#the shitty keep I was driving before this probably would’ve had to fill up twice in that time

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

I love using my new car I bought because you basically need a car in this country and then having the dashboard screen that is legally required because all cars in the US need to have backup cameras, and having that screen be difficult to navigate while driving bc you can’t just go by touch so you have to look at the screen which means you’re not looking at the road. And then I love getting home and seeing I got 3 new emails from different subscription services telling me my free trial has run out for their service that only works on that screen even though I literally never used any of them but was forced to opt in to free trials and to give them my email as a part of the car buying process for some reason

[tripleaxeldiaz]

nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

read on ao3

Eddie’s fine. Really. He’s got a fresh scar on his right shoulder, a twin to his other one, and a couple more medical bills to pay off, but other than that, everything is good.

Why shouldn’t it be? Things could be worse — he could’ve lost his arm, could’ve been shot in the spine instead, could’ve not survived the trip to the hospital. But he did — he’s healed, he’s still breathing, and he’s ready to get back to work on Monday, to stop staring at the inside of his house and get back to the life he’d finally started to feel settled in. There’s a twinge in his chest every time he thinks about actually being back out in the field, but it’s just nerves, a small worry at getting back into the swing of things. He knows the team and how well they work together, so he’s sure one rope rescue with Buck is all it’ll take to feel normal again.

He’s fine. Or almost fine. Really, he is. He doesn’t let the tremble in his hands or the ice in his gut tell him otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn’t really register, the first time it happens. There’s a glint of light in his periphery, and for a second, his arms go numb. It’s just a second, though — he sees the flash again, sunlight shining off an axe Ravi is packing onto the truck, and he moves on, doesn’t think about it again.

The next time, the wind whips by his ear a little too fast after a call at the pier, and he turns around so quickly he cracks his neck, the thought of bulletbulletbullet ricocheting in his head. It gets him a concerned look from Bobby and reminds him that he never called that therapist his doctor mentioned at his last visit, but he elects to deal with it later and moves on.

Things keep happening, but they’re all small, insignificant — someone laughing too loudly at dinner, the feel of hot asphalt under his hands as he reaches under the ambulance for a runaway bandage roll, a phantom jolt of pain in his shoulder when someone accidentally jostles him running to the truck.

Tiny things, meaningless, not even worth remembering.

He’ll get used to them, eventually. He’s been healing, isolated from the real world for months now, it’s going to be a bit of a shock to his system and his senses.

He doesn’t call the therapist.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s happy. Genuinely happy, in an open, honest way that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen. His laughs are still loud but they’re freer, unrestrained, and his smile is bright enough to light whatever room he’s in. It makes something sing in Eddie’s chest, especially when all that wattage gets directed at him. If he’s honest, the music’s been there for a while, it just took lying in his own blood, reaching toward the only thing that felt like safety, for him to finally put a name on the song that’s been playing.

Talk about shitty timing.

Because Buck’s with Taylor now, and as much as he still doesn’t care for her, she’s helping with Buck’s new attitude too. He sees the soft smiles that linger after a text from her, and he only gives himself a minute to wish it were for him instead before reminding himself how much of a miracle those smiles are at all.

If he had watched Buck get shot, been splattered with his blood, been soaked with it as he tried to stop it from leaking out of his chest, he’s not sure he would’ve had any kind of happiness to spare.

So he adds this feeling, this particularly green beast twisting in his chest, to the list of things that he’s just going to have to get used to, and moves on. Buck is still in his and Chris’ life, still at their house more than his own, still the center of both of their worlds, and that’s enough. 

It has to be.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wow, Eddie, you look like shit.”

He glares at Chimney as best he can, but he’s too tired for it to hold any heat. “Good morning to you too, Chim.”

Hen sits next to him at the table where he’s nursing his second mug of coffee of the day, downing the first one before driving Chris to school. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, and he tries not to melt into the touch too much.

“You don’t feel warm,” she says, “but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

He shrugs, staring down at his coffee. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

That may be an understatement. Not sleeping well implies sleeping at all, which Eddie’s not sure he’s been able to do in the past few days. It was easy enough when he first got home, still on pain meds that made his eyelids constantly heavy. And when Chris crawled into his bed the night after his sling came off, quiet but sniffling and burrowing into his side, it was a relief to gather him up close, a hand stroking through his hair as they both drifted off, clinging to each other. It was good for both of them, necessary to remind them both that Eddie is still here, but Chris went to his own room on Monday night instead of Eddie’s, and Eddie refused to take that choice away from him. 

So he’s been alone, in a too dark room with a too big bed and a too loud brain that only shows him flashes of light and blood and fear whenever he does try to close his eyes.

Just another thing he has to get used to.

He sees Chim and Hen exchange a look and hopes to God they don’t press it. He’s beyond frayed, his state of exhaustion warring with his almost constant state of hypervigilance, and he’s not sure if he’d snap or cry or both if they try to ask him any more questions. Either way, that’s not how he wants them or anyone else to see him, especially not at work. At work, he’s Mr. Cool, always level headed, always in the game, always on top of it. Despite the jumpiness, despite the sense of dread that seems to be a permanent fixture under his skin, he’s been able to keep that attitude going, even getting lost in it sometimes, feeling like the Eddie of four months ago again. If that starts to unravel, who knows what other parts of him will fall apart with it?

Luckily, they seem to get the hint, a pat on the back and a squeeze on the shoulder as they leave the loft to restock the ambulance. But even once they’re gone and he’s alone in the quiet of the loft again, Eddie feels exposed. Fragile. Vulnerable. Teetering on the edge of an abyss he can’t afford to fall into. And he hates it, because this isn’t him. He’s the protector, the provider, the guy who’s survived getting shot twice now, and as much as he encourages Chris to be open and emotional, it still feels wrong to him, like something too close to failure. He knows, rationally, that talking about the mess in his head would probably help, but it would also feel like a loss. Like this one-sided war he’s been fighting was all for nothing.

He hears Buck before he sees him, his unmistakable bounding up the stairs echoing through the whole loft. Just that sound, just the knowledge that Buck is about to be in his vicinity, is enough to yank Eddie back from the edge. He’s not settled or calm or better, but he’s not worse. These days, that’s all he can really ask for.

Buck takes Hen’s vacant seat, stealing a sip of coffee and chattering about a traveling art exhibit he thinks they should take Chris to. Eddie feels the vice on his ribs loosen, letting Buck’s voice and enthusiasm wash over him, pushing him back to center. He doesn’t quite make it, not when Buck stops talking mid-sentence, brow furrowed and looking so intensely at Eddie he can probably see right through him

“You look tired,” Buck says. 

Tired isn’t a strong enough word. But he smirks half heartedly instead, willing a little bit of his confidence back to get the subject changed sooner. “And here I thought I looked good today.”

“No, you always—“ Buck clears his throat and shakes his head, “You just look like you could use a nap. Are you okay?”

And for the first time since he woke up in the hospital with a new hole in his body and extra demons in his head, Eddie doesn’t want to say he’s fine. In the face of earnest blue eyes and worry lines, he doesn’t want to lie, and that’s exactly what an I’m fine would be, no matter how much he’s been trying to ignore it. He doesn’t want to downplay and pretend that it’s nothing, because it’s Buck. Buck who has seen him lower than he’s ever let anyone see, who slept on his couch so he was never too far away from him or Chris, who knows when Eddie needs to be pulled or pushed or pressed or none of the above. 

He doesn’t want to just say he’s fine, because he’s not.

The courage to say so finally fills him, just in time for Buck’s phone to light up, Taylor’s name flashing across the screen on two messages. Buck doesn’t even glance at his phone before flipping it face down and pushing it to the side, but it’s too late — Eddie feels his walls going back up, any bravery leaving to make room for the reminder that Buck is in a good place and Eddie will do anything to keep him there. He’ll take another bullet, he’ll keep every emotion under lock and key, he’ll carve his own damn heart out of his chest if he has to. He cannot — will not — be the reason that smile that’s become so natural on Buck’s face dims by even a watt. 

The crease in between Buck���s brow has only gotten deeper the longer Eddie hasn’t answered, so he musters up the most genuine smile he can. “I’m okay, Buck. I promise.” The lie cuts through his throat like broken glass.

Buck squints at him, scooting forward until his knees are digging into Eddie’s thigh. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

“Of course,” he says, another lie, more salt in the wounds he’s already given himself. Buck’s quiet for a few long moments, studying Eddie’s face, and Eddie prays that he doesn’t crack, that Buck doesn’t keep pressing. By some miracle, he doesn’t, just rests a hand on Eddie’s knee and squeezes before heading to the pantry for a snack.

