deep in my chest. Not just about Eddie—whose eccentric charm and relentless heavy metal advocacy hardly paint the picture of a killer—but about my secret dealings with him. I'm wrapped up in this now, whether I like it or not.

Inside the car, the atmosphere is a mixture of teenage angst and my own growing irritation. Dustin, ever the energetic spirit, manages to kick the back of my seat one too many times, snapping the thin thread of my patience.

“Henderson! I swear to God if you kick my seat one more time I’m throwing you on the side of the road and you can walk to Family Video!” The words fly out sharper than intended, mirroring the pounding in my skull.

“Sorry! Geez, someone has a stick up their butt today,” he mutters, a touch defensively, earning a light smack on the back of his head. I’m not usually this snappy, but with Eddie missing and my stash dwindling, my usual buffers against stress are paper-thin.

We arrive at Family Video, and I park the car with a bit more force than necessary. Dustin’s voice breaks through my fog of discomfort.

“Hey, are you alright?” He's looking at me with those wide, innocent eyes full of concern. It’s enough to soften the edges of my mood, at least momentarily.

“Of course, dork. Let’s go see your boyfriend,” I tease, masking my turmoil with a forced chuckle as we head into the store.

“He’s not mine, that is all your business over there,” Dustin shoots back with a grin, lightening the mood as we walk through the door.

Steve, behind the counter and as oblivious as ever to the undercurrents of tension, greets us with a smile. Our banter flies over his head, leaving him puzzled but amused. "Huh?"

“Oh no! I don’t claim him, that is all you Henderson,” I laugh, trying to immerse myself in the normalcy of our jests. But then, the familiar warmth trickles down my nostril, pulling me back to a harsher reality.

“Babe, your nose is bleeding!” Steve’s concern is immediate as he rushes over, his hands reaching out to steady me.

I wave him off, more embarrassed than reassured, and head to the bathroom. Inside, I press a wad of tissue against my nose, staring at my reflection with a mix of frustration and fear. The stress of keeping my dealings with Eddie a secret, compounded by the physical symptoms that seem to mirror Max’s own troubling signs, is becoming too much.

The cool, flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom casts stark shadows across my face, deepening the hollows under my eyes and highlighting the fatigue that no amount of makeup can cover. As the bleeding slowly stops, I lean against the sink, taking deep, steadying breaths.

I can’t tell Steve about Eddie—not just because of the drugs, but because dragging him into this mess could put him at risk too. Hawkins, for all its sleepy town charm, has a darkness that clings stubbornly to the edges of everyday life, and I can't shake the feeling that this is all spiraling towards something bad.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Steve is there, his expression a mix of concern and love, ready to envelop me in his arms.

“Let’s get what we came for and head home,” I suggest, trying to sound more upbeat than I feel.

As we browse the aisles, Dustin chattering away about the latest horror flick he wants to rent, I can't help but feel the weight of all the secrets I'm carrying. Every laugh, every light moment feels overshadowed by the nagging thought of Eddie, the rumors, and the very real problems lurking just beneath the surface of our little town.

The day drags on, each moment tinged with the dull ache of my headache and the sharper sting of guilt. As much as I want to confide in Steve, to share the burden, I know I have to keep these shadows to myself, at least for now.

MARCH 23, 1986

The air in the small office room felt heavy with anticipation as Max beckoned me inside. I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of my stomach, but I followed her lead, my senses on high alert.

“What's up? Did you find something?” My voice was strained with worry as I approached her, scanning the room for any signs of danger.

“Look.” Max's tone was grave as she motioned toward the files spread out on the desk before her. Each one told a chilling story: Chrissy Cunningham, Fred Benson, and Maxine Mayfield—three students with eerily similar symptoms: post-traumatic stress, headaches, nosebleeds, nightmares. A shiver ran down my spine as the pieces began to fall into place.

“Chrissy and Fred were both killed by Vecna. I think these are the warning signs that he is targeting them,” Max explained, her voice low with concern.

“Max,” I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts to remain composed, “I want you to bring Dustin in here. Do not let Steve come with you. I mean it.” The urgency in my tone was palpable, fueled by the fear of what might happen if Steve were to find out.

Max hesitated, sensing the gravity of the situation, but she nodded and left the room. Moments later, she returned with Dustin in tow, a look of urgency etched on her face.

“Okay, we don’t have long because Steve is kinda freaking out,” she said, pulling Dustin into the room with her.

“I am going to tell you two something, and you aren’t going to breathe a word of it to Steve. Do you understand?” I met their eyes, my own filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

Two solemn nods were all the confirmation I needed before I confessed, “I have Vecna’s curse.”

The room fell silent, the weight of my revelation hanging in the air like a thick fog.

“You have what?!” Steve's voice echoed from the entryway, shock and disbelief evident in his tone.

“Oh shit,” Max whispered, her complexion draining of color.

“I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t let me go without following behind,” Dustin winced, bracing himself for my reaction.

“I can’t fucking believe you right now!” I exclaimed, my frustration and fear bubbling to the surface as I turned my glare from Dustin to Steve. “There is a reason I didn’t want you to know, Steve! You can’t just bully a child into letting you eavesdrop! Where is your trust in me? In our relationship?!”

“That is not what this is about and you fucking know that! You were just going to let yourself be killed and not say anything?” Steve's voice cracked with emotion, his eyes glistening not with anger but with hurt.

