#and a burden shared is a burden halved so

[shadows-and-starlight]

Fun Dead Boy Detectives Easter Egg:

The Night Nurse arrives in Port Townsend in episode 4 and tells the girls their death pantomime is terrible because "the sword would've punctured her lung leaving her unable to scream".

That foreshadows how a very heartbreaking death in episode 8 plays out.

[keekeeblade]

🧇

Spoilers under the cut for The Waffle House Disaster Index by @mistystarshine

Go check it out if you haven't yet, it's so good!

Adam's fine, normal Tuesday down here

Based on this post which reminded me of them instantly and then kept haunting me...

[elumish]

In the wake of what's going on in the world, I see a lot of rhetoric that basically boils down to the idea that everyone has a responsibility to watch every bad thing that's going on in the world all the time. That awareness itself is a responsibility that everyone has always.

I'm not going to say that people do or don't have a responsibility to be aware of things, but I want to talk about how to take care of yourself and others while doing so.

For some context, I spent close to a year and a half reading about every terrorist attack in the world as part of my work on the Global Terrorism Database. It was 2015/2016, so this was the height of ISIS/Daesh, it was a major time for Boko Haram, and it was when there was a lot of political violence that we weren't sure how to classify in places like Yemen, Crimea, and Libya (stuff the GTD didn't know how to classify had all of is information recorded, and then it went into purgatory until someone above my paygrade decided what to do with it). What this means is that I was spending 10-20 hours a week reading about hundreds or thousands of attacks a month and, in my case, recording infomation about the type of attack and the type of weapon. Much of my life was reading terrible things.

Limit what you do in isolation. One of the worst changes for me during that time, mental health-wise (even though it was great for my commute) was when I went from working in-person to working remotely. With other people, there are ways to diffuse the pain. A burden shared is a burden halved and all that. That may mean talking about it, or joking about it, or finding some other way to engage with it that isn't just reading about the most horrible things in the world and then stewing in your own thoughts about them.

Find something to do that's totally unrelated. I highly recommend finding something to do with your hands, if you can (knitting, Lego, cooking, whatever), but regardless of what it is, you should have some time when you entirely switch away to something different. During a fair amount of my time with the GTD, I was also doing my undergrad thesis about terrorism on TV, so a huge amount of my life was about terrorism in some way. The only other thing I watched was Great British Bake Off, and I would just rewatch the episodes, over and over.

Be compassionate about how you share information and with whom. Use trigger warnings, and consider using consistent tagging on places like Tumblr so people can blacklist it if they need to. Also consider whether it's appropriate or necessary to share photos of bodies or other results of horrible violence. What is it accomplishing, to show that? Can that goal be accomplished other ways that don't require the equivalent of jumpscares of unexpected photos of dead or brutalized people? Are you just showing it because you think that everyone should have to see it? If you are showing it, are there ways to mitigate against harm it may do?

Do what you can to avoid an echo chamber. Sometimes, when everyone around you is upset or angry about the same thing, it just amplifies itself, and you all get angrier and more upset in perpetuity without accomplishing anything.

Work towards action. Watching terrible things happen for the sake of saying that you haven't looked away isn't as meaningful as taking action in some way. Write to your Congressperson. Donate. Do whatever is appropriate for the thing you want to stop. But penance via watching terrible things happen doesn't accomplish anything.

Recognize compassion fatigue and do what you can to mitigate it. If you spend long enough doing this, you start to lose context, and you start to become less able to have compassion about things. If you're reading about attacks with dozens or hundreds of deaths regularly, five can start to not seem like that many. If you're reading only about the worst suffering in the world, "lesser" suffering of those around you can start to seem unimportant and petty. Do what you can to mitigate that.

Be kind to yourself. You do nobody any good if you burn out. Look away, if you need to. Take a break. Do things so you can enjoy life, because otherwise you are just another person suffering in the world. Other people's pain isn't a hair shirt for you to wear.

[heliosunny]

A divine separation

Yandere!Zayne x Reader

The world beneath the stars seemed like a masterpiece crafted by Astra’s divine hand. You and Zayne had been chosen as Foreseers, conduits of divine will. Together, your shared power could pierce the veil of the unknown, interpreting Astra’s will for humanity. The connection you shared was unlike anything else in the universe—two halves of a whole, bound by fate.