The vice is back as soon as he’s out of sight, and Eddie’s list of things he has to learn to live with is starting to feel a little too long.

~~~~~~~~~~

Healing isn’t linear. It’s something he’s heard from every doctor he’s seen, every therapist he’s been assigned to, something he’s experienced first hand, physically and emotionally. So when he wakes up one morning feeling rested, energetic, and normal, he’s wary. He doesn’t want to focus on it, afraid he’ll scare this fragile feeling away, but he also wants to soak in it as much as he can. Wants to remember the easy laughs with the team and the night of board games with Chris and Buck when he’s inevitably surrounded by darkness again tomorrow.

He falls asleep and he doesn’t dream and he wakes up and feels...normal. Again. Same thing the morning after, and the morning after that. For a whole week, he doesn’t wake up with the taste of blood in his mouth or a soreness in his shoulder. He hears birds and sees the sun peaking in and feels something dangerously close to good. The wariness is still there, but every day it gets pushed a little farther back in his mind, making it a little easier to believe that while this feeling might not last, maybe it won’t be as dark when the clouds roll back in.

He’s wrong. 

The restlessness comes back with a vengeance — a thrumming in his blood that won’t let him sleep, that amplifies every sound to sharp snaps that remind him too much of the gunfire he’s been trying to forget, putting him constantly on edge again. There’s a heaviness too, making it hard to breathe, hard to move, even though staying in one place for too long feels like putting a target on his back for the monsters that have made a home in his head.

He tries to keep his cool, tries to keep the facade up, but it’s hard to keep your balance on a frayed tightrope.

Bobby notices the shift right away.

It doesn’t help that even the quiet thump of the oven closing makes Eddie flinch where he’s sitting at the kitchen counter. He had hoped that watching Bobby make breakfast would calm him, remind him of the countless hours he’s spent in Abuela’s kitchen doing the very same thing, but it doesn’t. He’s still jittery, worse than he can remember being, and everything just feels like too much. 

Bobby sets a to-go container down in front of him, and Eddie flinches (and curses himself) again. He looks up, confused, and is met with Bobby’s I’m about to tell you to do something and you are not allowed to say no look. Usually it’s Buck on the receiving end of that one.

He tries for a deflection. “Are we going somewhere, Cap?”

The look stays in place. “We are not. You are. There’s enough in there for you and Chris, take it home and don’t let me see you here for the next 48 hours.”

“There’s still three hours left of shift.”

Bobby pushes the container closer. “Go home, Diaz. Be with your kid. We’ll talk when you get back. And if you won’t talk to me, we’ll find someone you will talk to.”

Normally, he’d fight back. Raise his hackles, insist he doesn’t need any special treatment or intervention. But he feels like his insides have been scooped out and replaced with lead and cement and he’s tired. He barely has enough left in him to keep himself upright.

He slowly picks up the container and gets up to leave. Bobby calls his name as he gets to the top of the stairs.

“We’re here for you,” he says. “You’ve been through too much to be handling this on your own. Just let us know how we can help.”

I would if I could, but I don’t even know where to start. 

He just nods, hopes his face looks some degree of reassuring, and heads to the locker room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The way Chris’ face lights up when he sees Eddie waiting for him in the front office is enough to thaw the ice in his chest for a minute. He can hear the exact octave his mother’s voice would reach if she heard about him pulling Chris out of school for “no good reason”, but he also could not give less of a shit.

He feels a little bit more like a person with Chris in the backseat. That’s a good enough reason for him.

They set up camp in the park near their house, Bobby’s food and extra snacks Eddie picked up spread out between them, and Chris fills Eddie in on all the things he missed while he was working. He tries to focus on everything — Chris’ excitement about his upcoming science fair, the Sour Patch Watermelon sugar stuck to the tip of his nose, the way his hands move with his words. Eddie feels better, more settled, just getting to bask in the sun and in Chris like this, but he still feels heavy, like every move he makes has him fighting against gravity, threatening to pull him into the dirt. 

There’s a crack from the playground in front of them, and Eddie’s blood turns to ice. He’s halfway to standing before he sees it’s just some kids snapping sticks in half to build some kind of log cabin. He lets out a slow breath as he sits back down and wills his heartbeat back to normal.

Chris is staring at him, eyes intense and brow furrowed, very similar to someone else they know.

Shit.

As soon as he’s settled, Chris moves to sit in the criss-cross of his legs. He’s a little too on the lanky side for this anymore, but Eddie’s absolutely not going to complain. Chris twists until he’s looking Eddie in the eye. Eddie does his best not to look away.

Chris rests a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay if you’re feeling bad,” he says. “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

The crack comes from Eddie’s own heart this time. His kid has been through so much in 10 short years, and it’s only made him wiser than he should be, compassionate and understanding and open, ready to be there for anyone without a second thought. He’s good in every sense of the word, and Eddie’s in awe of the fact that he, somehow, has something to do with that. And the last thing he wants to do is lie to his son, but he just...can’t. Talk about it. Not now. Not yet. Not in a way that will keep Chris this good.

He has no way of articulating all that, so he just wraps his arms around Chris’ middle and squeezes him close.

“I know, buddy. Thank you. I’ll be okay, and we’ll talk soon.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not everything.

It seems to be enough for Chris, though. He nods and pats Eddie’s face before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a library book. “Well, I’m gonna read to you until you feel better, just like you do for me.”

It’s the first real smile Eddie’s cracked in months. He kisses the top of Chris’ head, settling his chin there as Chris leans back into his chest.

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

They sit there for a while longer, Chris reads to him about Percy and Annabeth and Grover, and Eddie, inexplicably, feels a little bit lighter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s Jeep is parked outside when they get home, and Chris practically breaks down the door to greet him. It looks like he’s gone all out, too — Chinese food on the table, the promise of cookies and cream ice cream in the fridge, and a list of movies that Chris ecstatically agrees with as Buck lists them off. Chris hurries off to change and clean up for dinner, and Eddie moves to start opening plastic lids and cardboard containers. 

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he says. He leaves out just having you with us is enough.

Buck waves him off. “Anything for you two.”

He could leave it at that, keep up the comfortable silence as they move around the kitchen in tandem, but there’s a nagging memory that he has to ask about or he’ll never stop thinking about it.

“Didn’t you have a date with Taylor tonight?”

Buck tenses ever so slightly, a container of dumplings shifting in his hand. “Cancelled,” he says with a shrug.

Eddie knows there’s more, but Chris comes back before he can ask, and it doesn’t feel like a conversation they can have in front of a 10 year old. So they eat, and fall into the familiar banter between the three of them, and for half an hour, Eddie can be present. He can forget the last six months and the weight still hanging off of him and live in this moment, with the two most important people in his life, and pretend that this is all there is. Just these two and their joy and warmth that wraps around him tight enough to make him feel alive again, if only for a little while.

Two bowls of ice cream and one and a half movies later, Chris is dead to the world. Buck carries him to bed and Eddie tries to ignore the new ache that’s sprung up of the course of the evening, the one that wants and pulls towards Buck like a magnet. The one that almost purrs when Buck settles back on the couch so close they’re touching from ankle to (good) shoulder, contentedness washing over the living room as they find a rerun of The Shawshank Redemption playing on cable. It’s not perfect, there’s still a roiling in his blood that won’t seem to leave him alone, but he feels better than he has in God knows when.

Buck shifts closer to Eddie, eyes glowing in the light of the TV, and Eddie never wants him to leave. “Thanks for coming tonight. I— Chris and I both really needed this, I think.”

“I told you, anything for you two. Always.”

He ignores the way his stomach flips and tries to focus on the movie. He gets about five minutes of peace before another thought comes back, still nagging him, mixing with his anxiety enough to actually force him to say something.

He aims for cool and casual. “So, you and Taylor...everything okay?”

Buck gives him a very long, almost challenging look before turning off the TV. Seems he missed that casual mark. “I should be asking you the same thing.” “Very funny.”

“I’m not trying to be. I’m really worried about you, Eds.”

“This isn’t my first time getting shot, I know how to handle it.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as bitter as it does, but he can’t bring himself to care, either. He doesn’t have the energy to keep a filter up anymore.

“Eddie, I’m serious.”

“I’m fine, Buck,” he says sharply, and he’s surprised his teeth haven’t fallen out of his head yet with how hard he’s lying through them. He hates that he’s lying to Buck at all, but those smiles he’s gotten used to have been fewer and farther between recently, and he knows it’s his fault. He might feel like his own seams are coming apart, but he’ll be damned if he rips Buck open too, even if it means pushing him away from his mess. “You’ve got a life and a girlfriend to worry about, I’ll figure everything out on my own.” 

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. We broke up.”

Eddie pauses, curses the faint hope that sparks in his chest. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been a little distracted by someone else for the past few months. It didn’t feel fair to her to keep it going.”

He gives him another long look, and Eddie might be a little dense when it comes to things like this, but that look breaks through loud and clear. This is it. This is real. This is everything he’s wanted for the past six months — and probably longer than that — but now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel right. Buck was happy, free, finally settled into his own skin, and it’s all gone now because of Eddie and his stupid, broken everything. He knows he won’t be able to give Buck everything he needs, at least right now, but Buck needs to know that too. “Buck—”

“Nope,” he says with a firm shake of his head. “I know you’re gonna try and blame yourself for this somehow, but…don’t. It was bound to happen anyway. Because you’re right, I do have a life, but it’s you two. You and Chris. That’s all I need it to be. That’s all I want it to be. And I hate that it took so long for me to figure out, that it took you getting shot, but we’re here now.” His eyes shutter a bit as he looks down at his hands. “At least, I hope we are.”

And there it is. So simple, so easy, for Buck to admit this huge thing that Eddie thought he was dancing around on his own. The ease reminds Eddie, through his fog of sadness and anger and every other bleak feeling that’s been controlling him, that that’s what makes them work so well together. Honesty. Being able to show all their ugly, mismatched inside parts to each other and still find the beauty, the ways to help, the ways to hold each other together when they need it the most.

And Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever needed to be held together more than he does right now.

“Ask me,” he whispers, the sound seeming to echo around the room.

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if I’m okay.”

Buck shuffles on the couch until they’re facing each other, takes both of Eddie’s hands in his. 

“Eddie,” he says softly, “are you okay?”

The world blurs as the tears he’s been fighting finally break free, but he feels strong. Brave. Like he can do anything now that Buck’s holding his hand.

“No,” he says, a crack in his voice but the conviction behind it still firm. “No, I’m not okay.”

The floodgates open, and he lets everything wash over him, all the things he’s been holding back, forcing away in the hopes that they’d just disappear one day. He’s floating and sinking and lost in the waves of it all, but strong arms wrap around him and pull him close, and there’s relief. Not a lot, not enough, but it’s there, for the first time since he woke up in the hospital. He feels safe here, with Buck wiping away his tears and pressing kisses along his hairline. He honestly forgot what safety felt like, was sure he’d never feel anything like it again. But he knew it that day he was bleeding out on the street, and he knows it now — it feels like Buck’s sweatshirt and smells like his aftershave and sounds like whispers of it’s okay and I’ve got you.

It all subsides, eventually, but Buck still holds him close, presses their foreheads together so there’s nothing else Eddie can focus on. His eyes are piercing, bright like Eddie only usually sees when Buck has a plan that refuses to be derailed.

“Let me help, Eddie,” he says, punctuated with a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. “I know you think you can do this yourself, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. Let me help you carry it.”

His voice left with the rush of everything, so all Eddie can do is nod before sinking back into Buck, into relief. Even that simple motion, the silent acknowledgement that he’s not alone anymore, is enough to let small seeds of hope sink into him and take root. They’re still weak, still unfamiliar, but they’re here, waiting to grow. 

And Eddie knows, with a certainty that he forgot he was capable of, that Buck will be here to help tend to them, no matter how long it takes for them to blossom.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, he still feels weighed down. There’s still an edge, an unease low in his gut, anxiety still crawling through his veins.

He’s not okay. But he looks over and sees Buck — breathing even, arm thrown over Eddie’s stomach, keeping him close — and the ever-present darkness fades from an angry black to melancholy grey. Not perfect, not even close, but better.

He’s not okay. He hasn’t been for a while. But now, finally, he feels like he will be.

[sweetaesuga]

nothing feels better than this | 02

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: angst, fluff, established relationship, parent au, dad jungkook, mom reader!

warnings: language, implied drug abuse, drug usage

word count: 2.2k

other part: 01

a/n: decided to finish this since i’m literally stuck on man of money :/// original ending was going to be angsty af, sorry if this is shitty🤧

It was nearing three in the morning and still no sign of him. Slumber wasn't going to overtake you anytime soon, not when his body was missing next to yours. Regardless of the stubby one replacing it, you weren't dozing off as you desired. Not to mention, your messages were still unseen by him.

He was ignoring you and honestly, you weren't shocked one bit. Ever since the baby was born he vanished every weekend then came back with no explanation about his whereabouts. When you would try to ask him, he would leave again with no hesitation and no answer.

Jungkook simply didn't want to be contacted by you. You would only remind him of how mortified he should be from his actions. That's the last thing he needed, as if he wasn't feeling guilty enough for being at a party and sniffing cocaine instead of sleeping next to you and his baby. He was over the moon however, something he hasn't felt since he knocked you up.

As long as he ignored your texts, he wouldn't feel a single ounce of shame.

It was almost four when he sensed the couch sunk down besides him. Still, he doesn't turn to see who it is, his mind too gone to even care. They called out his name twice, practically screaming into his ear. He turned, eyes immediately focusing on the mint hair before his face.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Yoongi seemed livid by his presence. Then Jungkook remembered that he never wanted to see him around here again, the second he had told him the reason you weren't going to be joining them anymore. "Does Y/N know you're here?" Jungkook shook his head, grimacing at your name. He sulked and reached for the beer resting on the coffee table filled with white powder, needles, and drinks but Yoongi stopped him.

"You fucking kidding me right? You can't be doing this shit anymore! You have a kid at home!" Jungkook whined from how deafening Yoongi sounded. "You promised her you wouldn't do this anymore."

There we go. The regret was fading away, just for it to settle back in. He shouldn't have came here in the first place, he needs to find somewhere else to go. Yoongi would never be able to get off his back especially with the bond you two developed during your time here.

"I know I did! Fuck, you don't have to remind me every second," He stood up and shoved Yoongi away. It caused him to stumble back a bit but he regained his balance. "I already feel like fucking shit for doing this behind her back."

"Then why do you keep doing this to her? She doesn't deserve this, Jungkook, both of them don't deserve this!" Yoongi chased after him, pushing people aside. His fingers curled around his palm, longing for them to be around Jungkook's throat. Yoongi caught a hold of his arm before he can go any further past the front door. His grip was too tight for Jungkook to escape which forced him to stand there. "She’ll leave you. You're always disappointing her."

Yoongi ticked him off even more. As if he needed a reminder that you were being lied to by the person you've loved the most.

"You did this to me! If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be like this!" Yoongi brushed aside the pang in his heart when Jungkook said that. Although he was told that on many occasions because he was a drug lord after all, it never stung him the way it did now.

"But you did this to her. If it wasn't for your dumbass, she would've never gone through what she has been through. If you didn't play with her fucking feelings, she wouldn't have had an addiction too. You fucked that poor girl up and you're still fucking doing it," Yoongi took a step closer. Despite being a little bit shorter and not holding a lot of muscle unlike Jungkook, he was still daunting. "Come here again and you'll have a bullet in your fucking head." Yoongi released him, knocking him down to the pavement. He slammed the door behind him.

Jungkook was quiet for a minute. He wanted to cry but couldn't manage to spill any tears out. He sighed, watching a puff of smoke come out of his mouth.

He would have to ask you to pick him up, his ride was still in the house that he was just threatened to not step a foot in. His fingers are shaking when he pulled out his phone to text you. He couldn't tell whether it was from the coldness or his distress.

jk🖤: pick me up please

jk🖤: [Current Location]

You were not furious, if anything you were upset. The second he sent his location, your heart practically dropped. Too many upsetting memories were tied to that place. Jungkook picked up on this right away the second he entered the car.

Even when you saw his enlarged pupils which can only indicate one thing in these circumstances, you don't say a word to him.

He heard the movement in the back. Jungkook turned to catch a glimpse of the car seat, faced away from him. His daughter kicking away, unaware of the issue that her parents are undergoing.

By the red light, he was on the verge of tears. His palms were sweaty and he wanted nothing more than his little girl to wrap her tiny fingers around his pinkie while you hold his other hand. You don't pay attention to his state, too engrossed in your own thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he doesn't know who he was aiming his apology to. His daughter or you."I just can't do this anymore," his sobs become louder as he continued.

Finally for the first time that night, his eyes wandered over to you. You were barely covered, your thin tank top and shorts were not doing a good job fighting off the cold, and with tired sunken eyes it seemed as if life was drained out of you. He was probably right. With a seven month baby and a boyfriend who was gone half of the time, of course it would look like you were dead.

He saw you hesitate to reach over to him. "What do you mean?" your voice was shaky but he doesn't mind. It doesn't necessarily compel him to hold you as it usually should. He carried this urge to not get near you or else it would send him into meltdown. "Jungkook?" you called out, eyes darting back and forth.

God, sometimes he wished you could just understand him. He was never good at explaining himself, sometimes he can get misunderstood.

Jungkook became enraged with himself. "I can't stay clean!" he screamed, catching you off guard. The car jerked a little from his outburst but that was the least thing you were bothered about. Your daughter, who was startled by her father yelling, began to cry in the back.

Jungkook's head throbbed as he cried harder, same way the baby in the back was too. You pulled over on the road, realizing you were unable to drive with the two of them bawling their eyes out. He curled himself in a ball in the small seat, body gluing onto the car door, far away as possible from the two of you.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching over for your baby. Her mouth was wide open, pouring out sobs. Jungkook glanced over to take a peek of her. She's dressed the complete opposite of you. She was in her warm yellow polka dots pijamas, a little beanie clutched in her hands. He figured she must have taken off in frustration since she doesn't enjoy accessories on her head.

She came across the sight of him, blinking before grasping that he was truly in front of her. The pacifier was shoved in her mouth to silence her cries. Jungkook's eyesight grew vague as he cried again. "I can't do it anymore. Yoongi was right," his head was hidden behind his palms once again. Your eyebrows furrowed at the mention of your old friend. "You both don't deserve this! I'm always going to let the both of you down."

You ignored the saliva that dropped down onto your chest and placed the pacifier back in her mouth. Jungkook appeared so fragile in the corner of the car. "What are you talking about? Of course you can do it," you inhaled for a second, trying to hold yourself together while rubbing your baby's back. "Don't do this to her, please."

He shook his head and pressed himself further into the door once he heard a cry escape your mouth. "I don't want to, Y/N, but fuck, I just can't seem to get better," his voice cracked as he weeped in his seat.

"When did you relapse?" Your guess was that this wasn't the first time he was back at Yoongi's place. You're too afraid to know but it had to be asked. When he doesn't say anything, you try again. "Talk to me, please. Just tell me the truth, I won't yell at you or anything like that."

Jungkook's eyes bounced back and forth between his daughter and you. One final glance at her and he was speaking. "Like, fuck, maybe when you were seventeen weeks along I started using again," he looked down at his shoes away from your glum expression. "It was only a little bit then she was born and I just—shit I'm really sorry," your hand extended out but he neglected it. "Everyone was right about me. Your friends, Yoongi, your parents. Maybe you should go with them."

You knew what he meant. When your parents grasped onto the idea that their only daughter was pregnant by her druggie boyfriend, as they would call him, they were fuming and gave you an ultimatum. Leave him and they'll help you look after her or stay with him and throw your whole life away.

He felt crushed when you stayed silent. It was obvious that you would choose the first one. The two of you weren't going to do the best financially especially with a baby on the way.

What shocked him was when you cried a few seconds after. He has never seen you cry like this. Unlike when you tried the same unknown drug as him to impress him and later cried because the sensation was unfamiliar. Unlike when he fought with another man and you tried to stop him before the police showed up. Unlike when he took your virginity in the back of the filthy bar and ignored you for weeks. Unlike when he made you so upset with the girl around his arms, you wished you never met him then ran back to him.

You cried to your parents that you loved him so much that you couldn't let him go, even if it meant that they'll disown you.

Jungkook never knew that you felt about him that way. You loved him and wanted to be with him no matter what. He didn't know what to say to that. I mean, you weren't a fling. As soon as he called you his girlfriend he made you the only girl in his life, that was it. But he never imagined spending the rest of his life eternally bound to you.

Truth be told, he adored the idea.

So Jungkook tried for you. Your first suggestion was to check himself to rehab, something Jungkook just flat out refused but managed to stay sober for couple of months then he relapsed. He doesn't remember why he did it.

"I'm not going to my parents so they could remind me for the rest of my life about my mistakes. And I know you could do it, Jungkook," you sounded so determined it made him even more miserable. Your daughter nuzzled her face in your neck, locking eyes with her father. "You just need to get professional help."

You watched his shoulders shake and stuck your hand out to touch him. Jungkook refused to believe it.You could not be possibly be recommending that he go to rehab. Anything but that. "Not rehab, I don't want to go to rehab, please."

"Jungkook, do it for yourself. You really need to go. You can't keep doing this for the rest of your life. What happens if something happens to you? I will never be able to forgive myself for not trying," he leaned back in his chair. His daughter's chubby fingers outstretched towards him, eager to be in his arms. Jungkook took her from you and laid her on his lap. "We’ll be there every step of the way."

"What happens if I don't?"

"Then," you stopped yourself to think. You blinked, attempting to get rid of your tears. "I'm sorry Jungkook but I will leave you. I can't have her growing up with an environment like this, it's not okay," you stared at his side, admiring his nose that your daughter inherited. "I want the best for the both of us."

A replica of his doe eyes shined back at him in curiosity. He didn't think of much as she did. It wasn't until he turned to peek at you, is when he made his decision.

THE TEASER PHOTOS WERE WISKSJSKEK YES SIRRRRRR

[a-lonely-tatertot]

Finding Home

A/n: Hey this will be a multi chapter fic with a bunch of different ships and characters in it (expect them to all be gay in some way) this is based off of a set of hcs from @linhamon-roll  as always this was betaed by the lovely @bookwyrminspiration and I am extremely grateful for faer help! (Also if you guys like this enough tell me if you want a tag list for it, @everyonehasthoughts whoops posted this one instead)

Tw: talk of nightmares (if there’s more please tell me)

word count: 2760

Chapter 1: Back to the Beginning

Breathe.

“I’m not going to the upper levels,” the words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Wide eyes stared at her from all around the room. She managed to count three breaths before the inevitable outburst.