“I didn’t want our last days spent under this dark cloud,” I sighed, the fight draining from me.

“Well, you aren’t going to die. Neither of you are because we are going to figure out a way to save you,” Steve declared, his voice filled with fierce determination.

“Steve,” I managed through my tears, the reality of my situation washing over me in waves, “you can’t fix this.”

“Yes! Yes, I can,” he insisted, stepping close to wipe away my tears with the gentlest touch, his voice firm yet breaking. “You can’t die. I won’t let you.”

In that moment, surrounded by the stark walls of the school office and bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, the intensity of our predicament settled in. His promise, so full of resolve, felt both comforting and heartbreakingly futile.

MARCH 24, 1986

"What are they doing?" Dustin's voice cuts through the tense atmosphere, his gaze bouncing between Max and me, then back to Steve and Lucas. Their eyes are fixed on us with a mix of concern and anticipation, as if they're waiting for something monumental to happen.

Max finishes sealing the last envelope, her hands trembling slightly, a testament to the gravity of our situation. "You done?" she asks me, her voice steady despite the underlying tension.

"Yeah," I reply softly, adding my final letter to the stack. "Good idea, by the way," I offer, trying to break the heavy silence. But Max remains silent, her eyes distant as she hands out the envelopes to the boys. I follow her lead, passing one to Dustin and another to Lucas. Steve watches, confusion evident on his face, realizing there's no letter for him.

Before anyone can react, Max intervenes, stopping the boys from opening the envelopes. "Don't!" she insists firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

"They're for after… you know," I explain, attempting to ease the tension, though I'm not sure if it's for their benefit or ours.

"You're not dying," Steve declares with fierce conviction, his eyes locking onto mine. "Nancy and Robin are going to find something, a solution. You both are going to be fine."

"We know. It's just a failsafe," Max reassures him, though her voice betrays her uncertainty. I share her doubt; the letters are more a precaution than a solution.

Max interrupts any further protests by announcing, "I need a ride to the cemetery," and without waiting for Steve's response, she grabs her jacket and heads for the door.

Despite Steve's objections and Max's stubbornness, we all end up piling into the car and making our way to the cemetery. Once there, Max and I step out, leaving the boys behind. As we walk towards our destination, I hear Lucas calling out to Max, but I keep moving forward.

"I'll talk to him first," I tell Max, giving her a reassuring smile before parting ways. I slip a letter into her pocket before heading to Billy's grave, my heart heavy with the weight of what's to come.

Settling down in front of Billy's headstone, I take a deep breath and open the letter, my hand trembling as I begin to read aloud.

"Dear Billy, I was a coward, and you died because of it. It's my fault, and I should have tried harder. I think it was because I was scared, or maybe I thought you deserved it. Some sick sort of karma after all the abuse I had to endure after mom died. I’m sorry. You deserved better, and I should have tried harder. Now, I am getting the karma I deserve. Basically, what I’m trying to say is see you soon, little brother. I love you."

Tears blur my vision as I pour out my heart to him, my voice breaking with each word. Then, just as I finish, everything goes dark—a chilling prelude to Vecna's twisted vision.

In the darkness, I hear Billy's voice, taunting and accusing. His words cut through me like knives, reopening wounds I thought had healed.

"You're sorry, huh?" His laughter echoes in the void, haunting and cruel. "I don't think you are. You know what I think? I think you're grateful, glad that I'm dead."

"No!" I cry out, my voice raw with emotion as I try to defend myself, but he's relentless.

"You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You are one sick bitch," he sneers, his words laced with venom. I'm paralyzed, unable to escape the torment of his accusations.

"I loved you!" I plead, desperate to make him understand, but he refuses to listen.

"No, you didn’t! You never did!" His voice echoes in the darkness, a constant reminder of my failures.

And then, just as I think it can't get any worse, I witness the horror unfold before me once again—the fleshy tentacle piercing Billy, the grotesque manifestation of Vecna's power.

"Y/N, it’s time," Vecna's voice cuts through the darkness, his presence looming over me like a suffocating shadow. I'm trapped, helpless to resist as he reaches out with his twisted, clawed hand.

"Oh god!" Dustin's voice sounds distant, barely audible amidst the chaos of my mind. I want to reach out to him, to cry out for help, but it's too late. Vecna is closing in, and I'm powerless to stop him.

"Baby! Please, no! Come back to me, I can’t!" Steve's desperate cries pierce through the darkness, pulling at something deep within me. It's the sound of his voice, filled with love and desperation, that gives me the strength to fight back.

"My love," Steve whispers through tears, his voice trembling with emotion as he begins to sing "Endless Love," our song, our promise.

"My first love," Max joins in, her voice tinged with sorrow and regret. Then, one by one, Lucas and Dustin add their voices to the chorus, their song wrapping around me like a lifeline.

With every note, every word, I feel a flicker of hope ignite within me—a spark of defiance against Vecna's darkness. And as their voices fill the air, I find the strength to break free from his grip, to run towards the light, towards Steve.

As I reach him, battered and broken but alive, I collapse into his arms, his embrace a sanctuary amidst the chaos. "I love you," I whisper, clinging to him as if my life depends on it.

"Don’t ever fucking do that to me again. I can’t lose you, baby," Steve sobs, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions.

"I won’t, I promise," I vow, my heart overflowing with love for him, for us.

"I love you," he murmurs, holding me close.

"And I you, my endless love."