Yet, as time passed, Zayne grew weary of how deeply you sympathized with humanity. Their fleeting lives, fragile dreams, and relentless struggles touched you in ways Zayne could not understand. He saw the way your compassion consumed you, how every wound inflicted upon mortals felt like a wound upon your own soul. You’d stumble into the sanctuary, bruised from trying to intervene in their affairs, your eyes soft with an aching kindness that enraged him.

“They don’t deserve your mercy.” Zayne would say, his tone sharp like shattered glass. “Their choices lead to ruin, and yet you lower yourself for them?”

“But they need us” you argued back, your voice trembling with conviction. “If Astra has chosen us to guide them, how can we turn away?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. The stars in his eyes once serene—now burned with a dangerous intensity. He knew you wouldn’t change, and the thought of you being hurt again ignited something primal within him.

Late one evening, as you rested after a grueling day of delivering Astra’s messages to the people, Zayne approached the altar. He knelt before the shimmering pool where Astra’s essence flowed, the very source of your shared power.

“I beseech you, Astra” he whispered, his voice dark with determination. “Grant me the strength to bear your will alone. This… bond is no longer necessary. I’ll protect your will and ensure its purity—without them.”

Astra remained silent, but the stars above shuddered. The divine essence flickered, and Zayne felt a surge of power. He stood, his chest heaving as the realization hit him. He had succeeded. The connection you once shared was severed, and the weight of Astra’s voice was now his alone.

When you woke, the world felt… hollow. The usual hum of your connection to Astra was gone, replaced by a chilling silence. Panic set in as you searched for Zayne, only to find him waiting in the sanctuary, a soft, almost sorrowful smile on his face.

“It’s better this way” he said, stepping closer to you. His hand reached out, brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that belied his actions. “You were too kind, too fragile. Humanity would’ve broken you eventually.”

“Zayne… what have you done?” Your voice cracked as you stared at him, disbelief and betrayal swirling in your chest.

“I’ve taken on the burden for both of us” he replied, his tone calm. “You don’t need to suffer anymore. I’ll protect you from humanity, from pain, from everything.”

You tried to step back, but his grip on your arm was firm, unyielding.

“I won’t let you throw yourself away for them” Zayne murmured, his voice soft but laced with steel. “You’re mine, Y/n. You always have been. And now, you’ll stay by my side—safe, where you belong.”

As his words sank in, you realized the true extent of his obsession. The bond you once shared, the balance that had made you equals, was gone. Zayne had stolen it, consumed it, and in doing so, he had imprisoned you in his shadow.

Above, the stars shimmered faintly, their light muted as if Astra mourned what had been lost.

[midnight-mourning]

L'appel de la Mer

🐟🐟Midnight's DCA MerMay Day 5🐟🐟

i will get caught up, it may seem impossible rn, BUT I WILL GET CAUGHT UP-

anyway, please enjoy this silly little thing

Prompt: Hello, hello, dear! Here is a little request: Kraken Sun and Kraken Moon hear the beautiful singing of Mermaid Y/N, and the boys decide to court them to win their affections, wishing for Y/N to become their mate. Y/N is cold at first, but softens as they see how adorable and silly the charming Krakens are, such darling gentlemen that truly mean their words of love. Y/N accepts their courtship, singing for the boys, while Sun and Moon brush Y/N's hair.

DCFPU prompt used: Seashell(s)

Word Count: 1982

Story will be posted to ao3 soon!

🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊

The warm sun feels soothing against the chill of the water lapping below you. It's only in rare moments like this do you truly get to enjoy moments such as these. Best not to take it for granted. You shift slightly, scales sliding against the rock, and sigh, face nuzzling into it for good measure. 

Usually at this time of day you'd be busy with a flutter of activity. Though not willingly mind you. Sailors passing through, mers approaching with gifts and trinkets galore. All of them with the same thing on their mind; you. Or rather, having you for themselves. 