“What?!” Grady shouted. He’s not angry at you, she reminded herself, just surprised.

“Are you kidding?” Fitz whispered in confusion.

“You have to go to the upper levels. How else do you think you’ll become a part of society?” Alden said in his perfect no-need-to-worry voice that just made her want to smack him more.

“Sweetie I know it’ll be new and it’s normal to be scared-” Edaline started before she cut her off.

“I’m not scared okay? I don’t give a damn about being a part of society, and no I’m not kidding. This is my decision,” Sophie snapped. She was so done with this, with the stares, the names, being “Sophie Foster” and “human-raised”, a “war-hero;” she just wanted to be no one again. Maybe that made her a coward, but that’s who she was.

“Sophie, you’re not making sense,” Alden said, shaking his head, smiling that horrible venom-filled smile that barely contained the storm. Ever since she’d learned what Alden had done to his family she’d hated him almost as much as the Neverseen. Because he and Cassius were the same, but only one paid for it.

“Did I not speak clearly enough for you?” she asked, letting the hatred seep through her words and relished in the surprise on his face. “I am not going to the upper levels. I am not staying here either. Here I’m always going to be Sophie: the Moonlark, the leader of Team Valiant, the war hero. That’ll always be me. Here I’ll be stuck picking up the council’s mess for my entire life and I wanna be a kid still.”

“So what do you plan on doing?” Biana spoke up after a silence.

Breathe. “I’m going to go back to the Forbidden Cities, I’m gonna go back home.”

The uproar came back twice as loud as before. She was hit with hundreds of “no”s and “you can’t”s and the occasional “that’s illegal” but in between it all she locked eyes with Fitz. They didn’t need to be Cognates to understand what the other was thinking. She held his gaze and didn’t back down, this was her decision. Fitz smiled a bit at her stubbornness and nodded slightly. There wasn’t any danger from him, no “You can’t do this!” Nothing that the boy she used to know would do.

He’s different now, Sophie realized, how had she missed it?

Her eyes drifted to Biana who was staring at the middle of the room with a blank expression. It was like she wasn’t there, lost somewhere in an ocean of thought. Finally, she looked up, “It’s your decision Fos-boss.”

A hundred times before those words had been directed at her. When deciding the fate of the world she was always plagued by uncertainty. But for once, it felt right; she was going home. Alden and her parents would say no as many times as they could to make her stay, and Fitz and Biana would try at some point, but one way or another she was leaving. She’d be back eventually, but for a while, she wouldn’t have to be Sophie Foster.

The next night they had gathered everyone. Well, not everyone, just the people she cared about. Della and Livvy stood off to the side and Sophie smiled at their intertwined fingers. Maybe, just maybe they would be fine without her. Keefe stood quietly, his face blank, and it made her rethink everything. But Linh placed a steady hand on her shoulder and she was back. Stay focused, don’t lose it, Sophie told herself sternly.

Grady and Edaline watched her, and she wondered how the house would feel without her. She took a breath and turned to Dex. He, out of all of them, wasn’t quite ready for her to leave.

“I can’t make you stay, can I?” Dex asked. His voice wavered slightly and there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in all their eyes.

Sophie shook her head slowly, “Not this time.” Everything was in place, all she had to do was just leave. That was the hardest part. To make it real.

“C’mon Soph, we did it; it’s over,” his eyes pleaded with her. “Let me come with you.”

They had all tried this. In different manors, in different ways, except for Linh. All she did was wrap her arms tightly around her and squeeze like she would never let go. Some part of her, buried under many many layers of protection, knew that if Linh tried she could make her stay. “That’s the problem Dex,” she had said this so many times before, “We are always going to be fixing things and we’re always going to be fighting, and I am always going to be Sophie Foster the human. I just want to be normal, for a few decades that’s all. I’ll be back soon, just make sure to keep these idiots in check while I’m gone alright? I gotta do this alone.” Her voice caught on the last word as it dawned on her that it might be the last thing she would say to them for a long time.

Dex wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, picking her up slightly. “I’ll miss you dumbass.”

She nodded mutely into his shoulder, “Likewise asshole.” It’s time now. She stepped away, flash drive in hand, because if Dex couldn’t join her he would always help her. And she loved him for that.

She turned away from them. She dug her heels into the dirt and braced herself.

Three. Linh’s hand left her shoulder and she could feel all their eyes on her.

Two. It wasn’t the first time she had done this. It was teleporting. It was in her bones, literally.

One. Dex sucked in a breath in sync with her. The feeling of the tension running through her, becoming her, was intoxicating.

Zero. There’s no looking back now. And she ran. Her feet pounded the ground, her heart seemed to get faster with every stride. Dirt bounced with every thud of her shoes and she was free. And she jumped.

Falling. Floating. Landing.

The stale, polluted, stiff air greeted Sophie on the other side and she had never been more relieved to step into a broken world. Her broken home. From now on, she’d be Amilia Ruewen and that was okay.

“The hell you doing here kid?” an old woman stared her down from behind the counter. She had wrinkles; on her face, on her apron, on her surprisingly steady hands that held an outrageous stack of plates.

“Uh,” Amilia said nervously, “I need a job.”

The woman’s dark eyes narrowed further, “And you came here.” It wasn’t a question.

“That I did,” she muttered, it took every bit of her not to yank out her eyelashes.

With a huff, the woman set down the plates and walked out from behind the counter to march up to her. Amilia swallowed hard as the woman grabbed her hands from her sides. Her stark white hands seemed too pale and clean in the older woman’s dark hands. Amilia felt like she was under a microscope, like this woman could see every bit about her life as she stared at her hands.

“You’ve worked, you’ve fought,” she said quietly, and dragged her eyes up to hers. “If you can clean you’ve got a job.”

Something exploded inside her and couldn’t’ve been happier. But wait, “No cooking?” Amilia called out as the woman went behind the counter again.

She chuckled lightly, “Clean first, then we’ll see. Chop chop, it’s almost time for the rush and these tables still haven’t been washed.”

“I don’t even know your name ma’am!” Amilia realized suddenly.

“You want a name, new girl?” she said. fixing her with another hard stare, “It’s Mari, you’ve got a real name?”

Amilia closed her mouth tightly, “It depends on your definition of real.”

Mari let out a harsh laugh, “Less philosophy more cleaning.”

A smile tugged at her mouth as she caught the wet rag the woman tossed her.

By the end of the day, she had been introduced to the regulars as nothing more than “the new girl”. She had scrubbed the counters over and over and Mari still managed to look unimpressed. Her sweeping skills got corrected and she became more familiar with the crappy sink than she would’ve liked. If you turned the old fashion handle too far right, then the water was basically boiling. If it was too far to the left, you got ice. There was one temperature that was decent and it was not moved from that spot. Amilia had found that out the hard way.

When Mari flipped the paper and probably homemade sign from “open” to “closed”, she flopped down on one of the booths. She was tired and wiped, but it was good because she was happy. She couldn’t have done this in the Lost Cities. And she wouldn’t have done this in San Francisco. Because this was normal, and no one knew her name, and that was the opposite of everything she once was.

“You going home yet kid?” Mari asked from the lightswitch. She hadn’t thought about that, where she’d stay for the night. The booths weren’t optimal but they would work.

“Can I stay here for the night?”

“In these shitty booths? Not happening,” Mari responded, shaking her head lightly. Amilia’s heart fell to her stomach and Mari sighed at her probably pitiful expression, “You really don’t have a place to stay?”

Amilia shook her head. “Fine, come on. You can borrow my couch for the night.”

The night turned into two, to a week, to a month and eventually Mari stopped asking about her family.

“We’ve all got secrets,” she’d say, and Sophie wondered what her secrets were. Mari stopped asking about where she was going too.

“This is a pit stop town,” she said one night while they put away dishes.

“It wasn’t for you.”

“It’s where you find yourself when you’re young and get pulled back into when you’re old and broke.”

“Maybe I’m finding myself,” Amilia said only to get a hum in response.

The words that Mari had said when she first met her came to Amilia often. Could she really tell what she had gone through? Or was it some weird old lady thing she did to freak her out?

There was one night where the nightmares came back worse than ever. She woke with sweat soaking her shirt and barely breathing. There was soft clinking in the kitchen that sounded too much like throwing stars. She remembered how they felt in her hands, drawing her own blood as she cleaned them. The sweet release as they left her hand to make a soft thunk in her target. How the rush it gave Sophie was always followed by a thick sense of dread. Because if it made her excited, how far away was she from the monsters she fought?

“I thought it’d be a rough night,” Mari said leaning on the doorway.

“How did you know?”

“You’ve fought wars, those don’t go away easy. Come, I brought sugar, thought you would need it.”

So she stumbled her way into the kitchen, tired and trying as hard as she could to keep her tears in. Mari had pancakes and shakes and had brought them out to the front porch. The best thing about this place was you could see every star in the sky.

“How could you tell I’ve fought?” Sophie asked. The shake was shockingly cold against her hands and she tried to stop the shiver that ran through her. Mari rocked back quietly like they had all the time in the world to watch the stars move.

“You have the look in your eyes.”

“But you looked at my hands, why?” Somehow, the shake tasted like mallowmelt. The kind that Edaline would make on bad nights before tucking her into bed.

“Because your hands have been everywhere, they can tell stories if you let them.”

She decided not to ask any more questions, every answer would just be more confusing than the last. “And because they look like mine,” Mari finally said quietly.

“Oh.”

Mari didn’t look at her while she talked, “I saw a kid, who looked lost as hell with no immediate future, who had the hands of a fighter and eyes that held secrets. I thought I could do right by her.”

“I think you did,” Sophie said. For real this time, she wasn’t Amilia, she wasn’t trying to be her sister, for this night under the stars, she could be Sophie.

Over the year Amilia sometimes forgot about the demons that haunted her. Her past life- lives. They were not her anymore. Days and hours where nothing other than the simple act of flipping pancakes and washing tables were her only thoughts. The town was small and out of the way. No glittery castles and fancy houses. Only small farms, sketchy strip malls, and home. There was only one hint that she wasn’t human, the small leaping crystal around her neck.

“For emergencies,” Biana had said placing it gently around her neck.

“And when you’re ready to come back home,” Fitz had whispered against the top of Sophie’s head.

So it stayed around Amilia’s neck, night and day; a reminder that she never had and never would belong. But she wanted to; she craved it. And Mari made her feel somewhat normal.

She wanted something human. Something reckless and young, that was the human she wanted. Sitting at her computer at the table in Mari’s old yellow motorhome that had housed her, she found herself looking at colleges. When she was younger “college” was an expectation, perfect grades, perfect words, perfect scores. Sophie didn’t get to decide her future. To put it simply, it was never an option, her years were already filled with other’s ideas. But as Amilia clicked the tab for courses she realized that for once she controlled her next small forever. And in her next small forever she could just maybe belong.

Tables had been washed, the sun had gone down, and she had flipped the frayed sign. She had thought about it all day, the college she chose was far away and she didn’t know how to tell Mari this. The woman had become much closer to her than she thought she would. So as she grabbed her small packed duffle bag and held the door handle she tried to ignore the sharp pain that hit her chest. It only got worse as a soft voice came down the hall.

“Amilia?” Angie, Mari’s “friend”, whispered down the hall.

“Go back to bed, I’m just grabbing some things,” she said, wincing at how well she lied.

“That duffle says otherwise young lady,” Mari appeared seemingly out of thin air. Sophie knew this wasn’t going to end well, the feeling cemented itself as anger flared white hot in her stomach.

“‘Young lady’? Sorry did ‘kid’ just get thrown out the window? What are you now, my mom?” she snapped.

Mari gapped at her for a second, “Oh I’m sorry, right now I guess I’m more of your mom than whoever had you and left you on your own!”

“You don’t know nothing about them!” Sophie shouted. She didn’t mean too and she hated the way Mari flinched. But Sophie had pushed them away and that wasn’t their fault.

“The hell is this all about Amilia? You wanna go, go. Just don’t be a coward and leave without a goodbye.”

The tears fell fast down her face, because it was all too familiar. And she had never wanted to leave Mari like that. But she was angry, and that never ended well. “Fine, you want a goodbye? Goodbye.”

The door slammed hard behind her, and the rain soaked Sophie’s jacket mixing with her tears. It felt like a crappy hallmark movie from the early 2000s, but she was too angry to care; About the rain, about how muddy her shoes were, or how she didn’t really know where she was going.

The next morning she regretted everything. But by then that bridge was ashes in a stormy ocean; there was no going back. She moved forward because she had to.

[godknowsqueen]

Ben x reader request. Reader has been playing drums for as long as she could hold drumsticks, but she doesn’t like to tell people. So when her bf Ben is learning to play for his new role and there’s this one part of a song he’s just not getting and she’s getting so frustrated him because the parts is so easy and she shows him how it’s done. ❤️

now i’m here ; ben hardy x reader

Warnings: Swears, fluff, and bad drum techniques bc i know nothing about playing drums , and very slight smut hinting in the very end

A/N: thanks for sending this in!!! such a cute idea :’)) it also taught me a lot about the anatomy of a drum kit, i had no idea it was so complicated like damn. Feedback is always welcomed, guys! :D AND I’M OPEN FOR REQUESTS!

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Bloody hell!” Ben’s voice rang throughout the house.

There was an angry vibe all over the place. Ben was angry. The drums sounded angry. You were starting to get angry with all the commotion happening for the past hour. 

It was more of frustration rather than anger. You could see Ben struggling with the drums. He finally landed the role of his dreams, which is bringing Queen’s Roger Taylor younger self to the big screen. 

Only problem is that he wanted the role so bad he lied about being an expert at drumming. 

You admired the bravery of lying about something so vital to the role, but it also frustrated you how far he is willing to go for that role. 

You walked out of the bedroom, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Your signature Sunday morning lazy outfit. You decided to head to the kitchen and pour two cups of juice with some ice in them. He needs something refreshing, you thought.

Walking to the living room, the drum noises started getting louder. A very confused Ben sat on the stool behind the drum set, hitting his drumsticks here and there. You could tell that he was trying to play “Now I’m Here”. 

He didn’t notice that you entered the room up until you were right in front of the drum kit. Ben looked up from the set at you, looking visibly tired, but he still managed to give you a small smile.

“Morning, love,” he let out a sigh, spreading his arms open for you to fall in. Since he was sitting down, you wrapped your arms around his head as he let his head rest on your stomach, his arms wrapped around your lower body.

“Morning, Ben. Or should I start calling you Roger?” you giggled, trying to make him feel better as you pulled out of the hug to hand him the juice cup.

“Ah, with my shitty playing, I don’t think Ben Hardy as Roger Taylor will ever see the light of day,” he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

You watched him take a sip before making a statement, “Benny, you play the drums pretty well. It’s just certain parts of certain songs that you aren’t getting right. You can’t move forward if you keep bringing yourself down, love. Give yourself some credit.”

“You’re right, (Y/N), I just,” he let out a shaky breath, “I just really don’t want to lose this opportunity. And I have nearly perfected the songs in the movie, it’s just that part in ‘Now I’m Here’ that’s driving me crazy,” he held your hand, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

You couldn’t take the sight of his gloomy green eyes anymore, “Yeah, I know that part can get tricky.”

“I know right! It sounds hard, and even harder to play!”

“I know, it took me quite a while to perfect it,” you muttered, hoping that he’d catch on what you just said.

“That’s what I’m trying to- Wait, come again?” he shot you a deeply puzzled look.

“Well, I kinda forgot to tell you about that,” you confessed, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

“We’ve been together for months and you kinda forget to tell me that you know how to play the drums?” 

“I don’t really share that particular piece of information. I just never thought I’m that good, so I kept it to myself. I’ve wanted to help you several times with training, but I didn’t want to mess up your own pattern of training,” you looked at him in a somehow apologetic manner. 

“(Y/N), don’t be shy to share anything with me. You could probably scream into a conch shell and I’d still be amused,” Ben’s words made you chuckle, relieving you of the guilt that you had never told him about your drum skills. 

“Wow, you do like me a lot, don’t you?” you softly poked his side, attempting to teasingly tickle him.

“You could say so,” his lips twisted into a cheeky grin, proceeding to give you a light peck on the cheek.

“Well, in that case let me help you with that cursed part because now I’m here, get it? Get it?” 

“On second thought, I don’t need your help anymore,” he squinted at you, his smile failing to show his disapproval of the pun you just threw.

“Shut up, Hardy,” you snickered, bringing yourself behind his seat. You handed him the drumsticks and gently placed your hands over his.

“Okay, so judging by your playing all day, the entirety of the song is good. Maybe a little more practice to make it better, but it’s just good. The part you mess up is the one accompanied with the piano and guitar solo, yeah?”

Ben nods in agreement, his hands starting to relax underneath your grip.

“The tricky thing is that you have to quickly alternate between the bass drum and the closed hi-hat. After you strike both twice, you then move to single strike the snare and the open hi-hat. May I?” you asked him to take control of the drum kit.

“Please,” he gets up, and you noticed his eyes spark with curiosity. 

You sat down, twirling the drumsticks between your fingers as a form of preparation. It’s been weeks since you last played, so your hands might be a little rusty. You smoothly started beating the drums to the pattern you explained to Ben only a couple of minutes ago. Your playing wasn’t rusty at all, as you’ve expected earlier, and you found yourself humming the guitar solo to help guide you through the beating of the drums. 

You ended the pattern of beats by singing aloud, “Keep yourself alive, wow, keep yourself alive! Oh, it’ll take you all your time and money to keep me satisfied!” You got up from your stool, giving Ben the chance to take his seat. 

Looking at Ben, you could see his lips were slightly parted as his eyes looked at you with so much admiration.

“(Y/N)! How could you possibly make this look so bloody effortless?” His hand gripped your arms, “That was so fucking cool, darling!” Ben let out a laugh full of happiness at your abilities. 

“Thank you, love,” you shyly replied, taking his hands in yours and looking him in the eyes. Ben was still smiling at you, his smile getting wider as a humble blush crept up on your cheeks.

“Now, let’s get you to play this even better than I did!” you excitedly dictated, pushing him to take a seat behind the kit again.

After a couple of hours, it was time for Ben to demonstrate his skills at playing the entirety of “Now I’m Here”. He took a deep breath and gulped, preparing himself for the performance. You gave him a thumbs up and a heartwarming smile, saying with your best made up British accent, “Go, Roger!”

He giggled a little before starting to beat the drums. After a while of playing the song’s beginning perfectly well, he reached the part that was driving him crazy earlier. You could tell his face’s features were getting more focused, determined to not mess this up in any way. In anticipation, you watched him hit the beats correctly. 

As the part came to an end, you could feel his face getting more relaxed, a genuine grin spreading across his face. You admired his happy expression, the afternoon sunlight coming from the window making his face even brighter as it made his green eyes look almost transparent.  

You were fighting the temptation to clap, but you didn’t want to distract him in any way. As the song eventually came to an end, he played the beat to the final drum pattern, and victoriously let his drumsticks fly in the air. 

Swiftly, you both stood up from your places and ran into each other’s arms, his hands grabbing your waist and lifting you up as he twirled you around.

“YOU DID IT! You did it you did it you did it!!!” you squealed like a little girl, giving him several quick kisses on his cheeks. Ben set your feet down on the floor again, his laughs filling the room. Your heart was genuinely glad that his happiness was now replacing the anger that filled the room earlier.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, (Y/N). I would’ve probably had that drum kit file a restraining order against me by now,” he softly ran his thumb across your cheek, then tucked a stranded hair behind your ear.

“I’m glad I could help. If I realized that I could, I would’ve helped you long ago,” he lifted your chin up, noticing that you felt a little guilty.

“Please don’t feel even a little bad. I think you need to give yourself credit as much you were telling me to give myself credit earlier. You really do play amazingly well, love,” he confessed, earning a beautiful smile from you. You loved these moments where you two supported each other’s success.

After a few seconds of silence, Ben slowly pressed his lips on yours. He then took your upper lip between his lips, allowing his tongue to tickle it a little and making you quietly laugh amidst the kiss. His hands pulled at your hips, as your hands laid calmly on his chest. He separated his lips from yours, and muttered a quick “I love you” before placing another quick kiss on your lips again. He repeated the pattern of I love you’s and quick kisses a few more times, making you laugh a little at how adorable he was being.

“If that’s how I’ll get paid for tutoring you, then I’ll happily do it everyday,” you tried to escape his grasp on you to properly look him in the face.

“Oh, love, I’m already thinking of better ways to repay you.”

[eleanor-writes-stuff]

red lights mean you’re leaving [one-shot]

In a city the size of Coruscant, it should be mathematically impossible to keep getting the same Uber driver. Kylo's tempted to believe that maybe the fates have something big in store for him and the driver he knows only as Rey, but first he needs to stop putting his foot in his mouth every time they meet.

(Also known as: three times Uber brought Kylo and Rey together, and one time the fates did.)

Also available on AO3.

Kylo Ren is the kind of person who’ll turn his nose up at seven out of ten restaurant suggestions, the kind of person who scoffs at the idea of taking public transportation, the kind of person who’s built up a reputation at work primarily to scare people out of sharing an elevator with him.

And yet here he is, getting into a vehicle that isn’t his own and paying to put up with the presence of a stranger for at least half an hour, because Kylo Ren is also the kind of person who doesn’t have any close friends he can call upon for a ride to work when his car refuses to start one fine Tuesday morning.

The thing is, for a while there it almost looks as if this whole ‘summoning a total stranger from the Internet and getting into their car’ thing might work out just fine. The car appears around the corner, a worn but obviously well-maintained Toyota, and just seconds later he opens the backseat door to find a clean-enough interior and a friendly but not chatty young woman behind the wheel. They exchange quick good-mornings and she double-checks his destination as he does his best to fold his long legs into the backseat, and then they settle into a relatively comfortable silence the woman doesn’t feel the need to fill. Everything appears to be going smoothly, right up until–

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman – Rey, according to the app – says as he reaches for his coffee, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror and flashing him what appears to be a genuinely apologetic smile. “Could you put that away, please? It’s just, I’ve got a strict no food, no drinks rule. Learned my lesson pretty quickly on that one,” her eyes are back on the road, but he can hear the grimace in her voice.

And he can empathize – he really can, after all those childhood road trips with his Uncle Chewie, the messiest eater he’s ever known – but surely she can be reasonable. “It’s a spill-proof lid, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Kylo assures her.

Her eyes dart to the mirror for barely a second, but it’s enough for him to see the way her smile has turned tight to match the hint of annoyance coloring her voice. “That’s great, but it’s still got a hole for you to drink from and this road is particularly bumpy, if I remember correctly, so I’d just really appreciate it if you could put the drink away for the rest of the ride.”

“But it’ll be cold by the time I get to work,” he points out, the beginnings of a scowl tugging at his lips. “Besides, I’m an adult. I think I can handle a to-go cup of coffee in a slowly-moving vehicle.”

“I would expect an adult to understand and abide by rules,” Rey snaps as the car slows to a stop by a traffic light, giving her the opportunity to level a glare at him through the mirror. “So please, respect my rules, be an adult, and put the damn drink in the cup holder.”

He’s sleep deprived, still grumpy over his car, and he hasn’t had nearly enough coffee to deal with this – thanks to her. The ridiculous thing is, he probably would’ve been done with his drink by now if she’d just been the tiniest bit reasonable about this. “Or what?” Kylo retorts, fingers curling stubbornly around his cup. “You’ll kick me out and risk a bad review?”

“You know what?” Rey pulls closer to the side of the road and flips on her emergency lights. “Yes, I will. Not like I actually need this job,” she mutters, most likely to herself. In a firm voice she adds, “So either you put the cup down, or you get down.”

They hold eye contact in that godforsaken mirror for a good twenty seconds, as cars speed by them with displeased honks and her lips begin to curl into a smirk. Something about that, about the way she challenges him, prompts a belated observation on his part: she’s attractive, this ridiculously stubborn Uber driver of his. He’d noticed her earlier, of course, filed her under pretty when she flashed him a smile the way most people reflexively and unwittingly categorize every new face they come across, but now she’s all determined eyes and smug smirk and attractive.

But Kylo Ren is not one to be cowed by a pretty face – not even one with a smirk he’d like to wipe away with a kiss – so he maintains eye contact with her as he brings the cup up to his mouth, raises it at her the way one would a glass of champagne during a toast, and takes a good, long sip of lukewarm coffee he’d spit out onto the sidewalk if he could.

It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to give up on his car and another ten to get an Uber; at least ten minutes have passed since then. He wishes he’d remembered that before committing to this particular course of action, because now there’s nothing to do but swallow a mouthful of bitter, almost room temperature coffee and call upon every bit of self-control to keep his face from twisting into obvious regret and disgust.

Instead he makes a show of finally placing his cup in the provided holder and leans back into his seat with a lazy smirk.

“Fucking arsehole,” Rey fumes – quiet enough to pretend it was meant for her ears only, loud enough for the both of them to know exactly who it was meant for – but she turns off her lights and starts driving again anyway. The rest of the ride is tense and uncomfortable the way he’s used to, the way long stretches of silence between two strangers should be.

Rey doesn’t speak again until they pull up to his office. “This was… kind of ridiculous, if you think about it. We both behaved like children,” she admits sheepishly, and Kylo should not be able to picture the embarrassed little smile he just knows she’s wearing right now.

He doesn’t dignify her comment with a reaction as he gathers up his things.

“Look, it was nothing personal, okay?” Rey persists, a hint of her earlier frustration seeping into her voice as he opens the door and steps out of her car. “It’s just a ground rule, that’s all.”

It’s clearly an olive branch – albeit one offered with a growing scowl – and he knows he should accept. He could say it’s okay, he understands, he’s the exact same way with his own car and really, this whole thing was ridiculous, maybe he could make it up to her sometime is she free tonight can he have her number –

But he’s had a shitty morning, and he’s probably never going to see her again no matter what he says, and he’s better off taking his frustration out on a stranger rather than a coworker he’ll have to deal with for the rest of the day.

“Whatever,” Kylo scoffs without so much as a glance at her, slamming the door behind him for good measure. His memory and imagination team up to supply him with an image of what her pissed off face might look like, and for just a moment he sees them as they’ve never been and never will be: standing so close he can feel the warmth of her skin, her face scrunched up at him until he leans down, a quiet laugh rumbling in his throat as he presses a placating kiss to that adorable nose of hers to smooth away her irritation.  

In reality, he looks up just in time to see her peeling away from the curb in a sudden and reckless burst of speed, twin red taillights searing themselves into his memory as the last page in a very, very short book that could’ve been a heavy tome in a different lifetime.

In a city the size of Coruscant, it should be mathematically impossible to get the same Uber driver twice. So when a familiar name pops up in response to his request for a car just three days after their initial meeting, Kylo can’t help but wonder if maybe there is such a thing as fate after all.

After Tuesday’s fiasco, he’d been pleasantly surprised when his car started up just fine the next day and even the day after. But here he is on a Friday morning, running late yet again (except not really, it’s hard to be late when you’ve specifically tailored your routine to get to the office two hours before everyone else), cursing his car and weighing the pros and cons of having his father take a look at it while he waits for his second chance with Rey.

Judging by her barely muffled groan at the sight of him, she A) probably hadn’t expected to ever see him again either and B) is significantly less pleased by this turn of events. He silently vows to make it up to her, placing his cup in the holder as soon as he’s in the car.

“Sorry about last time,” Kylo tells her as he settles in, a slight wince marring his apologetic smile. “I’m a dick when I’m caffeine deprived. Even more so than usual, I’m told.” His attempt at self-deprecation earns him a short burst of laughter, and Rey turns around to offer him a blinding smile in person.

She’s back in her seat before he can react, and he’s left looking to the rear-view mirror for glimpses of her once again. “So, are you sufficiently caffeinated for this ride, or am I going to have to pull over again at some point?” Rey asks almost… playfully, he realizes. Teasingly, with a grin to match.

“Sufficiently caffeinated and on my best behavior, I promise,” he assures her in his best attempt to match her tone. It must be a decent attempt, because she’s smiling as she pulls away from his building and merges into traffic.

The silence is comfortable again, in a way he’s rarely ever experienced with anyone else. Maybe he will ask for her number this time, just to see if the fates have actually done him a favor for once with this act of serendipity. It would be a first for him, and she’s certainly nowhere near the type of woman he’s found himself with in the past, but she’s proven that she can go toe to toe with him, and each glimpse of her smile causes an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, and she has the most adorable way of bobbing her head and tapping her fingers to the beat piping from her speakers.

But first he’ll have to actually make conversation – if he doesn’t want to come across as a total creep, at least – and a quick glance out the window tells him they’ve got maybe ten minutes left. He wastes another two minutes casting around for a possible conversation starter, and in desperation finds himself blurting out, “Hey, would you mind turning that off?”

Rey’s eyes momentarily flit to the mirror. “The music?”

“Um…” There’s no time for hesitation or awkward pauses, not with their time running out. “Yeah, the music,” Kylo reluctantly says, suppressing the urge to tug at his hair in a combination of nerves and embarrassment. Maybe with the music off, she’ll be more inclined to talk to him?

“Do you have something against rap or…?” she asks slowly, eyes completely focused on the road as she turns the volume down but leaves the music on.

He realizes in that moment that he’s probably dug himself a grave he can’t possibly crawl out of, not with only five minutes of his commute left. “They just…” The stupid thing is, he doesn’t even mind rap, not really. And she’s got decent taste in it, lyrics that actually mean something rather than verses upon verses of empty threats and brand names.

Rey still isn’t looking at him, but it’s pretty clear that she’s expecting an answer. “They just sound so angry,” he finally says, his weak tone giving the words an almost questioning inflection. Kylo knows it’s the wrong thing to say the moment he says it, and not a second before.

“Angry?” Rey echoes disbelievingly, and in the mirror he catches a glimpse of her setting her jaw. “You try being born into a prejudiced world, a system that’s rigged against you, where you have to work two times as hard as the average person to make something of your life and three times as hard just to be taken seriously. And even when you finally succeed, you still have to watch the rest of your community continue to struggle against an unfair system. You try going through all that and not sound angry about it,” she concludes forcefully just as his office comes into view.

So he’s managed to annoy her yet again, a solid two for two when it comes to being an idiot and saying something dumb. “It’s just music,” he mutters tersely to himself, because how the hell had he managed to mess up something as simple as small talk? What kind of jerk gets in someone else’s car and asks them to turn off their music, anyway?

Because the universe hates him, Rey mistakenly assumes his words were directed at her. The car jolts to a sudden stop in front of his office, and she takes the effort to turn around and glare at him in person. “It’s not just music to me,” she fumes.

“No, that’s not what I–”

She pointedly unlocks the car and crosses her arms, a clear dismissal. He can’t even bring himself to feel the slightest bit of irritation at her behavior, not when he’s the childish dick who refused to follow a simple rule the first time around and then ruined his second chance by criticizing her music.

As he watches Rey’s car disappear into traffic once again, Kylo realizes that this was never an act of serendipity. It was an act of kindness, the fates saving him from days or even weeks of hopeless pining and impossible daydreams and pointless what-ifs.

It shouldn’t be too hard to forget an Uber driver he’s spent a grand total of one hour with, right?

Two weeks later, he’s no closer to forgetting Rey than he had been the second time he watched her drive off in anger. It’s embarrassing, really, that he’s so obviously pining that even Hux can tell something’s off about him.

So Hux does as Hux always does when it looks like the closest thing he has a to a friend might be going through something: he drags Kylo to a bar, pays for all of their drinks in lieu of offering actual emotional support, and then bails less than two hours later to go meet his girlfriend.

“What the hell, Hux? You said you’d give me a ride home,” Kylo protests, watching his colleague settle their tab. “I could’ve just driven here.”

“No, because then you would get it in your thick head to drive home,” Hux replies patiently, tapping away at his phone. “And we both know you’re in no condition to get behind the wheel. Come along now, I’m calling a car for you.”

“Fine,” he huffs, downing the last of his whiskey. Hux leads him out of the bar and bids him good night as soon as he’s secured an Uber. Kylo watches him disappear down the street where his car is parked, and spends the next five minutes checking his email while he waits for his ride to arrive.

There’s an email from his uncle that he really should get back to immediately, but a familiar car pulls up just as he hits reply and the email is promptly forgotten when an exasperated voice cries, “You again?”

Twice might be a coincidence, but thrice has to be some kind of sign, doesn’t it?

“Hi,” he says, not quite looking Rey in the eye. Even from his periphery he can see how her features are all twisted up in irritation. “I’m sorry, my friend used his phone to… I swear, I didn’t know it was you.”

She doesn’t look convinced, and Kylo would be offended by the implication if he hadn’t spent the last two weeks trying to calculate the odds of finding her on the app again. “Anyway,” he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and fixes his eyes on a distant point beyond her car. “You can leave, if you want to. You probably wouldn’t have accepted if you knew it was me, so… it’s okay. I can just get another ride.”

Kylo keeps his eyes on the flickering lamppost, waiting for the sound of her car to fade away so that he won’t have to watch her leave. A few seconds later, he hears her voice instead.

“Just get in,” Rey sighs, unlocking the car. “You’re my last ride of the night, and you’re on the way for me anyway.”

He should ask if she’s sure she doesn’t mind, reiterate his offer to let her go on her merry way and just get a different ride. But Kylo Ren is a selfish and greedy man, and he isn’t about to walk away from a third chance he knows he doesn’t deserve but desperately wants anyway.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, and Rey doesn’t so much as spare him a glance while he gets into her car. He wonders what it would be like to sit next to her instead, wonders what it would be like to have her in his car the way he’s spent the last two weeks wondering what it would be like to have her in his life. In the short amount of time between him getting into the car and Rey driving off, he sees impulsive road trips and annual drives to his mother’s place for the holidays and a thousand routine visits to the grocery store.

The sound of her shifting gears pulls him back into reality, where they’re just two strangers who can’t seem to get along no matter how hard he tries.

“Rey,” he begins as they make their way across town, traffic practically non-existent at this hour on a Thursday night. This can only end in disaster, if their previous encounters are anything to go by, but he can’t not try. “About the other day–”

“No, don’t,” she interrupts before he can get an apology out. “As always, it was as much my fault as it was yours. We just seem to bring out the worst in each other, don’t we?” The smile she offers him in the mirror is tinged with underlying sadness, and the resignation in her voice leaves him restless.

“That’s not… it’s not us, I’m the one who keeps messing up,” Kylo insists. “I mean, it’s so stupid. I don’t even mind rap music,” he admits. “I don’t know why I said that to you.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that,” Rey says firmly. “I just… Can I tell you why I relate so strongly to people who’ve had to struggle all their lives to succeed?”

“Please do,” he rasps, his throat drying up at the idea of her willingly sharing personal information with him.

Rey catches his eye in the mirror. “I should warn you, this story contains some Very Sad Backstory,” she tells him, her serious look at odds with the way her eyes seem to sparkle with a joke. “Are you sure you’re ready to get that personal with your Uber driver?”

Most definitely would probably be coming on too strong, and I want to get as personal with you as two people possibly can would just creep her out, so Kylo settles for a nod. “Yeah,” he adds a second later, because he doesn’t want to look desperate but it won’t do to seem uninterested either.

“Okay,” Rey makes a show of inhaling deeply and bracing herself. “Here we go. Once upon a time–” her lips twitch with a grin, and it only grows wider when she finds a similar expression on his face. “Once upon a time, there was a little orphan girl in London.”

He loses his smile.

“The girl had to work twice, sometimes even thrice, as hard as everyone else her whole life, because she was an orphan and poor and a girl, so the odds were pretty much stacked against her right from the start. She lived in a terrible orphanage, run by a man who cared more about exploiting free labor than he did about children, and she saw how even the people who had long since come of age continued to work for the man anyway because they had no other choice. Good luck finding even a minimum wage job if you’re a dropout or failed your GCSEs – the only two outcomes when you work for Unkar Plutt,” Rey spits the name out with a bitterness he wouldn’t have thought her capable of, not with the sunny grins and cheery disposition he’s glimpsed. “Everyone’s so busy earning their keep that there’s hardly any time to study, so all the kids either fail or drop out, and then they’re stuck working for Plutt for pretty much the rest of their lives.”

“Anyway,” she clears her throat and dives right back into the story, leaving him to marvel at her almost flippant tone. “The little girl grew up working for Plutt, thinking this would be the rest of her life, thinking she had no other choice. One day she found an old CD player – they were starting to go out of style, and whoever had thrown this one out hadn’t even bothered to remove the CD inside. It was a mixtape, a compilation of songs that spoke of tragic backstories and humble beginnings and overcoming the odds. Those songs opened up a whole world of new possibilities for her, and the rappers were success stories, role models, hope.”

Kylo’s so lost in the picture she’s painting that he doesn’t even realize they’ve reached his building until Rey turns around. “So yeah, that little girl grew up to feel pretty strongly about rap music,” she shrugs, a slow grin tugging at her lips. “The end. Any questions?”

He leans forward, getting closer to her than he’s ever been before. “Just one,” Kylo says quietly, searching her eyes for any hint of discomfort. He doesn’t want to go too far, doesn’t want to push her after how well the ride has gone, but–

“Did things ever get easier for the little girl?”

Rey’s smile softens, her eyes almost warm as she nods. “She worked her butt off in school, got a scholarship here in the States, and found her grandfather. Things are pretty great for her now.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his eyes flitting down to her lips for the briefest of seconds before he realizes what he’s done. “I, um… I should go.”

“You should,” Rey agrees, and god, he prays he isn’t imagining the reluctance in her voice. “Good night, Kylo,” she says gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

She draws away then, moves back into her seat and flips the lock, and it’s not the cold dismissal she’d left him with the last time but it’s still a sign. He’s not going to be the man who makes something out of nothing, the creepy stranger who can’t take a hint and asks for her number when she clearly wants him to leave.

Maybe this is all the fates can offer him: a chance to make things right, a chance for them to part on a civil note and move past this odd, fleeting acquaintance. At least this way he’ll be the man she trusted enough to share her past with, not the asshole she kept bumping into.

“Good night, Rey,” he tells her, and they share one last smile in her rear-view mirror before he gets out of the car and shuts the door behind him. In the darkness of a moonless night sky and dim streetlights, her taillights burn so much brighter, leaving an imprint of red seared into the back of his eyelids long after she’s disappeared into the night.

It’s not the happy ending he wanted, but at least there’s some sense of closure, and a soft smile he can keep in his memory, and a warmth in his chest that he hasn’t felt in years.

A month later, the fates start a new chapter.

He’s on his way to meet his uncle for lunch, a bundle of nerves and shame and gratitude, too focused on his near future to pay much attention to his present and the woman who’s come to an abrupt stop right in front of him to fish her phone out of her bag.

“Sorry, it’s my fault, I wasn’t watching where–”

The woman turns around, and he loses all coherent thought.

“Kylo?”

It’s Rey. Rey, in a nice blouse and a pencil skirt, her hair pulled back into a bun and her face carrying the faintest hint of make-up.

“Oh my god, it is you!” Rey’s whole face lights up, there’s no other way to put it, and her smile brings back every ridiculous daydream and fragile hope he’s tried so hard to bury this past month. “This is incredible. I mean, what are the odds, right?”

What are the odds, indeed, and how many more chances will he get before he runs out? “Rey,” he croaks, and she waits while he clears his throat and collects his thoughts. “Rey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something and I’m sorry if it’s weird, I know it’s crazy, we barely know each other and you’re just an Uber driver–”

Her smile disappears and oh god, he’s done it again. “Just an Uber driver?” Rey scowls. “First of all, not that it’s any of your business, I actually work here,” she points out the building they’re right in front of, the building that houses his uncle’s company. “My boss made me take a sabbatical so I joined Uber to keep busy. But the point is, what’s wrong with being just an Uber driver? It’s a living, an honest one at that, in a broken system that doesn’t always give people good choices–”

How has he fucked up again and why is she so beautiful like this and shit, he’s never going to get another chance at this so–

“Please have dinner with me,” Kylo blurts out unthinkingly, cutting Rey off mid-rant.

“You–” She sputters, eyes wide as saucers. “I–” Does she even know that she holds his heart in her hands right now, that she could tear him down with just one word? “What?” Rey finally settles on, staring up at him with a look of utter confusion and not much else, not even the slightest hint of her feelings on the matter.

Kylo braces himself; this is it, his last shot. “You’re incredible,” he tells Rey, lips curving into a smile despite his nerves, “and passionate, and thoughtful, and God, you’re gorgeous. And I’m an idiot who keeps putting his foot in his mouth but what I meant to say was it’s insane for me to feel this strongly about someone who’s just my Uber driver, it’s impossible for me to miss someone I’ve only met three times. And yet I’ve spent the last month praying I’d see you again, and now here we are, impossible as it seems. So if you don’t hate me, even though I was probably the worst passenger you had to deal with, will you please go out on a date with me?”

Rey is still for the longest moment, seemingly frozen into place as she processes his impromptu speech. And then –

“Give me your phone.”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

She laughs, shakes her head at him fondly and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone, Kylo, so that I can add my number to it.”

“Oh. Oh,” he hands over his phone as soon as his mind catches up to her words, and he can barely breathe as Rey pulls up a new contact and programs her number into his phone for the express purpose of having him set up a date.

“So just shoot me a text or something, and then I’ll have yours,” Rey tells him, their fingers brushing as she hands the phone back. “For now I’ve really got to go,” she says, her reluctance painted all over her face, “or I’ll be late for lunch.”

“Are you heading in?” Kylo points at Skywalker Engineering, desperately hoping to prolong their time together. Rey nods, and he can’t help the relieved smile that stretches across his face. “Can I walk with you? I’m supposed to meet Skywalker for lunch, so…”

Rey frowns. “But Luke told me we’re having lunch with his nephew about the new legal department he’s setting up.”

“Um, yeah, about that–”

“Ben!” A familiar voice draws their attention to the front door, where a beaming Luke stands with an armful of folders. “You made it! And you’ve met Rey, that’s great. I’m just going to drop these off and then I’ll join you.”

He disappears back into the building, leaving Kylo with a stunned Rey.

“My real name’s Ben,” he explains, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he observes Rey’s reaction. With his luck, she’s probably heard all about how he disappointed Luke and ran away from home and sold his soul to Snoke’s law firm. “I wasn’t lying to you or anything, I promise. Kylo Ren is the name I usually go by at work, but I hate it there so I’m leaving and Uncle Luke just so happened to be looking for–”

To his amazement, Rey bursts into laughter. Giggles, almost, her eyes dancing with mirth and delight. “You’re Ben Solo? The prodigal son and naughty nephew Leia and Luke have been trying to set me up with for years?”

Naughty nephew? He should probably talk to Luke about that but for now – Rey, British orphan, found her grandfather… How has it taken him this long to put it all together? Rey isn’t even a common name. “You’re Rey Kenobi!” Kylo realizes. “You’re Old Ben’s long-lost granddaughter.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps between bouts of laughter. “You’re named after my grandfather,” her laughter dies down as she scrunches up her nose. “You’re named after my grandfather,” Rey repeats, quieter this time. “How do I feel about that?”

“That could be weird,” Kylo acknowledges. “You don’t have to call me that, though. No one ever does, aside from my family.”

“Never mind that,” she says, suddenly impatient. “Do you know what this means? Your family has been trying to set us up for years!” Rey points out, her earlier grin making a reappearance.

The fates indeed, he thinks to himself. “You know, I thought it was unlikely enough for me to get the same Uber driver three times in a city this big. But now that I know who you are and how long the universe has been trying to bring us together, I’m pretty sure it’s fate.”

Rey smiles, a coy thing he’s never seen before and immediately decides he’d like to see a whole lot more of. “Are you saying we’re meant to be?”

Kylo moves closer and offers her his hand. “Only one way to find out.”

Her hand in his shouldn’t feel this familiar, this right. But everything about Rey throws him off balance in the best of ways, and Kylo wouldn’t have it any other way now that her fingers are laced with his and she’s giving him that soft, warm smile he holds so dear.

If Luke thinks it’s weird that they hold hands all the way to the restaurant, he makes no mention of it. . . .

Well, he mentions it eventually, but only when Ben officially brings Rey to Sunday dinner as his girlfriend two months later.

This was meant to be 3000 words at most but here we are, because I have no self control and I’m extraordinarily long-winded.

I hope you guys liked it. As usual, I’d love to hear from you if you have any comments/thoughts on this piece.

[corvid-knight]

One More Brother

The Striders acquire one more member, and D attends a funeral.

This goes with Being A Brother Is Hard As Hell and takes place after How To Deal With Murder!

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820532)

When Bro calls you, you're in the middle of a consultation with one of the voice actors, and you let it ring through to voicemail. Of course you do; he calls you a lot, and ninety percent of the time it's something that can wait. Most of the other ten percent is shit that can wait too, come to think of it; he just overreacts to it.

The second time it rings, you also let it go to voicemail.

When your cell starts ringing only a few seconds after it stopped the last time, you sigh and get to your feet, glancing at the slightly-confused guy you'd been explaining his character to. "Excuse me for a sec, I think I've got some family shit going on..."

He nods and gives you an understanding look, and you step out into the hall.

"Bro, what—"

"You need to come home.

"I can't just ditch this shit—"

"I'm not fucking joking, D. Get your ass back here."

He sounds as calm as he always does on the phone; you absolutely hate that he's not giving you any verbal cues to work off of. This could be him getting pissed over something you did and forgot about, this could be him wanting backup on some little thing with Dirk, this could be Dirk having finally managed to get ahold of one of the weapons from Bro's extensive collection (you really hope it's not that one...wait, he wants you to come home, not to the hospital, so it must not be), it could be about fucking anything. His tone doesn't give anything away.

"Why am I coming home, exactly?"

There's the sound of him exhaling heavily close to the phone, and—you think—the sound of a baby fussing. Which is weird as fuck, if that's what you actually heard; Dirk's eight years old, at least six years past the sounds you can just barely hear.

"We got another brother," he says finally. "And you need to be at a fucking funeral in an hour and a half, unless you want me to be the one to go."

"Whose?"

"Your parents'." Yours, not ours, even though the latter's the more accurate term. It's also a term he hasn't used since they dropped him off to live with you. "Hurry up and get home."

"Bro—" The phone beeps halfway through the word; he hung up. "...shit."

For a second, you just lean against the wall, tucking your phone back into your shirt pocket and closing your eyes. Today's definitely going to be a shitshow, you think.