It hadn't been intentional, if anything it was anything but. You just simply enjoyed singing. It made you happy, made you feel fulfilled in your long, otherwise uneventful life. Singing was your outlet for joy, but in so many cases, it had become nothing but a burden. 

Anymore, you rarely sang. Finding that by avoiding it you avoided any and all unwanted attention. It made you sad, disheartened even, but you were better off for it in the long run! At least, that's what you told yourself. 

Nevertheless, you could at least enjoy this moment of peace for what it was worth. In fact, you almost want to fall asleep, all cozy and warm. Like laying near an underwater vent. 

Almost unknowingly, out of control, you start to hum to yourself a sort of lullaby. That hum grows into soft mumbling, trailing into singing before you know it. 

It's sleepy and jagged, but it's soothing to you as you feel yourself begin to drift off from your own song. 

"So you're the source of all that lovely music."

You spoke far too soon. 

Annoyed, you pretend to not hear whoever it is that's stumbled upon you now. Based on the singular voice it must be another mer and not a passing ship. Good and bad. Less to deal with, but harder to slip away from. You'll play this out and see how it goes. 

The second mer is a surprise. 

"I don't think they can hear your praise, Moon. Can't you see they're resting?"

A chuckle. "Resting yes, but asleep? Far from it. I think I'm simply being ignored."

"You're saying that as if you don't deserve it. You are interrupting their midday nap after all."

"If I recall correctly, coming up to the surface to see them had been your idea, Sun."

You scowl against the rock as they continue to bicker back and forth. When it delves into a full argument you make a noise of displeasure. But just as you're about to look up and say something you're hit with a sudden wave of water, shocking you fully awake and nearly knocking you off the rock. 

Sputtering, you look up and open your mouth to share a few choice words, only to be stunned into silence by the sight in front of you. 

Currently having it out with each other are two mers that are much larger than you. One blue, the other yellow. One with fins surrounding its head, the other with a cap-like structure. Both have several large tentacles for their bottom halves, and both are utilizing said tentacles to fight against the other. 

Kraken mers. 

Your favorite. 

You shake off your initial surprise and go back to being displeased at having your sunbathing interrupted by not just one, but two mers. And if they think you're going to let them get by with it just because you're a bit intimidated they are sorely mistaken. 

"Hey." You yell, though it does nothing. You try again, louder. "Hey!"

Still nothing, another large wave splashes against you, now completely ruining the warmth of your rock. Angry now, you look around for something to throw, picking up a nearby lose chunk of stone. You gather your strength and hurl the chunk in their general direction. 

It happens to be timed just right to hit the yellow one on the forehead. It startles him at most, but he stops what he's doing--holding the blue mer down in the water--to look at you.

"What was that for?" He pouts, the other mer snickering in the background. 

You scoff, then shake your head, feeling completely enraged for a moment. You raise to your full height possible on the rock, lifting your hands up in disbelief. "You've ruined my rock, that's what! Coming up here and bothering me while I'm trying to enjoy the nice weather, do you have any idea how long I've waited for a day of peace and relaxation?"

As you go on, you see them both cower at your words which, internally, gives you a bit of a power trip but in turn you lose your train of thought. "So, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my nap in quiet. Thank you very much." You twist around, laying on your back now and ignoring the feeling of cool dampness against your skin and scales. 

For a minute or so, there is relative silence all around you, and your anger slowly begins to leech away. In fact, you feel your frown slip into a serene smile as the sun starts to evaporate away the water from your skin. 

A quiet ripple to your left catches your ear. 

"We're terribly sorry, sweet thing. I'm afraid we got a bit caught up in the moment."

"Yes, very sorry. Didn't mean to be a bother."

You feel your frown return, though a bit softer.

"It's fine. Though I suppose now you have something to say, don't you?" Your eyes remain closed. You're already prepared for the usual spiel, you hope they'll be quick. 

There's a splash again. "Actually, a gift. Though plenty of words if you'd like them."

"Multiple gifts at that if you'll allow."

You crack an eye open. It’s been some time since you’ve received gifts for your singing. 

Sure enough, you find the yellow mer is holding a sparkly seashell out to you. When you turn your head to the right, you see the blue mer is also holding a shell of his own. And while never participating much yourself, you know the rules around courting. You're just genuinely taken aback by what is occurring. 