It takes some fast talking to get you out of the rest of the shit you're supposed to do today, but not quite as much as you expected. You guess that that's a combination of two things: number one, everyone expects "artists" to be temperamental, even if you're usually pretty fucking good at showing up and putting in the work for your screenplays. More so than anybody else, it seems, since half your job is bullying everyone else into actually getting the damn job done.

Number two, the phrase "my parents just died" is nothing short of magical. The fact that you can't seem to dredge up any emotions other than annoyance for having them fuck up your life again (which you're very careful to hide; the bereaved son isn't supposed to be irritated about the state he's just been shoved into) and dread for the upcoming experience of having to attend a gathering of people who knew them and only know of you.

Thankfully, dread can apparently be mistaken for grief, if that's what people want to see, and you walk out with the understanding that you may be back tomorrow, but if you end up taking a long weekend, no one's going to say anything. You'll definitely be back tomorrow, but they don't need to know that right now.

That takes fifteen minutes.

The drive back to the apartment takes half an hour.

Bro meets you at the door, shoving a folder overstuffed with papers at you. "Clothes're on the bed. There's shit in there you need to sign, the attorney'll be at the funeral."

"Yeah." You take the folder, but your attention's totally caught up by the baby your brother's holding against his shoulder. And it's an actual baby, not a toddler like Dirk was when you got him; this kid's so little your breath catches in your throat, his face buried in Bro's neck so you can only see a fluff of hair so fine and light that it looks white. "Let me see him, man."

"You're already going to be late by the time you finish getting ready." But when you set the folder down and hold out your arms, he hands the baby over willingly enough, stepping back and crossing his arms. Oh, he's pissed over some aspect of this—more likely at having your parents dragged back into his life than at the kid, though.

The baby whines at the change between Dirk and you, opening his eyes and crinkling his nose at you. Red eyes, like yours, and his hair really is a white that you're willing to bet won't darken with age—recessive genes hit him too, didn't they? Instead of crying, he blinks and reaches to try to swipe your shades off your face.

You tilt your head back to keep them in place and realize there's a lump in your throat. You're going to cry over how small and perfect this kid is.

"Gonna be late," Bro says again, and holds out his arms for the baby.

"I don't give a shit." You do hand him back, reluctantly. "If I'm late, I'm late. Screw it, right?"

"If it was me, I'd say that." He shrugs, adjusting the kid until said kid stops whining to come back to you. "But you know if I went I'd end up in jail for assault; no fuckin' way I can last more than a couple minutes in a room full of people who agree with those assholes."

"Which is why I'm the one going."

"Yeah, exactly. So you better fucking go, 'less you want them to be whispering about the shitty kinda person you are the whole time."

You can't help but laugh at that, as you head for your bedroom. "Hey, they'll do that anyway."

Fifteen minutes to make yourself presentable. Longer than you really want to take, but not as much time as you probably should. Then again, unless anyone you're going to meet has seen you at opening night for one of your films, they don't know that this isn't your best look of all time.

Bro absolutely refuses to let you drive. He gives you the choice of letting him drive you—not fucking happening, since it'd mean either taking the baby in the car without a carseat, or leaving him home for Dirk to watch—or taking an Uber. You go with the former, not that you really have a choice since Bro has your car keys.

So, the drive takes forty-five minutes instead of the half hour you would've shaved it down to. The downside of that is that it makes you inarguably late; the upside is that it gives you time to read through and sign the paperwork Bro gave you. Roughly a quarter of it's stuff you've signed twice before—custody documents, shit that confirms that you're Dave Strider's legal guardian now. The rest is shit that seems to be asking you to renounce any claim you might've had to your parents' estate.

Since you have no fucking claim to anything of theirs anymore, and don't want one, you sign those with absolutely no hesitation.

The last page is a list of shit you do get out of this.

The baby—Dave. A fucking furnished house, which you intend to put on the market more or less immediately. No way are you ever setting foot in there again. A safety deposit box, contents not listed here.

You're almost afraid to wonder what's in there.

You get everything filled out, and when the short guy with a worried expression and a horrible suit heads for you, you find a smile for him and hand over the folder. While he's going through the contents to check that you signed where you were supposed to, you slip your shades off and do your damnedest to disappear into the crowd of people already here.

It's not technically a funeral but something between a wake and a reception; your parents will be cremated. There's two closed coffins surrounded with too fucking many flowers at one end of the large room. You don't intend to go anywhere near them. There's tables with food and alcohol, probably the most expensive kinds of both that anyone could round up.

A drink sounds really damn good right now, but you don't intend to have one. The reasoning is partly that even if you end up just a little drunk, it'll look worse than you want it to, and partly your purely, stubbornly vindictive refusal to take anything of theirs.

Persephone in Hades comes to mind. Eat the fruit, get trapped here for-fucking-ever. Then again, from the looks you're getting, you're the devil here.

You stifle a sigh and make yourself a bet on how long it'll tke the looks and whispers to become something else.

Surprisingly, it's more than an hour. You get uncomfortable smiles and "we're so sorry for your loss" and "such a shame" and "it's such a pity about their son" until you want to put your fist through a wall.

That last one is what makes your blood boil, really; you don't give a fuck about your parents, haven't for more than a decade, but they're sorry for the baby, sorry for Dave, and that's so fucked up. He's too young to remember any of this shit, not that they're sorry because he might be traumatized by losing his parents. No, they're sorry for him because you'll be the one raising him, his brother who doesn't have a girlfriend at thirty and probably never will, his brother who didn't force the other two sons to come to say goodbye to the people they got their genes from, his brother, instead of a nice normal couple who don't give a fuck about their kids.

Never mind that Bro hates them. Never mind that Dirk barely remembers when he called the people raising him mom and dad instead of Bro and D. Never mind that you love your brothers more than your parents ever loved you or them. These assholes pity the kids and judge you and don't bother to hide it, and you're starting to debate whether you're going to have to have that drink after all.

Then the woman with the half-full glass walks up to you, and you realize that it's a good thing you didn't make up your mind on the drink yet.

"Can I help you?" you ask her, taking a step back as she gets further into your personal space than you're okay with. There's absolutely no chance that she actually wants something concrete from you, but you're not the fucking source of entertainment here. You're going to be polite. This is the reason you're here and Bro isn't: because you can be polite, even when you're gritting your teeth so hard your jaw hurts.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," she hisses, actually hisses, at you. She's at least a foot and a half shorter than you and twice your age, and even though she has to look up to scowl at you she takes another step forward.

"Ma'am, how about we assume I'm ashamed and you back off me a little?" She's too fucking close and you want to push her away. Instead, you keep your hands at your sides and retreat the eight inches or so that you can, until your back hits the wall.

"Your parents would be so ashamed of you—"

"My parents disowned me when I was fourteen years old and contacted me twice since then, both times to tell me I needed to raise one of my younger brothers because they didn't give a shit about the kids." You state the facts calmly and don't outwardly wince when she does the precise opposite of stepping back. "I'm not sure what you know about them, but you sure as hell don't know anything about me, so I'm afraid you don't know what you're talking about."

"Language!"

"Ma'am, if you get any closer to me you're about to hear some actual fucking language."

The hope there was that she'll get insulted enough to storm off in a huff, maybe complain about you to some of the other old fuckers here. What actually happens is that her eyes go wide and furious, she takes a single step back, and you barely have time to close your eyes before the contents of her glass splatter across your face.

Alcohol burns your eyes and nose, and you have to bite back another obscenity. You very deliberately wipe first one eye, then the other with the heel of your hand, keeping your movements slow and precise, shaking off droplets of...cognac. At least that's what it tastes like.

Waste of good liquor.

When you open your eyes, she's still standing there looking at you like you're the antichrist.

You give her the most polite grin you can muster, flip her off with both hands, and very carefully don't brush against her as you head for the side of the room with the food—and more importantly, the alcohol.

To your credit, you successfully resist the impulse to just get drunk. Two drinks—whiskey instead of cognac, expensively smooth over the burn of alcohol—carry you through another half hour or so, and when that's gone by you walk out and call an Uber. And yes, you earn more dirty looks while you're standing outside the building waiting for it to arrive, but you're so fucking done with the people in there that it's not funny.

The sympathetic look that the driver gives you as you get in the car sets you off. You manage to get your seatbelt buckled, despite the fact that your hands're shaking; as she pulls onto the highway you double over in your seat and cry, hard. It's almost purely out of anger and frustration, with your parents and yourself, but it must look enough like grief that the woman in the driver's seat doesn't ask if you're okay.

Then again, it could be that she just isn't paid enough to ask. Or that she thinks you're just a sad drunk. You do smell like one, thanks to that bitch.

Anyway, having your ten-minute meltdown on the ride home is good, because it means by the time you open the door to the apartment you've gotten yourself to a state where it looks like you didn't have a meltdown at all.

The apartment is very quiet. You find Dirk sitting on the floor in front of the couch, his headphones on and his attention completely fixed on the laptop in front of him. Your laptop, actually. Bro's asleep on the couch with the baby nestled next to him, safe from falling off.

Dirk looks up and untangles himself from the headphones when you crouch down next to him. "Hey, D."

"Hey yourself. What're you doing with my computer, buddy?"

"Making it work better." From another eight-year-old that might seem like wishful thinking, but you believe your little bro. "I already did mine, and Bro was mad so I didn't wanna mess with his."

"He's not mad at you, man." As Dirk closes the laptop you hold out your arms, and he reaches for you with no hesitation. If he's this eager for comfort, Bro must've snapped at him at least. "Some shit went down that stressed him out, is all."

"Still mad," Dirk mumbles, pressing his face into your neck for a moment. " 's still scary."

That hurts a little.

"You don't have to be scared of Bro, Dirk."

"...yeah. I know." He shrugs against your arms, and pulls back enough to look up at you curiously. "Did he mean it when he said Dave was my bro too?"

"Hell yeah he did. Now you're the big bro; is that cool or what?"

The worst thing you could expect from Dirk is a puzzled look and maybe a suggestion of what this could be called other than "cool." But he goes for the polar opposite: an exited grin and an emphatic nod of his head. "So fucking cool."

"No swearing. Did Bro let you hold him yet?"

From the way his orange eyes go wide at the suggestion, you're going to take that as a no. You let go of Dirk and gently push him away, getting up to lean over Bro and Dave. The latter's awake, those familiar red eyes blinking slowly up at you as he yawns and waves his arms.

You wouldn't be surprised if he cried when you picked him up, but he doesn't.. Just makes soft baby-sounds and reaches for your shades where they're hooked into the collar of your shirt.

"C'mon, lil' dude, you don't want those."

Dirk's watching you; you sit down and wait for him to do the same, then deposit Dave on his lap and guide his hands to support the baby properly.

God, you wish you were taking pictures of this. The amazed look on Dirk's face is fucking priceless.

Bro chuckles, and you look over to see that he has his phone out, doing exactly that. He shoves his shades up with his free hand, meeting your eyes with a small grin. "Cute," he says.

"Really damn cute." You put your hand down, and Dave grabs your finger. "Both of y'all, you know that?"

Dirk only looks up at you for a moment to nod. Then he's fully focused on his baby brother again. You feel like he'll stay like that as long as you'll let him.

Damn, but you're so fucking happy that your brothers love each other as much as you love them.

[booksncoffee]

post-hygtb drabble (2/?)

for the anon that requested: “We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about.” for harry and tee.

Harry’s out of town for a conference that his shitty boss made him go to and Tenley felt like she’s going mad. She didn't realise how much Harry did around the house until he wasn't around. 

She woke up one morning – or was it afternoon? She couldn't remember – and realised that there’s no coffee brewing in the pot. Usually all she had to do was pour the warm coffee into her cup but that morning she had to prepare everything herself. And she had to fill Stella’s food and water.

On the third day, Niall was done hearing her talk about how much she missed Harry and how much she wanted to kill his boss for making them spend a week apart. Besides, he had promised to Harry that he would keep an eye out on Tenley. So he’d like to think that he’s being a bloody good friend when he forced Tenley to go out for a drink with him.

“I can’t leave Stella alone,” Tenley tried to reason with Niall even though she’s already changed her outfit into one that was more presentable than her earlier outfit. She really would rather spend her night in her living room whilst waiting for Harry to video call her. That sounded pathetic even in her head, but she’s accepted the fact that her life sans Harry was pathetic.

He rolled his eyes. “She’s asleep, Tee. And I’m pretty sure she won’t notice your absence.”

“Where’re you taking me anyway?” She asked, brows furrowing as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Did Harry put you up to this?”

Niall scoffed, but didn't say anything else. That led Tenley to believe that it was Harry’s plan so she picked up her mobile phone and typed a message to him.

Can’t believe u asked niall to force me out of the house!

“C’mon, let’s get going!” Niall exclaimed as he made his way to Tenley, wrapped his fingers around her forearm and pulled her out of her room.

“You’re so annoying, do you know that?” Tenley scowled at him and he simply shrugged, used to the insult by now. Tenley checked her phone once more and noticed that Harry had replied to her text.

So… are you out of the house?

A pout adorned Tenley’s lips as she typed her reply: Unfortunately. Niall’s dragging me out.

Good. You should have some fun tonight.

Niall tried to take a peek on the screen on Tenley’s phone but she shoved him away, muttering something about needing privacy whilst she composed a text message: won’t be fun without you :(

Before Tenley could read his reply, Niall snatched her phone from her hand and kept it in the pocket of his jacket. Tenley glared at him and demanded that he returned the device but he pretended as though he didn't hear her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, she decided to just go along with him. “Just one drink, right?” She asked as they stood outside the pub.

Niall nodded. “Mhmm.”

He didn't sound convincing but Tenley chose not to address it. The two of them walked into the pub and Niall told her to take a seat as he got them their drinks.

Tenley wanted to check on her phone, but she realised a second later that it’s not with her. She let out a heavy sigh and resorted to looking at the small stage where a band was performing. She pretended to be interested whilst her brain drifted to the thoughts of Harry.

The last time they were away from one another was during the Winter break. But that lasted for only three days before Harry decided that he wanted to spend Christmas with Tenley. 

So after having breakfast with his parents on Christmas morning, he told them he wanted to drive up to Cornwall and they didn't stop him from doing so. Even if they did, he would’ve left the house because he missed Tenley so much and he knew she missed him too even though she didn't want to admit it. The fact that she kept texting him sort of gave him an idea that she felt the same way. So, he took the drive and surprised her with a box of Christmas gift.

Tenley had never been more grateful that he showed up that afternoon.

After that, the two of them hardly spent time apart. But now, he had a conference to attend, one that he couldn't get out of, and Tenley’s left wishing that he was with her.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pulled Tenley out of her thoughts, making her jump a little. That person chuckled and she felt all warm inside. “Is this seat taken?”

She knew straightaway that it was him. Jumping out of her seat, she wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed her face in the crook of his neck. “You’re here,” she whispered against his skin.

He let out a chuckle as he rubbed her back. “Missed me?”

She pulled away to look into his eyes. “God, you have no idea.”

Harry opened his mouth, probably to say something witty, but Tenley decided to shut him up with a kiss. She was well aware of the fact that they’re in public but she didn't care. She missed her man and even though someone’s definitely whistling at them right now, she continued kissing him until she’s out of breath.

“How?” She asked breathlessly.  

“I have a day off tomorrow,” he answered, as breathless as she was. He took a deep breath and explained, “The conference continued on Monday so I decided to come home. I drove back as soon as today’s conference ended.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”  

“Well, what can I say? I miss Stella.” She slapped his chest. He caught her hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing each and every one of her fingers. “I missed you. So much.”

“I missed you too.” She told him before capturing his lips for a kiss. “I hate being away from you,” she admitted.

For some reasons beyond her knowledge, Harry started laughing. She kinked an eyebrow at him. “It’s just… We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about, bunny.”  

Tenley’s cheeks warmed up. She wanted to protest and tell him that they didn't just turn into that couple, but she realised that there’s no use denying it.

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” she replied.

“I’m glad.”

“Are you two done?” Niall asked as he approached the two of them. “I’ve been sitting at the bar waiting for you to get your hands off of each other.”

Tenley gave him the bird whilst Harry simply laughed.

“Good to see you, mate.” Harry pulled Niall into a hug, patting his back twice. “And thank you for taking care of Tee while I was away.”

“He didn't take care of me.” Tenley countered. Niall opened his mouth to defend himself, but she stopped him. “Need I remind you that I had to make you chicken soup because you weren’t ‘feeling well’, Niall?”

“I had a fever!”

Tenley shook her head. “No you didn't.”

“Yes I did. My body was hotter than usual.”

“That’s cos your hands were cold!”

“God, I’ve missed this,” Harry interrupted, laughing when his girlfriend and best friend glared at him.  

[jashindoesntloveshidan]

~cut off~ (a drabble)

It’s colder here than I last remembered it. But, for some reason, the old man seemed even colder.

Spring Break couldn’t come any fucking sooner if you ask me. Classes are boring, deadlines are a joke, and my schedule is so tight even virgins look at it in awe. I needed a break from this shitty place; So, I called the only person I felt like I can tolerate at the moment.

I forgot how long it’s been since I last saw Kakuzu. I tried to block it all out of my head once I started TTU. But the smell of his cologne filled the inside of his stupid little Ford Focus (the guys loaded, and thats the car he chose? ‘It’s reliable’, he says. The nerve of that asshole.), and the memories flooded back the entire ride home.

Now mind you, he only broke up with me because I was going away to college. I didn’t do anything stupid to make him not want me anymore. It was a long time ago. I was a dumb teenager who needed the cash, and he was willing to give it when I put out. It was nice, though. For two years he let me stay at his place. The old man fed me, bought me shit, hell- he even taught me how to drive. We really had something good going on….

This neighborhood makes me nostalgic. When we finally arrived home, I couldn’t help but take an extra second to get a good look at the place. The cobbled stairs lead to a creaky door, but the questionable outside only made the inside of the house look all the more luxurious. The sound of classical music from the living rooms television quietly welcomed us inside. Around the corner was a bowl of fruits waiting to be eaten on an island, and even further back was a kitchen that was bigger than my old childhood home. Fuckin’ nice. The thought of real food could actually make me hard right about now.

“Goddamn, I fucking missed this place.” I stole an apple from the counter, and sat in my usual spot on the couch. It’s like nothing had changed.

Kakuzu didn’t acknowledge me, though. It’s not out of the ordinary, to be honest. He wasn’t a man of many words. His unfeeling outside made it a lot easier for me to put up with him. But, he was chatty when I called him up last week. Asking about school, how my life is going, wondering what future plans I had. We talked for hours. Today, he hardly mumbled a greeting.

Whatever.

Nothing good was playing on T.V, so I scrolled down my phone until the motherfucker decided to pay any attention to me. Well, kind of. He sat next to me on the couch. Casual. I hoisted a leg overtop of his. It felt just like old times.

“So, get this,” my best attempt at making conversation, “Our break actually came a few days early because there was this huge fucking storm over in Twilight town, and the whole area doesn’t have power. It was shitty, because I had to be there for that. But now I get to stay here for a little longer, which is sick. I’m not complaining. You know, it really makes me think of that one time we-”

“Hidan.”

His deep voice slashed through my tangent like a sword. I wanted to ignore it and keep going, like he used to do to me, but an unsettling pang of anxiety found its way into my chest. Something was wrong.

“What?”

Silence

“Are you really gonna interrupt my story like that and not say anything? Who the fuc-”

“I’m cutting you off.”

The weight of my heart fell to the pit of my stomach... Maybe it’s not what I think it is...

“Uh, yeah, you cut me off twice, actually. Kinda fucking rude. But it’s whatever I forgive you. Anyway-”

He didn’t even have to say anything to shut me up the second time. He grabbed my arm. Not loose, but not too tight either. This used to be the only way I knew what he was saying is true. He looked me in the eyes. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. I took a deep breath, trying to slow down time and avoid hearing what I’m about to hear. I know what’s coming next.

“I can’t keep supporting you. You have to take responsibility for yourself. I’m cutting you off.”

I’m not a crier. I’m never a crier. I’m a fucking man. But I swear I could have bursted into a sea of fucking tears after hearing that. It’s not because I’m spoiled. I’m not dependent or needy or any of that other shit. Kakuzu’s funds were the last thing I had of him to hold onto. I don’t care how stupid it sounds, because it’s true. He’s not saying ‘I’m not giving you any more money’. He’s saying ‘you’re on your own. Goodbye.’. But I’m not fucking taking that.

“What?” My raised voice broke me free from his grasp. “Are you fucking with me? How am I supposed to live out there? How do you expect me to survive? I’m only out there because your smartass told me to do it.”

“You’ll live.”

“No, fuck that. Don’t act like you’ll care about what’ll happen to me. You bring me all this fucking way, don’t say shit, and take me home just to throw me away like this? Where the fuck do you get off on it, huh? What am I supposed to do?”

“Hidan, calm down.”

“Fuck you, don’t tell me to calm down. What the fuck do you think this is? What was the point of letting me come home? You should’ve left me in that goddamn ghost town you forced me into, you son of a bitch!”

If I would have kept going, I might’ve actually thrown punches. Which would’ve sucked because I know he’s stronger than me, and I probably would’ve died. But at this point, is that such a problem? Instead, I stormed my ass up the stairs, and locked myself in the bathroom.

The tears I dreaded found their way down my face. This fucking blows.

I started a bath. The running water didn’t drown out the broken record in my head, though. Submerging myself in the water was the only thing that could relax me at this point. I can sit and think.

What the fuck did I do wrong? Nothing has changed, I’ve stayed the same. Has he gotten tired of me? Can I change his mind? Fuck, I really thought I was fine by myself in college. I didn’t need anyone's approval. I had bitches wrapped around my finger, and people who hated my guts. I was thriving. But now that I’m back home, it’s like I can feel every bad decision I’ve made trying to bang it’s way out of my head. I have a migraine. I want to drown myself. The towels Kaku had stacked in the cabinets smell like a new fabric softener.

I think I know why I’m being cut off.

I wanted to stay in this bathtub all day. I could have, too, if I wasn’t interrupted yet again by the man of the fucking hour.

I kept my sight off of him. My eyes were leveled with the water. Thank God this tub is so spacious. But even with all the space in this whole bathroom, Kakuzu had to sit his ass down at the head of the tub. And what’s worse than that, he was still as silent as he was in the living room. Anger built up in my core like a spreading wildfire- but it suddenly washed away when his hand brushed through my damp hair. This is too much for me, man. What am I supposed to say? I sat on it for a second, trying not to lean into his touch.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there.” No use beating around the bush.

“Now, Hidan, look,”

“No. It’s okay. Things can’t be like they used to be. I know.”

Silence.

“Can you please. just. Leave me alone for right now? I’ll be done soon.”

I couldn’t let him see the tears building up again, so I kept my head bowed. He didn’t argue. He quietly got up, and showed himself out. Now I really wanted to drown myself in this bath.

I got dressed in my old clothes, and made my way into the master bedroom. I knew I’d find him in here. He held his stupid book in front of his face, occupying only one side of his huge bed. Everything in me was warning myself not to crawl up next to him, but my old side was pulling me in like a magnet and calling my name. I couldn’t stop myself.

Sitting beside him hurt. Just like it did when he broke things off the first time.

“Come here.”

Before I knew it, his book was sitting on the end table. His arms hooked me in. A tear fell onto his forearm. It happened so fast, I didn’t know what to do. The pillows behind us supported our weight as we sunk down into them. This embrace. It was warmer than I last remembered it. 

Fuck, I’m so conflicted right now.

“I haven’t found someone else.” His voice vibrated through the cheek that rested on my forehead. Maybe it was something I shouldn’t have heard, but god fuckin damn, did it feel good to know that. I let my body relax against his.

“I don’t think I’ll ever find someone again. Not at my age.”  We sat in a few moments of silence before he continued. “I have to let you go, Hidan. You need to be your own person. I’ve supported you this far, and I know you’re going to make it a lot farther. The faster you accept it, the easier it’ll be for you. You don’t need me to tell you how to figure it out anymore.”

I don’t want to entertain the thought of that being true. But I know it’s impossible to argue. I felt small. He was my shelter for so fucking long, and it’s about to be taken away forever. Life really isn’t any fucking fair. With all these thoughts, I had nothing I wanted to verbally express. So, he continued.

“You can stay here for the rest of your break. But after that, no more. Do you understand?”

I nod my head.

He kisses my hairline.

Maybe I should just drop out again.

[letithappeneverafter]

Came across Nicks essay about living in a far-away country and what it means to be a creative human at the arse-end of the world. This comes from a past edition of Griffith Review which is a pretty impressive literary essay magazine. Full of cultural and thought-provoking stuff. Go Nick. I probably shouldn’t just copy’n’paste but I did borrow it from Brisbane library to read in the flesh. Just wanted to share with all you Tame Impala and POND fans.

Creative Darwinism by Nick Allbrook

- This is my city and I’m never gonna leave it. Channel 7 News 

WRITING ABOUT MY experience of making music in Perth is a strange thing, because as soon as a ‘scene’ is bound and gagged by the written word it is finished, petrified, swept up into the Rolling Stone archives and forever considered ‘history’. It might be revered and glorified, but it’s still long gone. This could be a very restricting view to take on a community like Perth, which is still just as inspiring and productive as it ever was. I can’t pretend to understand where ‘music scenes’ begin or end. It seems a futile and narrow-minded pursuit. So before I begin, I want to say that this is merely a reflective exercise. There was never a ‘golden age’, and if one does exist I can’t see it, because it’s floating all around, invisible and omnipresent.

For years I suffered serious cultural guilt as a Western Australian. The orthodoxy and banality made me feel isolated, relegated to the company of eccentric long-haired ghosts singing to me from inside my Discman. Every birthday and Christmas, Dad would give me a care package of CDs. This blessed nourishment of Jethro Tull, Lou Reed, Led Zeppelin and David Bowie shone a light into the murky tunnels of my future. Playing music and generally being a flaming Christmas fruitcake became my sole purpose, and me and a few other school friends – Steve Summerlin and Richard Ingham of Mink Mussel Creek, and many other brilliant but criminally under-recognised projects – revelled in our little corner of filthy otherness. This outlook was key to our musical and creative development. We railed against the boredom of Perth not with pickets or protest, but with a head-in-the-sand hubris that made us feel invincible and unique. We found more comrades along the way – Joe Ryan, Kevin Parker, Jay Watson – and together we erected great walls of noise and hair and mouldy dishes around our Daglish share house commune citadel on Troy Terrace where we incubated, practised, recorded, talked and grew. A friend stick’n’poke tattooed a spiral shape into my arm to represent that way of life (which I’d lifted from Hermes Trismegistus and other alchemical mumbo jumbo I learned at university). Look inside and the world can be whatever you want. Look out and it’s ugly and shitty. In Perth, use of public space is regulated to the point of comedy, and Orwellian restrictions on tobacco, noise, bicycles, alcohol and public gatherings breed a festering discontent and boredom because no one likes being pre-emptively labelled a deviant. Being trusted enriches the soul – you can see it on the face of the child who leads the family trek. You can see the flipside on the faces of disenchanted detainees. On weekends, this restlessness is unleashed across clubs and pubs in Northbridge and Subiaco in an avalanche of Jägerbombs (17mL of Jägermeister dropped into a larger glass of Red Bull and then consumed with haste) and Midori and violence and cheap sex. When the Monday sun staggers over the horizon, people rub their eyes and heave a great sigh and the city reverts to its utilitarian state – the ‘bourgeois dream of unproblematic production’, as The 60s Without Apology (University of Minnesota Press, 1984) puts it, ‘of everyday life as the bureaucratic society of controlled consumption’. That this description of pre-revolutionary 1950s and ’60s America is so apt for Perth is damn scary. Or hilarious. I can’t decide. I guess it depends on the depth and colour of your nihilistic streak, or if you actually live here. Whichever way you look at it, it does not paint a picture of a city conducive to creativity. Art is the antithesis of logic and functionality – it is romance and wonder and stupid, pointless lovelies. As good old Mr Vonnegut so often said, it’s an exercise to make your soul grow. So how, in a super-functional and conservative environment whose every will is bent towards digging really, really big holes in the ground, have I seen and heard and felt some of the most brilliant, pure and original creativity in the world? I USED TO dream about living in a cultural powerhouse like Paris or Berlin or New York, but after spending time in these places I’ve realised that the emptiness and isolation of Perth – boredom to some – was a far better environment for creativity. The ‘cultural capitals’ are so rich in art and wonder that it can feel pointless to add to it. Maybe just being in those ‘cultural capitals’ fills us up with wonder? Strolling through Berlin at night, ducking into a bar with fish nailed to the roof, skipping across the cobblestones for some cheap beers in a record shop in a Russian caravan in an abandoned peanut factory…that kind of stuff fills the romantic void. Having a Ricard and a few Gitanes on the terrasse of Aux Folies; stumbling through Camden after a lock-in at the Witch’s Tit or the Cock’n’Balls or the Cancerous Bowel or whatever you call it; recollecting a possible conversation with Jah Wobble over a pint…Perth? It has no secret tunnels to romantic fulfilment. For me, music and art have always been a way to manufacture that romance lacking in upper-middle-class Western Australia. To be honest, if I had lived in New York I probably would’ve been so damn hung-over – or busy ensuring that I would be later – that a whole lot less creation would’ve gone on. Mundane and discouraging places like Perth create a vicious Darwinism for creatively inclined people, where survival of the fittest is played out with swift and unrepentant force and the flippant or unpassionate are left behind, drowning in putrid mind-clag. You have to really need it, and without the mysterious and poetic benefits of a vibrant city culture this has to come from deep inside. Amber Fresh, otherwise known as Rabbit Island, is one person who produces constant streams of music, drawings, essays, poems, calendars, videos and photos from her home. She fills her world with little pieces of homemade, lo-fi, photocopied beauty and magic. They don’t have funding or precedent or material ambition – and the result is something fresh and original. Mei Saraswati does the same thing, although completely different styles of music. She has produced, mixed, mastered and illustrated scores of albums in her bedroom and then released this other-worldly electronic R’n’B brilliance onto the internet with no fanfare, simply to turn around and start making more. These are just two examples. There are many more. SOMEHOW, BY BEING a cultural long-drop, Perth lit a fire under my arse. In more scholarly terminology this could be called a ‘spirit of negation’ – a margarine version of the same zeitgeist that has catalysed most worthwhile movements throughout history, from dadaism to punk to all the intellectual and artistic wonders of The Netherlands freshly unchained from their dastardly Spanish overlords. Being isolated spatially and culturally – us from the city, Perth from Australia and Australia from the world – arms one with an Atlas-strong sense of identity. Both actively and passively, originality seems to flourish in Perth’s artistic community. Without the wider community’s acceptance, creative pursuits lack the potential for commodification. There’s no point in preening yourself for success because it’s just not real. It’s a fairytale, so you may as well just do it in whatever way you like, good or bad, in your room or on the top of the Telstra building, which – as anyone with any common sense will attest – was built for that one potential badass to drop in on a skateboard and parachute off. Growing up in the Kimberley and then Fremantle, the true machinery of the music business evaded me. It was about as real as the Power Rangers and twice as awesome. Led Zeppelin and U2, all the way down to whatever was on Rage that morning, was just a pretty dream. But if I grew up in a city where success in music was common and highly visible, I reckon it would have been far more alluring. I would’ve understood how to go about it, probably before I actually realised how deep my love of music was. With the template for success laid out so precisely – gigs to be got, managers to be found, reviews to be had and the ultimate dream of ‘making it’ tangibly within reach – Perth would find itself producing far less original art. Because as it stands, it doesn’t really matter if you’re crap or silly or unbearably offensive, you wouldn’t get much further doing something different anyway. This helps to preserve a magical purity because it’s executed with love – with necessity. And what’s more, when these artists keep going and practising and advancing – which they must – somehow their crassness coagulates into something brilliantly individual and accomplished, and you can see it performed in an arena that makes the audience feel truly blessed. I saw Rabbit Island and Peter Bibby and Cam Avery play in backyards. I saw cease play in a tattoo parlour in Maylands. Me and Joe Ryan were plastered against the wall by their sound, gawking up at Andrew, the guitarist, precariously standing on his enormous amp wearing high heels and full fishnet bodystocking, slowly trying to drive his guitar through the top of his cabinet like some pagan-burlesque reimagining of King Arthur. After hours they slowed to a halt, and the crowd cheered from the stairs and bathroom door and kitchen and I remembered where we were: in a tiny share-house in Maylands, in the flaming cauldron of hell or the halls of Valhalla. Mink Mussel Creek played there a few times and once, in a flash of drunken inspiration, someone turned the only light in the room off mid-performance. I saw the fourteen guitarists of Electric Toad destroy a warehouse art gallery wearing ’90s WA football jerseys. Tame Impala and Pond played in Tanya’s garage and every time I cried and danced and felt like the breath of God was being embarrassingly saucy all over my skin. We played our very first show in that garage and I can still see Jay demolishing the tiny drum kit – kick, snare, ride, tom – as sparks floated from the forty-gallon drum and lit the faces of the people looking in from the dark. None of us had ever seen anyone play like it in real life, let alone in a garage, sitting on milk crates. As far as genres go, our music ‘scene’ in Perth was an anomaly. A mad mosaic of groups and artists only held together by gallant separation from conventional Perth society. Nick Odell, the drummer of CEASE and Sonny Roofs, still has a poster for a gig at Amplifier Bar that I remember as a kind of microcosmic Woodstock – a tactile realisation of all the beauty and communion we cherished. The line-up included us (Mink Mussel Creek), CEASE (aforementioned stoner/doom/drone lords), Sex Panther (punk-party queens), Oki Oki (Nintendo synth pop) and Chris Cobilis (experimental laptop noise music). I think most members of the bands ended up on stage at more than one time, wrapped in Cobilis’ wires or yelling into a madly effected microphone in front of CEASE. I certainly did. Nowhere else would such a ridiculously mismatched line-up consider themselves a tight community. We all partied together, played together and are still friends. I think this spirit is lacking in a lot of the more culturally enlightened parts of the world. Maybe in these vibrant communities the countercultural idea is so entrenched it becomes capitalist orthodoxy and loses its edge. It is subjected to the rationality it once challenged. In the cultural capitals – Paris, Berlin, New York – creativity and original thinking are accepted and valued parts of mainstream life. In Perth they are not. Paris has over four hundred streets named after artists and writers, and this honour is not restricted to the most unobtrusive or patriotic. Rue Albert Camus, Rue Marcel Duchamp and the recently proposed Place Jean-Michel Basquiat, for example, show the state glorifying revolutionaries, absurdists, libertines and a gay, heroin-using, Haitian–American graffiti artist. Today we can stroll along the verdant Boulevard Auguste-Blanqui, named after the man who led the uprising of the Paris Commune. A revolutionary, a prisoner, an anarchist. In modern terms: a terrorist. There, art is a basic fact of everyday life, while in Perth it is an anomaly hidden in garages and living rooms – deep beneath a conservative fishbowl of productivity. So, all things considered, ‘cultural capitals’ should be havens for art and music, and Perth should not. The romance just seeps into the pores, ja? I always thought this before I left Western Australia, but have since found it to be otherwise. I asked a young photographer and artist in Amsterdam about the music scene there and her reply was wholly negative. A lot of Parisians seem to feel the same way. I look back on my time in Perth and think about the huge number of brilliant musicians and artists who I saw and knew, often not in official venues but in backyards or sheds or the abandoned entertainment centre (yes, CEASE). Perhaps with the freedom – almost expectation – to create, revel and throw it all around the streets, it all just gets a bit boring. Like much good art, it doesn’t really ‘mean’ anything, so writing an essay about it is an odd activity. The experience of a city or community varies so much that it can never be defined while it is still occurring. When it’s actually happening, a ‘scene’ is not really a ‘scene’ – it’s completely intangible and only coagulates into a definitive and convenient ball when history puts it in a cage, when someone from the outside looks in and decides there’s something shared between a bunch of vaguely artistic fools. I guess that’s what I’m doing now, which is pretty ridiculous seeing as nothing is finished and the Perth artistic community is so ethereal that it couldn’t and shouldn’t be labelled at all.

From Griffith Review Edition 47: Looking West © Copyright Griffith University & the author.

[miatalovingpos]

“Why won’t you evacuate?” “Why can’t you come to work?” “You don’t have it that bad!” “You still have power and wifi! You’re not in Houston! Stop lying and taking advantage of the situation!” “You should die for posting on social media and not doing something about the flood.” 

People, it’s bad. I’m tired of self-centered, cozy, and currently safe people telling me it’s not. I’m trapped on high ground while everything else around me is still flooded anytime it rains. Yes, I still have power. That doesn’t mean we’re not struggling too. We have no access to food unless we go several miles down a spotty road to a store that runs out of everything before 2pm every day. It’s the only grocery store open in the area. There are looters not too far from here and if they decide to come here, there’s no way for us to get help if they become aggressive and dangerous. Police are busy saving people in the flooded neighboring areas and we’ve been left on our own. We keep a baseball bat by the door and a gun in the bedroom ‘just in case’ like typical Texans. That doesn’t guarantee our safety though. 

We share our water since we still have access to our well, our neighbors check in on us when it rains for a while just to make sure we’re okay since the back yard floods so easily, family and friends are being rescued in boats and helicopters that we can hear not too far away from the house, and we have to stay up at night if it starts raining just to make sure it doesn’t get close to the door the way it did Saturday night. We help in the small way that we can but there’s nothing we can really do. We don’t have any money to donate that we don’t need for ourselves while we can’t work without being in a dangerous situation on the road, we don’t have a boat to take out to help people, neither my boyfriend or myself are currently trained to be useful for any sort of medical help (and they can’t train us on the spot in this emergency since we’d be a liability), and our vehicles are mid-sized sedans, not the jacked up trucks that you need to get through the flood waters. So we can’t help. We can only donate water when people drop by with their own jugs to fill. My manager is crazy to ask me to go to work tomorrow when it’s possible it’ll start raining again. I work for a restaurant about 20 miles North of here and there is no way I can make it there in my car when I don’t have money for gas or a gas station open to stop at. Not to mention the map above shows how many closed roads there are between here and there. I might lose my job. So don’t blame me for not helping. 

We were not told to evacuate because evacuating this many people out of the Houston area would have been impossible and people would have died when the storm hit because of all the traffic since the roads would’ve been the first to flood. We WERE warned ahead of time that Harvey would be near us, yes. However, we WEREN’T told that it would dump this much rain on us, that the majority of Houston would be overflowing with water within 48 hours, that rivers and bayous would back up so badly that it would flood all of the houses near them, and that the storm would just hang over us, not allowing us to get out. We were told NONE of this beforehand while we had time to leave. My boyfriend’s mom and dad only left because his mother is paranoid and leaves to her second home anytime there is a storm headed this way. Not everyone is like that. There were pets to watch, a job to continue going to, and a life to continue living. This storm was downplayed in our area and we believed it would just soak the yard and be gone to the North where it would dissipate. Obviously that was not the case. 

DO NOT TELL ME IT WAS MY CHOICE TO STAY THAT PUT ME IN THIS MESS! DO NOT TELL ANYONE FROM HOUSTON THAT IT’S THEIR FAULT THIS IS HAPPENING TO THEM! 9 bodies have been found in the floods. People. Have. Died. and several more people are missing. I didn’t even vote this year and people are still telling Texans that we deserve to die because we were a Republican state. I’m sorry but what the ever loving HELL does that have anything to do with the children and minorities down here that are suffering along WITH the white redneck republicans in the same damn boats? There are a lot of liberals down here as well and you’re wishing death on the whole state because you can’t get your head out of your ass. Some of you still need to think about the fact that there are over 7 million people down here and you think that every last one of them is a conservative asshole. 

Texas has been hit with tropical storms before and they weren’t this bad. Harvey wasn’t supposed to hit us with more than tropical storm strength so we figured we’d be fine. The same way you think you’ll be just fine before you get into a car accident on a normal day. You can’t predict that you’ll get into that accident. You know there’s a chance but you can’t prepare for it every single day. You know that it’ll rain so you drive a little more carefully but you don’t expect the ‘other guy’ to turn right into your lane and hit you so hard that someone dies, you flip, the whole car is destroyed, and you have to wait for help from anyone willing to get you out of there. 

I have posted to both Whisper and iFunny out of boredom of being stuck in the house for several days straight and iFunny was surprisingly supportive and open to my explanation as to why I didn’t evacuate. Whisper, however, is a horrible app with horrible people that think they have a license to be an asshole. Unless you legit receive help on that app, I highly suggest you delete it. It breeds nothing but miscommunication through limited characters in a post and everyone thinks they’re invincible. I NEVER post to Tumblr unless it’s a repost of something I wanted to repost. But lately I’ve been wanting to find a good online community that won’t tear me apart for being privileged in this shitty situation while also providing some sort of moral support while my friends without power save their phone batteries for emergencies. So, Tumblr, I’d like to hear from you if you have any input on the situation. 

Donations are a great help. Donate to any charity of your choice that’s specifying disaster relief funds and they’ll do the rest. Ex: Red Cross, LGBTQ, etc. Animals have also been affected so donating to local shelters helps them support more stranded pets and helps operations to save abandoned pets. We haven’t taken in any personally but I do know some people that have been picking up stranded pets off of flooded roads and keeping them in their homes until everything is good and well. (Of course, they post to Facebook asking for the owners to claim them so they can get them home.) 

I know people have posted about this already but I feel that it’s important to get as many people’s experiences and thoughts out there. The more people who are aware of what’s going on, the less ignorance and hurtful comments are said. The last thing anyone wants is for someone who’s lost everything to be told that they’re not struggling because they aren’t from Florida that gets rain up their asshole 24/7 like I’ve been told by more than 3 people or from a different part of the world that gets typhoons every month. That person’s life is still destroyed and they may not have anywhere to go or any way to get their life back. If they have the privilege of seeing your hurtful words when they’re seeking emotional help, you had better expect them to wish some pretty hurtful things on you in their time of emotional turmoil. You had better prepare for the special kind of hell you’ll be going through later in life (or after life if you believe in that kind of thing.) Your opinion is not grounds to bully someone when they’re suffering. Karma will be a bitch.

If you’re not from here, you probably haven’t thought about the fact that a lot of these people that have lost their homes were refugees from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. They are living this hell AGAIN. I didn’t even think about it until I saw a comment on a Facebook post about it. I didn’t even remember Katrina since I was too young at the time. These people are mentally beaten down and if you’re telling them their suffering isn’t true suffering, that they’re still privileged for the things they HAD, you need to take a reality check and think about how you’d feel if you’d lost your home TWICE via hurricane. If they’re posting about it, they’re really upset and they want some sort of confirmation that what they’re dealing with is bad, some sort of encouragement that they can stay strong in this situation. Because in their minds, they just want help. They want someone to have their back and them they can do it. That they can get back up and start all over again. Maybe it is a cry for some attention. Because at least that attention means that they’re not alone. 

Say it with me: Hurricane Harvey is not a pity party or competition! Suffering is suffering, no matter who you are or where you are! If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!

I’m not personally in that extreme of a situation. I’m just bored waiting for the roads to open up so we can go get more food since we’re running low and so I can visit my family. But consider this a PSA for those of you that have shot people down that are going through this because they were posting about it or asking for some sort of acknowledgement. I’ve personally gotten threats and comments that have made me feel like more should’ve happened to me for anything I say to be taken seriously. I was SO lucky to have not been flooded. The only thing we got was a puddle under the door and some knocked down tree limbs and small trees. In one of my pics, you can see that the flooding down the street covered the road even AFTER it had time to drain. That water had covered the road in front of our house at the time of the storm and had been creeping up to the front door when we went to sleep for a couple of hours Saturday night. When we woke up, it had receded back to the ditch. 

This is what the rest of the area looked like when they woke up: https://www.buzzfeed.com/katebubacz/17-photos-show-just-how-bad-the-flooding-in-houston-really?bffbmain&ref=bffbmain&utm_term=.liAkn03Zl#.leyX3k50B

This post is for those that have shut up about it because of the demented and horrible things that have been said to them. The ones who silently suffer. This post is to tell every person that has told a Texan “you don’t have it that bad” or “you have no right to bitch since you didn’t evacuate” or “you and every other Texan liberal needs to die” among other things that you don’t know what we’re going through right now. You don’t get to speak. You might have experience in something similar, but you don’t know this exact situation and YOU are the one that has no right to speak horribly to us for the majority of the state’s voting preferences. If you have words of encouragement and a way to support the people down here, it’s greatly appreciated. If you have nothing but hate to spread and horrible things to say, keep it to yourself. 

If you’re a fellow Houstonian in the area, keep your chin up. Everyone is struggling. Help where you can and take care of yourself. We’re entering the recovery period of this disaster and it’s a long road ahead of us. If you’re lucky enough to have internet or access to this post, please spread the word that we’re here for everyone. We’re proud Texans and we are banding together to help each other. Even just allowing people to fill jugs of water from your sink is enough to help a family. If you can’t help, just take care of yourself. That’s just as important as helping others. 

We love you. We hope you’re safe. If you need emotional support in this, go ahead and directly message me. If you’re a bystander, just support people down here in whatever way you can. You don’t need to feed into an attention seeker if they’re being strongly opinionated about it. But understand that it’s their way of communicating and coping. Please, only provide support or ignore someone if you don’t have anything nice to say. 

Hope everyone is having a good day. This has been a long, emotional, rant-filled post. If you made it to the end, thank you. 

[takeenata]

Home