Sure, you know your singing attracted mers to you, and you'd been asked for your hand on more than one occasion as a result, but very few had ever taken the actual steps to prove it. You were flattered for a brief moment, and then highly suspicious. Maybe your sleepy singing had been better than you thought. 

You keep your expression neutral. "I appreciate the gesture, but I cannot accept."

"Are they not pretty enough?" The yellow one asks. 

"We can find better options. Say the word and we'll find exactly what you like."

You're not used to this. The... genuinity in their tones, but you let it go, you're overthinking it. 

Still, you'll give a bit of sympathy, considering the slight fear you still hold of them. 

"How about a couple names?" You ask. "You don't even know mine and here you are wanting to court me like it's nothing." You can't help the bitterness which boils under the surface of your words. 

The two krakens look between each other, as if realizing something. Profusely, they apologize. Surprising you even further. 

Yellow puts a hand. To his chest, bowing slightly. "If you'll allow us a chance to amend our blunder, my name is Sun."

"Moon." States the blue one. "And yours, pretty pearl?"

You tell them yours, blunt. To the point. They seem bothered by it. 

"We'll find better options to present to you." Moon nods, seeming already determined to prove himself. 

Sun agrees. "Just give us some time, sweet. But hopefully these will be a suitable start."

Before you can protest, they gently set the shells down and dive back under the water. You get another wave sent your way in the process. 

You give up on sunbathing. 

Sun and Moon however, don't give up on you. To your eventual amazement and utter confusion. 

They each bring you shells, stones, and sea glass galore. Snacks and meals of shellfish, kelp or heaping piles of fish. Coral and pearls and quite literally anything they can find. Very pretty things however, you won't deny. All of it you know meant to be offerings for the ability to court you. 

At first you just rejected them because you didn't believe either mer held any sincerity with their gifts. Their sweet words or declarations and promises. It was far too unbelievable. All just the same as it always was. Surely they would grow tired, or your unintentional enchantment would wear off soon enough, right? You haven't even been singing lately!

Now though, now you were beginning to doubt yourself. Because of the conversations you had. Their poetic words met by your cold but wry banter. The days spent following you around, the nights spent watching the stars, offering you both companionship and assistance--when you desired it. Another baffling fact of the matter was that they kept their distance when you asked for it. Most never offered you such a courtesy. 

Both had their own traits that made them 'tolerable'. Though you'd be lying if you said they were just tolerable at this point. Slowly you'd warmed up to at least consider Sun and Moon your friends. 

Moon with how he'd cheekily tease you while he flirts. Sun with his wide-smiled compliments that after a while began to make you blush. They'd really started to grow on you. But it's not until one day, while sitting in their cave--which always had an open-invite for you--that it hits you. 

You're quietly humming to yourself as you sort through today's offerings, having become a bit of a game between the three of you by this point. Meanwhile behind you, the two of them fuss over your hair, both with each other and with the mess you've left them with to manage. To your credit, when you have enough trinkets given to you, at least some of them are going to wind up in your hair. How else were you supposed to enjoy them? 

Regardless, it's in that moment, that split second, realization rolls over you. You're singing. Quietly, barely much at all, but still singing nonetheless. You haven't done that in months. Not unless you were assured absolute and utter privacy. 

It was a combination of hoping Sun and Moon would finally grow bored, and developed into a fear that this friendship you'd foster would end up nothing but a farce. But now, you were finally comfortable enough to be around them to do it. To hum, to sing, to simply be you. Without the worry that it would be taken at face-value. 

"I accept." You blurt out then, astonished. 

You feel one set of hands stop their movement. The other continues without pause. 

"What."

"Hmm?" 

"Do you mean it?" Moon presses, bending down to meet your gaze. 

You nod, smiling and then laughing. "I do, yes."

"You do what, Sweetfin?" Sun asks absentmindedly, still not connecting things. 

You tilt your head back to see him. "Accept your offer to court me. If it's still available, that is?"

"Of course Starlight, now look forward again so I can—" Sun stops, shaking his head. "Truly?!"