Had I known ahead of time that I’d be coming back from the grip of death, I would’ve requested better insoles inside of these dress shoes. It would make the walk along this highway bearable. Whose dumb idea was it to hitchhike along a highway anyways; does this thumb trick even work?

Right. My dumb idea.

Bury me with gloves next time too. And a scarf. An overcoat as well. As my walk along the highway continues, the biting cold of this Alaskan weather battles against my exposed skin. I do what I can to keep one hand warm, the right hand, as it gets tucked away in my pocket. The left, sadly, is the one that has to be mistreated as I stick it out to draw attention to the cars driving by.

I remember back before I died when my family were constantly on the move from state to state, meaning highways and routes were the fastest way to and through. As we drove along, there was always some man doing as I do, his thumb as he requests anyone and everyone to give him a ride. I told my kids to be careful of these men; it could very easily be someone trying to rob you of everything you have, or even steal your car. Now I walk and wonder how many of those men were in the same boat I am; lost and just trying to find their way home.

Left hand is getting too cold. Left arm is getting tired. I pull it away from the brisk air, cup a fist around my mouth, and breath into it. The back to trying what I can to get a ride home. If anyone would be willing to drive all across the country for a man that looks like me. Fingernails have grown out past my fingertips, and they’re dirt-logged. My beard is scraggly, unkempt, disastrous, mangled and just -- I’m trimming it as soon as possible. Hair isn’t that bad, but it’s usually does it’s own thing anyways.

I don’t want to guess how my breath smells right now.

…

Another hour goes by, and I am maybe four miles closer to home. At this rate, I’ll be home in a few months. That isn’t anywhere near alright. Any minute away from home is a wasted minute. Hysterical that Austin brought large attention to having to focus on the eight demons that murdered me, but he wastes my time by having my wake up in Alaska.

Honestly complaining about being alive. Intolerable. Life is a gift. I’ve been given it twice now. How often can a person say that?

…

Just as soon as I was ready to stop trying to hitch a ride and continue walking; a truck with a hood over its bed pulls over and begins to flash it’s hazards. Despite the help I needed, and the lack of anything but dirt-riddled clothes, it’s in my nature to offer help in anyway possible. Tucking away the left hand that felt frozen, I approach the vehicle and use the warmed right hand to wave at the driver.

The driver opens the door and steps down, talking to me face to face. Well not exactly face to face, he’s roughly a foot shorter than I am. I can tell he’s human, with his lack of any abnormal features like pointy ears, or bucked lower teeth. The vehicle is still on, the loud engine rumbling in a static position, as he comes down. He’s wearing black long-sleeve shirt, a plaid shirt over that, and a type of vest over that. He wears some sort of baseball-cap that was black, with U.S.M.C. stitched on in bold military-like lettering. “Howdy,” he says, scratching the stubble on his face.

“Hey,” I say, giving a small wave to him. “Your hazards are on. Is your truck broken?”

“Nah, she’s fine,” he calmly says, patting the hood of his truck. “Couple a’ truckers were chatting on their radio of a guy trying to hitch a ride, wearin’ a suit down this highway. Figured I’d do somethin’ nice for a change.”

“You’re offering me a ride?” I say with triumphant glee. A stroke of good luck.

“Depends where you’re headin’ to.” I tell him the general area of the state where I live. He takes out a phone, I assume to check his GPS. He nods his head as his thumb flicks across the screen, humming as he looks at the roads. “I’m headin’ down to Louisiana, but I can afford a day’s delay to drop ya’ off home.”

“That would be one of the nicest things anyone has done for me,” I say, offering a handshake. He takes it with firmness, giving it a good shake and letting go. “I’m Tak, by the way. Takeenata.”

“Nice to meet ya’ Tak. I’m Matthew,” humbly he spoke, heading back into his truck. “Matthew Hellburn.” I walk to the right side of the vehicle, dusting myself off any cold dirt clumps that layered my suit before I enter the truck.

I sit inside, observing the interior. Nothing out of the ordinary by my numbers; the radio that was able to play cassette tapes could be considered retro, or vintage. Matthew had a mount on his dashboard though, square and pointed towards him. He takes the phone from his pocket and snaps it into the m -- Hey he has a phone!

I want to call my wife now. No - I need to call my wife! She above anyone else deserves to know I’m alive! “Matthew, can I borrow --”

“My cellphone? I’d let’cha but we’ve got no service for a couple miles from here.”

Damn.

“Once we hit the main highway, signal should be good enough to make a call. Is it like, very important?”

“Very very. I’ve gotta call my wife.”

“She’s at home all the way in --” “Yeah. All the way out there.”

“Hell. What’re ya’ doing all the way in Alaska.”

“I’m uh --” Time for a half-truth. “Visiting family.” He peers over at me as we drive along the highway now; stripes of yellow zipping past us. The look he gives is one I’m familiar with giving and receiving. Matthew’s trying to figure out more questions. “Does she even know where you’re at?”

“She knows I’m out here, but she doesn’t know I’m coming home.” I have a feeling I’ll be telling Matthew a few secrets of my own eventually. I don’t mind sharing them though, there’s little to no chance that after we go our separate ways, I’ll never hear or see him again.

“Well alright then,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, averting his eyes back to the road. Have a feeling more questions will come throughout this road trip.

I’ve got another one in store for him. “How long before I’m home?”

“A day at least. Two days at most. Depends on how shitty traffic gets when we pass through major cities.”

“Why pass through the major cities at all then?”

“Ya’ know I asked myself that? I mapped out back roads but I can’t be certain the safety of them; cities like to take care of their most used streets and roads ya’ know?” I get it. He’s looking out for his safety, and probably his trucks.

Not to downplay a Ford, but it looked to be in need of better maintenance. In his head, he probably considered a chance of his truck breaking down. If he was on a major road, help would be easy. If he was on a backwater road of gravel and dirt, help would be difficult to come by. Or there’s always the possibility that he just wants a faster route.

Thinking on his truck reminds me of my own car. A 1969 Camaro Stroker. Absolutely love that vehicle. It’s at home in my garage. I can feel a smile stretch across my face as I think on this car and it’s beauty. Because when I get to see my car, that means I’ll be home; I’ll see my family before I see my car.

Family comes first.

…

Nothing between Matthew and I. No conversation, not even the occasional glance over the shoulder towards one another. The recordings of the late and great Johnny Cash is the only thing filling the void of silence. Sadly this is the third time now Matthew has let the CD play on loop; this CD has nearly all the songs Mr. Cash released during his time.

Maybe’s now the time to break the silence with an important question. “Is your phone getting signal now?”

“Lemme check,” he says, tapping the phone on the mount. He swipes a few times on the screen before he gives a definite answer. “Sure does,” Matthew states, dismounting the phone and handing it over to me, digital dialpad already on the screen for me to type.

“Thank you. Like - Thank you. This means a --”

“Call your wife, man. Then thank me,” he interrupts. But, he’s got a point.

I enter Pirella’s ten digit number, hands shaking as I press each number. I’m feeling a wave of emotions rush through my head as I hear the dial tone. Anticipation; I have no idea how long I was gone, but I know it wasn’t any less than a year, and she thinks I’m dead; this will be one of the best bits of news she’ll ever hear. Yet, I feel a level of fear.

My mind rushes to think that the worse has happened while I was away. As I think, the worse thing possible begins to slowly evolve with each passing thought. What if she’s sleeping right now? What if her phone’s dead? What if she’s at work? What if she’s not near her phone? What if she changed her number? What if she got a new phone? What if someone bought her a new phone? What if she moved on and is living with another man? Good Lord, what if she couldn’t handle to stress of raising two kids and abandoned them? Good Christ -- what if she killed herself?!

Get ahold of yourself Lossehelin. Pirella is a strong willed woman. A fantastic warrior of mind and body. Nothing would even cause her to come close to a drastic measure as suicide. The fact that you’d even think such is low. She wouldn’t move onto another man, she dedicated seventeen years of marriage and three years of coast-to-coast monster-hunting before that.

“Hello?” I hear on the other end of the phone. It’s not Pirella’s voice. It could’ve been easily mistaken for her voice though, if Pirella was maybe ten years younger. I am greeted with the sound of my daughter, Nimie’s, voice instead. She must’ve had my wife’s phone for the time being, which tends to happen she’s busy enough to not answer the phone.

I think of something to say to let Nimie know it’s me. Her nickname I have for her! “Hey troublemaker,” I say.

“Wha - no way. Dad is that you?”

“Yes, this is dad. Is mom around?”

I can hear her starting to sniffle, and her voice starts to sound dry. It was not my intention to make my daughter cry, but what happens, happens. “Y-yeah dad, sh-she’s in the other room.”

“Can you get her for me, please?” I then hear Nimie shout for Pirella. The wife shouts back on what my daughter needs. Daughter, coughing with her suddenly dry throat, says that I’m on the phone. Not many seconds later, the phone is given to my wife.

“H-hello?” Says my wife, hope masked with disbelief in her voice.

“Hey, babe,” I say, with complete joy.

“Sir, if this is a prank, you’re a sick-minded freak.”

“It’s not a prank honey, really. It’s me. It’s -- it’s Tak.”

I hear her start to ball her eyes out, Nimie joining in. “Oh my God, honey! Wh- what happened? How’re you al- how’re you back?!”

“I was gi-”

“I -- I don’t even care! I’m just glad you’re back and -- and!” I hear her gasp suddenly. “Oh God, honey, you’re all the way in Alaska, how’re you heading home?!”

“I’m getting a ride from a friend,” I say, eyeing Matthew. He’s watching me have this conversation. For some reason he waves when I mention him. “We’re gonna be home in two days.”

“Two days? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure baby, really. I -- I’ll be home soon.”

Her voice continues to tremble. But in this seeming horror, she’s happy. “Please come home. We’ve missed you so much babe.”

…

It’s been a day of travelling with the occasional stop for rest and food. A thought comes to my mind; I ask it instantly. “Matt what ah -- what day is it?”

“What day?” He questions, eyes fixated on the road, but his attention to me. “It’s Saturday.”

“No no - the date. What date is today?”

“Oh. May seventh.”

“May seventh?!” The haunting truth comes to me. Three months. Though the passage of time for me was just a few hours, the reality is that I was dead for over ninety-days. Ninety days. My house was built in less time than that. All the things I missed during that timeline. I’ve gotta make up that time to them. To my family.

“Didja not have yourself a calendar in Alaska?”

“No Matt, I uh - I didn’t.”

“How’dja manage that?”

“I’m not the best liar Matt.”

“I could tell that about ya’ since I picked you up yesterday,” Matt laughed. “But what’re you trying to hide?”

“It’s a uh. Something of a bad habit of mine.”

“We’ve got about another day’s worth of travelling before we’re at your place. Wanna stop at a uh - like a Burger King to talk about this or something?”

“I ain’t hungry, Matt. This is also somethin’ I wouldn’t wanna discuss in public either.”

“Is it graphic?”

“Just weird.”

“I can do weird.”

“I’ll take your word on it.” How the Hell am I gonna just up and say I had just woken up from my grave? That I’m a hunter of evil monsters and beings? Eight demons jumped me in an alleyway. I made a deal with an angel to destroy them, if I got to go back to being alive.

I take a deep breath in, collecting myself and my thoughts. “When you found me on the highway, I had just come back from the dead.”

“So you’re a vampir -- actually that wouldn’t work, you were walkin’ in the sun.”

“I’m not any sort of undead being. My soul’s intact, and I’m me.”

“So what are you then? Is it a thing for elves to come back to life when they die?”

“I think if that were the case, this whole situation wouldn’t be happening right now. But I’m uh - I’m Takeenata. For most of my life I kill evil beings and creatures.”

“Is it for some kind of enjoyment? Not common to meet someone else that does that ya’ know.”

“It’s not for enjoyment; Hell I’ve never enjoyed doi - someone else? You do this too?”

“Mmhmm,” Matt hums, nodding his head at the same time. “It started with Afghan. My squad got hit by something nasty; wasn’t human. Since then I’ve been searching for anythin’ like it. Ain’t right for evil like that to do what it wants.”

“Been a long time since I’ve met anyone else that does this. What eh,” I scratch my chin. “What’s your story then?”

Matt also scratches his chin, pondering my question no doubt. “Parents were assassinated by some ghouls when I was younger. I grew up livin’ with that, telling everyone the truth. I thought someone out there would understand my story, but really, no one believed what I was saying. Said my mind made up that scenario to help cope with their deaths. Strange, yeah? With all that exists, people said I was crazy for thinkin’ a ghoul killed my parents?”

“Vampires walk ‘round with umbrellas and dragons take form of humans to fit in. It’s strange that people still don’t believe a lot of things.”

“It’s a lotta bullshit is what it is. Eventually I accepted the fact that maybe, I was crazy. I grew older, and went down a path of valor. Joined the Marines, went two tours to Afghanistan. During my last few months there, my squad was taken out by a group of insurgents who turned from guys in robes to monsters with knife-like-teeth.”

He takes a few breaths, and under his breathing I can hear him silently counting to ten. “I knew then and there that what I seen as a kid wasn’t an illusion. What I saw was something inhuman.”

“Sounded like you through Hell, man.”

“And Hell left it’s mark,” Matt said, taking his left hand off the steering wheel to reach over and tap the back of his right shoulder. “During a firefight, I got shot in the back and blacked out almost instantly. When I woke, I was in a helicopter, flying away from the fight. I argued to go back, but the docs said I had no chance in Hell of returning with my injuries.”

Despite his injuries, Matt wanted to return to the fight. Admirable. “Couple months later I got a medal, I guess. Soon after I had to be relieved of duty; my bullet wound messed up my shoulder and arm pretty badly.”

“Well hey man, if it’s any relief; thanks for your service.”

“I like to think, Tak, that my service ain’t done yet. Ya’ know, fighting these monsters and doin’ work that ordinary cops can’t do. Like I never stopped being the warrior I was trained to be.”

“Well thanks for your continuing service then, Matt.”

“Speakin’ of continuous service; how long have you been doin’ the whole “huntin’” thing?”

The question hit me like a brick. After a moment I was able to give an answer. “Since the mid 1980’s. I can’t pinpoint when exactly; lot has happened from that moment.”

“Should be me thanking you then. Been doin’ it longer than I’ve been alive it seems.”

“Yeah. Too long really. I’ve been eh - I want to stop. It’s just one of those things that take a while to just stop, right?”

“And it seems like that’s all you’re able to do, right?”

“That’s pretty much how it is.”

“Yeah... I feel you on that. Just -- I go at it, and I feel like I’m back over there.”

“Seen a doctor, a psychiatrist, about it yet?”

“Yeah yeah. Docs said it’s an obvious form of P.T.S.D. But it doesn’t change the facts of the situation. I go get some with these monsters and vile creatures, and when it feels like I’m back at it.”

I can sympathize with Matthew. In a way. I have occasional nightmares, featuring the faces of people and monsters I’ve had the unfortunate ties of knowing. Pirella used to tell me that I’d start panting and beating sweat like I was running a marathon, then I’d wake up in a panic. Some nights I’d wake up the kids with how loud I had screamed. Some nights I wouldn’t sleep just to avoid nightmares all together.

I need to be home soon.

…

Almost like a sudden wake up, I’m knocking at my front door. Words cannot describe the amount of joy I feel as my wife swings open the door, then her arms wrap around my neck, and my arms around her waist. She’s wearing my brown jacket. The kids see this, and they rush to join in the hug; Doc putting down his cellphone surprisingly.

Matthew takes his leave soon after. I paid him for his transportation service. It was a hundred dollars in cash, plus some more for the extra stops along the way. But the price to pay was worth every damn penny.

I’m willing to pay any price to be home again.

[myaekingheart]

So it seems as though I've spiralled back into another one of those spells where I just hardcore hate myself. For the past couple days, all I've been able to think about it is the thought of getting a job, ever since I had that stupid fucking dream the other night. I dreamed that I was working the register at some upscale fast food restaurant taking orders as people filtered in, got their food, and left. I couldn't help but think to myself, "God this is so easy! Why didn't get a job earlier?" and then five minutes later, I broke out into a massive panic attack mid-dream. Numb hands, cold sweat, hyperventilating, feeling like the place was closing in on myself, the whole enchilada and that's when I realized why I don't have a job. Granted, I know anxiety is no excuse for being unemployed, I'm not an idiot. Ever since that dream, though, I just have not been able to stop thinking about jobs and how I don't have one. I don't necessarily want one but at the same time, I keep feeling increasingly uncomfortable with my parents sending me money for all my bills and rent and whatnot. I feel bad that they're stuck supporting me like they always have. I kind of want the independence of having a job and earning my own money, anyways. There's just all the stuff holding me back and making me feel like an absolute failure, like the fact that I am 20 years old and have never worked a day in my life. I feel like a total scam because as I sat here today filling out job applications, applications that wouldn't let me move forward without submitting a resume, this disgusting tinge of guilt and disgust fell upon me as I had to sit here and fill out that I had no work experience. And I know the application is only step one. As much as saying I have no experience pains me, I think the thought of anything that might come next is even worse. I've filled out job applications before, twice for Spirit Halloween, both times of which at the end of the process, they've immediately told me I'm either not qualified enough or not what they're looking for and that was fine. I don't fear rejection in job applications. If anything, a gross part of me prays for rejection because that means I can get out of this. The thought of moving forward and getting a job offer terrifies me. I don't like thinking about having to step foot in these places for an interview, having to paste a smile on my face and lie about how I'm a team player and enjoy being a corporate slave, and explaining why I've never had a job before at my age. I don't like the thought of getting hired and then having to work a menial, pointless job for shit pay and being trapped in a store filled with people complaining left and right at me about things that are probably not beyond my control. I am honestly such a difficult fucking person because like I know I need a job but I don't want a dead-end job that won't have any positive effect on the future of my career. I don't want to work a pointless job that has nothing to do with what I enjoy or strive to pursue as an actual career. I want to be a writer so why not look at freelance writing jobs? I did and I can tell you that the results are not good. I want a job that parallels my career goals but I don't want to sit here and waste my time ghostwriting someone's novel, working my fingers to the bone only to get zero credit for the hours of time I've spent on this thing, or churning out pointless articles for someone too fucking stupid to write it themselves. I applied for a job at a local Books a Million and at my university's bookstore because I figured, hey! Why the fuck not? It's as good as I'm going to get, I guess. The thing that terrifies me about Books a Million, though, is that I just feel like I'm not fucking good enough. I feel like I really know next to nothing about the majority of the books out there today, I feel like I don't read enough to work at a bookstore and that if someone came up to me with a question about something, there's a fat chance I wouldn't have any fucking clue what they were talking about. I've never even read Harry Potter (nor do I care to-- I tried but I'm one of the few who just could not get into it). The university bookstore is really the one I'm banking on most, honestly. It would be nice to get to know my way around campus before starting classes there in January, plus it would be the easiest to get to in terms of transportation. Which brings up another point of contention: I am 20 fucking years old and I still don't know how to drive. I don't even have my permit. I've never been behind the wheel of a car save for Mario Kart and the Tomorrowland Speedway and if my experience with either of those is any indication, it's probably a good thing that I don't drive. I should've learned a long time ago but I have always put it off, terrified of getting in an accident and knowing full well that I will without a doubt get overwhelmed because of literally every single thing you have to pay attention to and worry about. I feel like I'll definitely get massive sensory overload behind the wheel of a car. Again, however, not a valid excuse for never learning how to drive. It's not that I enjoy people having to chaffeur me everywhere. I wish I could be totally autonomous and independent and in my dreams, I am, but in reality I know I'm just a failure who knows next to nothing about being an adult and am failing miserably at it. My boyfriend keeps telling me he wants me to get a moped, thinking that that would be better for me because it'd be easier to be aware of my surroundings on one of those as opposed to a car but I'm skeptical. Not that I wouldn't love to come off as a motorcycle bitch or whatever but still. My only other option is the bus which I mean, I didn't have a problem with that. I've taken public transit thousands of times in my hometown to my community college, but never in this city. And that makes all the difference, honestly. My hometown was dull suburban where nothing ever happened except the occasional heart attack during bingo. There were sketchy people, sure, but it wasn't in massive volume. Here, however, things are vastly different. This is the city where there's homeless people and drug dealers abound! My boyfriend is very protective of me and he's always made off this facade about wanting me to stay safe, liking the fact that when I'm home he knows where I am and that nothing bad will happen to me, that he's skeptical of the bus and doesn't exactly feel safe with the idea of me taking said bus. It's built up this understanding in my head that the outside world is dangerous and that I should avoid going out there alone at all costs. But he's also a little frustrated that my parents never encouraged me to learn to drive before I moved up here, because he knows learning to drive up here is going to hell and he wishes I would've gotten it done sooner. Which also makes me feel like a failure. Like, how pathetic could I possibly be? Never worked a day in her life, never been behind the wheel of a car. I'm practically a child. And I sure as hell feel like one, too. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of myself for letting myself get so far behind. I've avoided becoming an adult for so long that now I have absolutely no choice and I'm not even the slightest bit prepared. All I want to do is stay home and eat Oreos and lay around in pajamas writing shitty fanfiction but I can't do that because I am an adult with my own apartment 300 miles away from my family. My academic achievements shine but my personal achievements fall short big time and I'm so fucking ashamed of myself for that. I should've taken care of this shit a long time ago. I should've grown up a long time ago but I'm terrified. I'm so fucking terrified. In a way, living up here still doesn't even feel like everyday reality. A part of me still processes this as temporary, like I'm on a trip to visit my long distance boyfriend like how it was for the past year and then at the end of the week, my parents will show up and take me back home and everything will go back to normal. But that's not normal anymore. This is my new normal and I need to learn to adjust to it. This is my home now and this is my life now. I can't sit around on my ass like a house guest anymore because I'm not a house guest. This is my house and my new town and I'm not a dependent living under my parent's roof anymore. I am a full-fledged adult and I need to start acting like one, even if I'd rather shoot myself in the mouth than go through this horror. I still don't feel ready. I don't know if I'll ever feel ready. I'm so motherfucking scared and the worst part is knowing that this is all my fault.

[nervesbaddington]

Life and Lyric

This won't be easy to share and it could potentially get somewhat longwinded but whatever.  I just feel like I gotta do it so please bear with me ok thanks 😏

Many of you know that I've recently experienced significant growth in the relationship with my daughter. Some of you probably didn't even know I had a daughter because for a long time it's been a very sensitive subject for me to talk about due to seriously complicated and unfortunate circumstances.

Anyway, I do. I do have a daughter and her name is Lyric. She was born in Denver while I was living on the run (2005-2010) trying to avoid a ridiculous prison sentence for a ridiculous "crime" because Alabama's ridiculous laws regarding marijuana suggest I'm a hardened criminal that belongs in a cage. You probably know someone in prison for weed too, huh? Yeah. Ridiculous right?

So Lyric was born in 2008 and I was a stay-at-home-dad/starving artist (making music, touring, etc.) for the first 18 months of her life. She was a stereotypical "daddy's girl" in every aspect of the phrase but I'll stop gloating...for now. 😉

She was a year and a half old when the US Marshals kicked in the door to haul me back to Alabama to "pay my debt to society". The image of her standing up in her crib, hysterically crying, tears streaming down her cute baby face as they walked me past her bedroom in handcuffs is burned into my memory for eternity. It was brutally painful. To make it worse, they were in full on bully-mode and wouldn't even let me say goodbye. In fact, I could still hear her screaming from the police car out front.

Fast forward to about 6 months into the 42 month bid of being held captive in the Alabama Department of Corrections. To when the letters stopped coming in. To when the phone calls stopped being answered. To when Lyric's mom decided to go above and beyond in attempt to delete me from Lyric's life like I was some vague, poorly worded Facebook post made at 3:30am after polishing off a fifth of vodka. Her goal was to delete me like I never existed. Obviously, there was very little I could do about...well, anything. Especially from behind that razor wire fence. One of the first survival tactics you inevitably learn while doing time is accepting that you can't control what happens on the outside from the inside. I know it sounds like common sense but trust me, it's supremely harder than it sounds.

So as if I had a choice...I accepted it. Everything. Her mom moved on and I did my time. Luckily, Lyric's grandmother kept in touch a bit and I was able to send letters to Lyric through her. Clearly, Lyric was way too young to process any of what was going on, much less read a letter, but relentlessly I drew pictures for her, wrote her letters and thought about her constantly.

The year 2013 finally rolled around and apparently ADOC deemed me "rehabilitated" enough to be set free (re: sarcasm). To little to no surprise, just like all the OG convicts predicted, I heard from Lyric's mom literally the same week I was scheduled to be released (According to the OG's unwritten universal law; freeworld relationships can't last while your significant other is doing time). She had contacted my family and somehow they coordinated a trip from CO to AL for my release date. They were even at the prison to greet me as I walked through the back gate. One of the most surreal days of my life. I got to spend the first week as a free man with my, now 4 yr old, Lyric. It was genuinely like we never missed a beat but instead picked up right where we left off...except without all the hysterical crying (only the happy crying).

When they flew back to Denver I had hopes of transferring my probation to Colorado so I could continue being a father to Lyric and start making up for everything I'd missed during my state-sponsored vacation. Those plans came to a screeching halt when I learned about all the ridiculous (yes, THAT word again) stipulations of making that happen. I either A) needed to have immediate family living in Denver or B) needed to be married to someone living in Denver.

I know what you're thinking...having a child is considered "immediate family" right? Well here's the shittiest of all shitty things about this unfortunate situation:  I was literally a fugitive from justice when Lyric was born and, as a measure of caution, did not put my name on her birth certificate. I know, I know. It's fucking awful but that's what happened. **Side note:  I did, however, fill out the proper paperwork while in prison to be added but for some brilliant reason her mom never filed it and subsequently fail off the face of the earth.

I kept trying to figure out ways to be in Lyric's life. Marrying her mom was never an option and I'll spare you the details of why and just say that our relationship was an unhealthy spiral of doom and regret and the absolute last thing Lyric needed in her life. For the record, I don't subscribe to the philosophy of "staying together for the kids". That's a bullshit philosophy. But I still kept trying to figure it out. I even tried to get "fake married" to a longtime  Denver homegirl just so I could move there to be close to Lyric. While that would've been understandable and totally worth it, I just couldn't go through with it. Just didn't feel right and I needed to get my life in order before I started making desperate decisions like that. Then Nerves Baddington was born and the rest is pretty much history.

After multiple fallouts with Lyric's mom which included false accusations of sending her "fake money orders" among other irrationally immature arguments, I found myself resorting back to that ol' prison survival tactic of accepting the fact that I can't control some things...only now I'm on the OUTSIDE but still (up until now) have felt circumstantially powerless as they hold my lack of LEGAL fatherly rights over my head as some sort of twisted torture device.

I've seen Lyric exactly twice in the 4+ years I've been home. Once in Birmingham and once in Denver and both times at least 4 years ago. A third attempt was made, in April of 2014, when my ever-so-rad and wonderful girlfriend Melanie and I drove all day and night to Denver just to be denied a simple visit with my Lyric. It crushed me. No words can describe the pain of being denied seeing your daughter after driving 24 hours straight. I felt like I had no choice but to give up until the universe (or whatever) grants me with an opportunity to go through the proper legal channels to access my fatherly rights. The time is now and I feel I need to strike while the proverbial iron is hot, so to speak. Obviously this is not going to be easy or inexpensive. I'm going to have to hire lawyers that practice law in Colorado. There will be much travel cost and tests and paperwork and...you name it. But it's all possible and could actually become feasible with a little love and assistance from friends and family.

I spoke with Lyric for the first time in over a year on Father's Day '17. Sincerely the best Father's Day I've ever had since joining The Club. My birthday falls around Father's Day every year and my dad passed away in 2003. Without fail since 2010 each year around this time my brain automatically goes into a very dark place. Not this year though. This has been the happiest week since...as long as I can remember and I can't help but think my dad would be just as excited as I am.

As happy as I am about this newly-fast-developing relationship with my amazing, now 8 yr old, Lyric, I also can't help but be genuinely concerned about her living situation. Since her mom has been the one keeping her from me, it wasn't until her recently "hitting bottom" and disappearing for a few weeks that Lyric actually mustered the courage and ability to find a way to contact me. I've talked to Lyric's grandmother, whose sister (Lyric's great aunt), passed away the same week her daughter had a meltdown and vanished. Apparently CPS has been involved for some time now but I honestly don't know a lot of details as to why or what's going on. Lyric is currently living with her grandmother and is seemingly in good spirits although she's a bit devastated about the whole thing. She wants to come to Birmingham but they (Lyric's mom/grandmother) have been very vocal about how that'd never be a possibility.

Until I go through the aforementioned "proper legal channels" the odds are severely stacked against me.

Which leads me to asking what you - my friends and fam - think about me starting a gofundme campaign to raise money to make this thing happen.

People often turn their nose up when others take to platforms like gofundme to ask for help. What do YOU think? Is this something worth going all out for? I think so but I'd like some input and/or reassurance here.

Thanks so much for reading and I hope one day for Lyric to see how hard I fought for her. THIS IS MY REAL DEBT TO SOCIETY and I just want to do the responsible thing.

[kristie-rp]

What’s An Inferno To A Gang Member?

Murphy absolutely refuses to work with Infernos.

Rayne is not a fixer, but for the right price, she will take jobs working with other people. She’s like a merc, in a way, except that she’s tiny and light on her feet instead of heavy set and intimidating. No one would look at Rayne and think there goes a survivor, with her nails painted baby pink and more often than not dressed in the sort of casual wear one might wear to a gym, loose-fitting tank tops and utility jackets in pastel shades, jeans stylistically ripped and gleaming white sneakers with thick, flat soles. Her hair’s pristine white-blonde, hanging over one shoulder, and she smacks bubblegum between dainty pink lips like it’s a career.

Murphy’s first impression of her, when Rita indicates the temp hires – six of them, because she wants people who aren’t obviously crooked for a job she expects Murphy to pull off – is that she definitely does not belong in their world. She’s got one of those tiny canvas bags that teenagers seem to like over her shoulder, and she’s one of the half of the hires who isn’t playing with her phone. Instead, in the time it takes Murphy to get together an opinion of her, she pops two impressive bubbles of what must be gum. He masks a cringe when he hears it, because he’s never been particularly fond of hiring people younger than him, especially girls, and because bubblegum is something he’s never been able to abide. She’s introduced only as Rayne, and she looks twenty years old at most.

“What’re you supposed to be?” he demands, probably a little rudely. She’s sandwiched between a couple of Asian guys who he knows have started to have a reputation build up, though they can still pass for civilians without catching too much attention.

He watches her pop another bubble before she offers him a smile. He expects a sardonic smirk, but what he gets instead is something almost disturbingly sincere, especially for a supposed merc. “Here for a job, boss-man.”

The look Murpy gives her is dubious at best, bewildered at worst; still, Rita only hires people she thinks will work. He moves on, and figures she’ll prove herself, or she won’t. There’s nothing he can do about it.

-

The job is simple: it’s just a heist, a holdup at a bank that deals in corporate more than anything else. Rita’s got some issue with the owner, which probably means they’re a shitty person, so they hit it every couple of years. This will be the second time Murphy is coordinating the offensive, the fourth time he’s involved; Rita trusts him to get it right, at this point.

He barely has to think about the rest of the team; he’s mostly there to coordinate and supervise, make sure the people who make demands do it right. One of the Asian guys takes that role, his enunciation precise, closer to British than whatever ethnic group he comes from. Murphy makes him run through the dialogue twice before he’s convinced it’ll be fine. He runs over the blueprints with Rayne and the other guy, looking for another escape route. Last time he dealt with this, they left via the windows. By now, they’re probably replaced with reinforced glass, so that’s a strategy for another day.

“We could get into the sewers,” Rayne suggests. Murphy frowns at her, surprised a dainty little thing like her doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the concept. She almost seems excited, actually, jabbing a finger at a spot on the map. “All these old places have entrances in the back, something the mayor set up back during prohibition. It’ll reek, but there are paths all along the edge of the main flow, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid. Utilities run through there, too, if we want to cut it, that’s the place to go.”

Murphy knows the spot and hums, assigning one of the people Rita employs directly to keep watch over the power box. He’ll signal and they’ll flick the power off before getting to work in the bank proper, before the real work starts. All they need to do is hold up the teller for the cash and crack the safe; they’ve never bothered digital takeovers of this bank, both because the systems made their hacker cry the last time they tried, and because Rita’s under the impression that stealing digital money is somehow worse than stealing physical shit.

The heist itself goes surprisingly well: these mercs seem well-coordinated, even Rayne, and work together well. She’s lurking in the background, face covered with a bandana she must’ve had in her pockets the whole time, and gets the patrons and employees to fork over whatever valuables they have on their person. Wallets and jewellery goes in the bag, though she’s nice enough to let them take family photos. If they go for cards instead, she breaks noses with the butt of her pistol. It’s a method Murphy hasn’t seen in practice before, though he figures she’s hoping that by allowing them to keep their sentimental bullshit, they’ll fight less, and less of them will need to be shot in a bid for crowd control. It’s also a method that has her as the last to leave, just as the cops are pulling in. They venture into the sewers.

That should’ve been enough to tip Murphy off, really, but he’s a trusting guy, has to be, if he’s going to stay a little sane in their business. So he lets Rayne go last, despite the knowledge that having someone he doesn’t know at his back is a bad idea. By the time it occurs to him that that’s a moronic thing to allow, and he’s turning back to her, he’s startled to see her pulling her gun, training it on the entrance to the bank above.

Now, if the exit had gone less smoothly, then there’d be a reason. As it is, if she’s preparing to shoot the cops, she’s paranoid; they aren’t going to find the sewer entrance, not when he’s never actually used it before. They’ll learn, of course, install a lock or something when they find it open a crack, but it’s unnecessary to panic about it now. He opens his mouth to quietly call her, get her to catch up with the others, several yards ahead of them already.

And then she fires the gun anyway, the silenced pistol managing to almost echo in the otherwise almost silent sewerage system. The shot splits a pipe, and Murphy frowns, confused by whatever the hell she’s pulling here. The smell of gas quickly fills the area, and Rayne turns with an ecstatic grin on her lips, hoisting her backpack further onto her shoulder and grabbing his wrist to cart him to catch up with the others, rounding a corner ahead. There’s an exit not far from where they are, and Murphy, still bewildered by her bizarre actions, heads for it, not realising until a moment too late that Rayne has, apparently, paused again.

He turns around, exasperated, intent on yelling at her to find her with her pistol in hand still, taking aim – he never hears it fire, but he sees a spark, and the air abruptly explodes.

“Seventeen dead, more injured!” Rita has Murphy and his ‘team’ in front of her. None of them are licking their wounds, simply because there aren’t any, the worst is Rayne with a burned sleeve. She’s practically vibrating in her seat, from energy or excitement or something else, Murphy doesn’t know, and he doesn’t particularly care. “What the hell happened, I can’t rob the damn bank if it isn’t standing.”

“Oh, please,” Rayne scoffs, dismissive. “It caused foundational damage at best. It’ll be fixed by the time your next hit rolls around. Besides, now their records are definitely ruined, they can’t stop you from fencing this.”

“And the loss of life of innocents?” Rita is really, really pissed, and a little amused. Murphy only realises the latter because he’s watching her face for any indications he’s pissed at him, and instead he keeps seeing her lips twitch.

“I really, really doubt they’re innocent if they’re storing that much money on the premises of that particular bank. Certainly not this time of day.” Rita narrows her eyes, and Rayne rolls hers in response. Murphy is convinced that she’s completely nuts. “Look into it. Delgato does his banking today – or, used to. Only person who knew the access codes was his accountant, and, oh look, report says he’s dead. Such a tragedy.”

Rita stills, her amusement vanishing in her surprise. Delgato has been a thorn in their side for years now, leeching money from her own projects, hitting locations she’d ordered hits on herself. A year or so back, he – or one of his people – even managed to put a bullet in one of Rita’s inner circle, who has since been forced to retire. “The rest of you will get your payment. Go see accounting.” She dismisses them, raising an eyebrow at Rayne until the girl rolls her eyes and leaves. She rounds on Murphy then. “She still killed fifteen innocents.”

Murphy is pretty sure the accountant would’ve had guards with him, that they’ll make up one or two of the fifteen unaccounted for, but he knows better than to argue. “I’m aware...?”

“Keep a tighter leash on your people, Murphy. Dismissed.”

“Not my people,” Murphy mutters, but nods and gets out.

Maybe there’s a silver lining. Maybe. But Murphy really doesn’t want to work with Rayne again.

Rita hired Rayne again with a raised eyebrow, deliberately not warning Murphy ahead of time. He preferred to seem a little professional, and blatant disapproval of a merc hired by his superior would definitely be unprofessional.

So Murphy sucks it up and tries not to glare at Rita, who smirks at him. “Delgato’s base of operations is over by the wharf. Rayne’s working at a discount. Have fun.”

-

Murphy doesn’t have fun. He comes out of it with a burn that runs along his left arm, tugging and driving him crazy. Rayne is, infuriatingly, completely unharmed. Her jacket is burned at the ends, like she was on fire at some point – and she was, Murphy saw it, but she’s completely unharmed. She goes with him to see the doctor, because – he’s not sure why, actually. “Why are you here?” he grumbles.

Rayne is playing with her phone. She doesn’t have gum right now, having used it to – he thinks – stick a block of C4 to a doorway before waving at whoever had been on the other side and detonating it before Murphy could get out of range. “Oh, my sister’s picking me up. She wanted to say hi to Gwen.”

“There are more of you?”

That, for some reason, is somehow hilarious to Rayne. She cracks up, her laugh squeaky and lilting. Murphy frowns at her, not understanding, and gets to his feet when his name is called. He strides purposefully into the office Gwen uses, and Rayne is still giggling as she trails after him. Murphy’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s in pain, and Gwen, at least, isn’t going to ask invasive questions. He’s sort of counting on that, so he can get his thoughts in order, and figure out a way to convince Rita to stop hiring this lunatic without seeming like a petulant child.

“What’s funny?” The doctor, Gwen, asks absently, helping Murphy peel off his shirt. She winces in sympathy at the sight of the fresh burn, disapproval in her gaze.

“My buddy Murphy here thinks it’s surprising there are more members of my family than just me.”

Gwen is too professional to laugh, but she does turn away from them. Murphy knows full well she’s hiding her amusement; he’s seen similar mannerisms in Rita far too often to not recognise it. “You haven’t met Shaun, I take it?”

“Who the hell’s Shaun?”

“My brother,” Rayne says. “He tells horror stories about the lot of us. You’d probably relate, Murphy.” Murphy knows it’s petty, but he’d rather not relate to anyone who happens to be related to Rayne’s insanity, thanks very much. The burn on his skin is still prickling, still feels too warm to be safe. It’s driving him crazy; Gwen seems to decide it’s not as bad as it looks, and brings him to a sink to run water over it. “I told you to do that before we left,” Rayne says, disapproval heavy in her tone.

Murphy, because he’s allowed to be immature around people he refuses to hire again, pokes his tongue out at her. “I didn’t know how bad it was! Bad burns aren’t meant to have water on them.”

“It’s only second-degree, calm down,” Gwen says. She’s not soothing; she’s never soothing, not with him. “If it was worse, you wouldn’t be feeling pain right now, or it’d be white instead of red.”

He doesn’t actually think that’s much of an explanation, but he’s not inclined to say that aloud, not with Gwen being the only person here he trusts to treat his wounds. She’s just as likely to kick him out as she is to take the payment, when she gets in a mood. So Murphy stays quiet, glaring at Rayne, who is playing on her phone and doesn’t care.

A nurse ducks in not long after, when Gwen has decided the wound has been run under water for long enough and is carefully, expertly, bandaging it. “A Miss Inferno to see you, Gwen.”

“Send her in, these two invited her,” Gwen says. Murphy believes that’s a lie, flinching at the name, until he sees Rayne put away her phone.

“You said your sister was coming,” he accuses her. Rayne gives him an amused look.

“Yeah. Remi. Unless someone else tagged along, but Brielle isn’t going to break her isolation for this, not when she knows I’m fine.”

Murphy knows exactly one Brielle. Rita hires her, sometimes, when Virus and their in-house tech isn’t good enough. “Oh, god, you’re Paimon’s kids,” he grumbles. Gwen rolls her eyes as the door opens.

“Who’s talking about dad?” The new girl looks very similar to Rayne – they could be twins, and, Murphy will learn later, they are; fraternal twins, sisters who live together.

“Remi Inferno, I take it,” he says, voice a little faint. She raises a brow at him, then smiles shyly.

“Yeah, nice to meet you, Murphy.” She seems pleasant enough. Then she ruins it with a mischievous smile. “I hear you don’t much like my sisters’ methods?”

Murphy sighs, a long huff of air that sets both Remi and Rayne off, Remi dragging Rayne to her feet as they laugh.

He resolves that he is never working with Rayne Inferno again, not even if his life depends on it. He doesn’t care if it infuriates Rita; her appeasement isn’t worth the ulcer he’s sure he’s going to get, dealing with a damned explosives specialist who is also an Inferno – and everyone who knows the truth about supernaturals in Port Lyndon knows that Inferno’s are, first, insane, and second, immune to fire damage, more often than not. And an explosives fanatic who can’t be burned isn’t someone he wants within sixteen miles of him, let alone working nearby.

“Fuck Rayne,” he mutters to himself.

Gwen, pinning the bandages in place, snorts.

[apostleofsilence]

Chapter two; or, Jesus Christ, so this is still a thing.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

[[AUTHOR NOTE: I made the executive decision to delete most of the old entries. Preface stays. Honestly, though, it is a fitting end to a portion of my life now forever gone to the ravages of too many benzos be represented by a missing chapted. No longer shackled to the words of a dead man, I hope to pull myself out of despair. Gods know I deserve it.]]

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Two and a half fucking years since I started this. I noticed that I got followed by what looks like two real life people. If you ever read this, hiii! I was just gonna delete this churning trainwreck, but since there is a possibility others might see this someday, I shall trudge ever forward. So lets fill in the gaps, or what I remember.

So where we last left our intrepid adventurer, he was staring into the stygian abyss, and while it stared not back, it it gave threat with it's flying blanket elemental. Eesh. Terrible place to leave on a cliffhanger. So, what did happen?

Benzodiazepines, kiddos. Proof that if there is a God, it is a cruel and capricious one indeed. My ultimate salvation, it whispered in my ears, the siren song of modern medicine. It made me complete. And completely an asshole. So the benzos had to go. I was prescribed 6mg of Xanax and 6mg of Kpin. Daily. As is a supply of 90 each every four weeks. If your not familiar, that is a fuckton. Like, an irresponsible dose. I had been getting small caches of .5 xannies, and those were perfect. Shut out the negative thoughts, let my mind drift in peace for awhile. My new shrink, when he found out I expected him to maybe keep up with said dose, his solution was to give me thirty times the benzos I requested. I was leery, but who had the medical degree, amirite?

Well, as a result of this, I have six months worth of mostly empty memories, and the things I do recall were traumatic, to say the least. Maybe in a future chapter, I will discuss the sort of depravity one gets up to when you feel like a God given flesh, and you feel like it too. But for now, we focus on the future.

I lost many good friends. I was a mess. My stepdad, who grew up doing hardcore drugs from the sixties through the mid eighties, told me that he'd never seen anyone as far gone as I was come back through unscathed. Talk like that scares me a bit, because this man wasn't picky about who knew he did them, or whom he did them with.

So, I let go of benzos, willingly. On my terms. I flushed all the xannies, probably had an easy street value of a thousand, likely. Gone. Flushed all but enough of the kpin to parachute down on. Didn't want to quit all that just to die due to a withdrawl-induced grand mal seizure. Figured as much as I had been taking, it probably would've completely fucked up my shit.

I went back to my partner (who had decided that being ftm wasn't really for her, and that her dysphoria was mostly tied to being shamed all her life about her body). I don't think either of us intended it, but there it is. We went back to being friends during my recovery, and we were just so goddamned good together again. Since then, while we have had a touch of turmoil, it hasn't been nearly like it used to be. We are more patient with each other, more open about what we need and want. Like adults. This whole section might be a half-chapter of its own, and definitely a tale for later.

I didn't see another therapist since I got my last one fired for naked malpractice and HIPPA violations. Just another reason not to trust shrinks. Scum, most of them. I had one or two along the way that were worthwhile, but constantly moving homes assured I could never totally and implicitly trust one shrink. I finally saw one on October this year. Two months ago? Yeah. Proud of me, internet? Yeah, me too. My cardiologist is literally the best, he got me in to see this guy as a favor.

Anyway, I've changed cars twice since then. From that shitty Camry to the significantly less shitty 16 year old Acura. Didn't do any driving while I was "waiting to adjust" to those suicide slammers I was prescribed, and continued drinking on. Oh yeah, quit drinking among all that, too. I'm just fucking killing it over here, rockstar style.

But I will resist braggadocia (okay, maybe a little indulgence). But seriously, I couldn't have done it alone. Special thanks go out to A(rhymes with among kinda), J(sorta rhymes with heft), D(definitely rhymes with barrel), D(rhymes with rave, though he's never been), EJ (he would deffo know who he is, no hints needed 😉), and the best pair of male rats I've ever owned. And especially special thanks of epicness +1 to C(whom also rhymes with barrel). My heart of hearts, soul of soul. My sun and stars. Thanks for "getting" me like nobody ever did before. I <3 you.

So, here I am. How am I now? At moments bad, but getting better all the time, I hope. I've become more reclusive. To keep myself from outright agoraphobia, I set up a Dungeons and Dragons group almost as soon as I committed to recovery. Writing helps, and beyond this blog, my pen has been stilled by hopeless thoughts. Except for roleplaying games.

That group has grown and molded from just me, D, J, and C crawling from one outlandish setting to the next in my slapdash, seat of my pants storytelling into a Sunday night movie night, with almost double the cast. Its an even split almost, girls to guys, and we mostly watch bad exploitation flicks and so bad they're good trainwrecks. Somehow, I find contentment from this social arrangement.

Umm, my anxiety in public is worse now. With no benzos, all I got left out there is music, and if I forget my earbuds I wander into the gtocery store, immediately lose focus on my goals, buy the same thing every time (a hastily grabbed pepsi max and a bag of sour bears, my only weakness!), and leave the store. I emerge from my fog as I jostle my keys from my pocket to get into the car, realizing I forgot the cereal, the milk, and the bread. Oh, was I humming again? How long had I been doing it? The same fucking tune, oh you don't say. You're still a wreck of a man, Rev.

So yeah. I'm getting better, but I feel like there is a transparent wall of force between me and normalcy. The ability to work, to start a family. God, how I want that. We both want just one and done. Hope someday I can break through and realize all of these things as reality. For now, I shall dream.

-=-=-=-=-

And with that, I conclude this entry. With luck, I will be bashing out more screeds in the future, now that I have discovered the tumblr app. Thoughts? Questions? Maybe my next post will be an interlude. I need to figure out what the nomenclature for trigger warnings on here. I am totally new to the platform and am aware that there is some manner of acceptable decorum around these here parts.

Baby steps.

And if any of you mentioned above find this, I ask that you keep it to yourself. If you like, I would be happy to one on one you in regards to anything you might be concerned about. Please respect this, this blog is like personal therapy. Thank you.