He scoops you up, hugging you tightly as you laugh again. "I already said yes!"

Thus, after a bout of affection-filled confirmations, you find yourself back to being pampered, with the two mers back to bickering over your hair. Sun wanting to take the proper time to brush it out, and Moon urging him to move quicker so they weave in their favorite shells and such to proudly display your new status as partners. 

And for the first time in a long time, you sing without a care in the world. 

Well, maybe two. 

🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊🎣🌊

Thank you @amarynthian-chronicles for the lovely idea! I had much fun writing these three and their silly dynamics ^^

Masterlist post is here

Tag list (if you would like added, simply say so!):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay @that-one-unknown-artist @rosescarletful @buzzy-bee @hazelthebat @nightriverart @mr-munchies

[icallhimjoey]

eddie?! 👀 did you say EDDIE?!?! 👀👀👀👀

i DID say eddie! i had a tiny idea that fit the version of eddie ive written before (and the only version of eddie ive written before) and so... here we are. i am: so sorry. Wordcount: 6.6K

---

Let’s Go Home

(find all other parts of this story here)

“Let’s go get him.”

You sound very determined for someone completely unsure of how to handle the situation. It’s difficult to watch someone so deeply unhappy struggle with parts of their past they can’t seem to get a grip on.

“I… what?” two wet, red-rimmed eyes stare back at you. Confused. A little annoyed.

“Yea. Come on. Let’s go. We’re packing our bags and we’re going to go pick him up and bring him back here.”

Eddie doesn’t get it. Frowns, entirely unsure of who you’re talking about.

“Steve’s already here… and Wayne is coming here for Christmas, we don’t need to–…” he looks so tired.

“I know we don’t need to.”

It always happened when the days got a little shorter. When the nights got colder and Christmas loomed. When happy, wholesome family moments would be advertised all over the world, and it all became glaringly obvious – once again – how that was something Eddie never got to be a part of when he was little. Not until Wayne took him in and tried his best to make the holidays special in his own way.

No matter how hard Wayne tried, though, the bitter aftertaste of abandonment and loneliness was impossible to get rid of.

Eddie would never admit this to Wayne, but celebrating Christmas just the two of them felt just as pathetic and lonely as it had done when he lived with his parents still.

Different.

Definitely not as traumatizing, which was good.

But still dreary, and sad, with a lot of playing pretend that he was okay and happy and fine.

He was never okay and happy and fine.

Still isn’t okay and happy and fine.

That’s not Wayne’s fault, Eddie knows, and he feels like a shitty person because Wayne always tried his best. Did what he could. It just never quite worked.

Christmas would roll around, and Eddie would get depressed.

That’s just what happened.

Eddie would slip into sadness, scary thoughts intruding happy places they weren’t allowed to settle into, but he’d not yet learnt how to tell them to fuck off. To leave him alone. Didn’t know how to get the uninvited guests out of his house, and felt powerless as he watched them settle into his living room. Nothing he could do about it.

Somber, pensive moments would slowly stretch until they covered most of the day. Mornings were the happiest, still. He’d wake up after falling asleep eventually, never managing to slip into dreams before 3 AM, and for a moment, he’d forget. The short amount of sleep would have him tired enough to not remember the reality of his life for a second, and in those moments, it would just be you in bed with him and that would be the only thing in existence.

It’s awful to feel reality set into someone’s body mid-hug.

You wish you knew how to keep it out.

Over the years Eddie had learnt he had to vocalize his feelings. His thoughts. Knew that a burden shared was a burden halved, but knowing things in theory didn’t make them easier in practice.

“What can I do? Let me help.” You’d whisper, and Eddie was lucky you’d known each other for so long. There were no worried questions of are you okay, or a concerned soft hey what’s wrong.

You know he’s not okay, and you know what’s wrong.

“You, here. That’s all you need to do.” Eddie would murmur and he’d pull you in to hold you for a short while. And sometimes, that would temporarily fix him.

There is part of Eddie that honestly thinks if he doesn’t think about it, that it’ll be okay.

If he ignores it for long enough, it might go away by itself.

He’s lucky that sometimes, it does.

He pretends that the foundation of shit that he’d been given for his life hasn’t got all the cracks in. The house he has tried to build on top might shake a bit in the wind, but he can convince himself that the strong support beams that have been put in place will make sure the whole thing doesn’t collapse.

But it’s getting closer and closer to Christmas, and he’s sinking deeper and deeper into everything that’s dark, and cold, and uncomfortable, and painful, and scary.

Everything is designed to make people feel happy around this time of year, and he’s in LA where the sun shines all year long and it doesn’t even really get cold at all. Not like it gets cold in Hawkins. The days don’t really get that much shorter, and he can go outside in a T-shirt and be fine. But maybe that’s precisely the problem right now; there’s no quick get inside the house, and no let me warm your hands up for you.

The comfort of a frozen nose that get nuzzled back to life is unattainable in LA.

“Can you go to another meeting? Would that help, do you think?” you silently ask him one evening, hidden under the covers and too tired to stay awake for much longer, even though you know Eddie’s wide awake next to you. He’ll toss and turn for a couple more hours after you’ve drifted off.

“Yea, of course. I should.” Eddie is quick to reply, but you know he doesn’t want to.

Talking about his addiction with strangers when he’s trying his best to pretend it’s not there will just make things worse, he thinks. Logically, he knows it probably won’t, but there’s always that fear.

“Can I join you?”

You feel how Eddie shifts in bed, probably to take a look at you, but your eyes are closed and you’re about to fall asleep. This isn’t the time to fall into a conversation in which he asks you why on earth you would want to hear a lot of people you don’t know talk about a lot of drastic measures you don’t need to know people let themselves be pushed to sometimes.

So instead, you feel a kiss press to your temple, and he whispers, “Sure you can.”

At first, Eddie doesn’t say much in the meeting you join him for. You mostly listen to issues other people bring forward, and try to think of things you’d do if Eddie was the person speaking. If he was the one with all of those problems. How would you help?

How would you fix it?

When a kind, soft-spoken voice asks if there’s anyone new who wants to share, a lot of eyes fall on you, and you shift in your seat. Sit up a little. Feel Eddie squeeze your hand in his which could have meant, it’s okay, you can tell people why you’re here, but instead it means, I got this.

Eddie talks.

Tells everyone about how he feels like he’s deep in a depression and that he doesn’t really know how to get out of the dark pit he’s fallen into.

How it feels like he’s five years old and stuck in a small dark room, and he’s feeling all over the walls but can’t locate the light switch, and the longer he’s looking, the more he starts feeling claustrophobic in there.

You make the mistake of asking him if he can call out for help.

“Have you tried asking? Maybe someone else can turn the light on for you…”

Eddie breaks down, elbows on his knees, face hidden from the group as he looks at the wooden floor boards through his tears.

It’s not your fault.

Eddie doesn’t expect you to understand the feeling of being so utterly helpless and alone that he knows there’s no use in even trying to call for help.

No one would’ve answered.

You scoot your seat closer to his, and lean into his side as you wrap an arm around his back, fingers curling around his shoulder. It’s nice. He needs it. He also knows there’s thirteen pairs of eyes on him and he doesn’t know how to tell you that no matter how hard you’ll try, you won’t be able to actually fix anything.

“Let me turn the light on. Let Steve, or let Wayne– Robin… we can all help turn the light on. We’ll fly Wayne out, Robin too, and anyone else that you want. They can all move in, we have the space for it. Just… please, let us turn the light on, Eddie…”

It’s the fucking sweetest thing he’s ever heard, but he can reach for the light himself now. He can find it in the dark, and he can turn it on. The problem is that it doesn’t make a fucking difference.

Turning a light on now doesn’t change anything about his past.

Eddie gets asked if he has anything more to share. He sniffs and wipes his face with both his hands before he sits up and leans back and says, “Thank you, but um, no. I don’t. It’s this time of year, I guess. I know it’ll pass.”

You hold hands, fingers intertwined, as you listen to everyone else share more of their own personal issues, and when you leave Eddie puts his arm around you and pulls you close to kiss the side of your face. He tells you that he loves you, that he’s glad that he came, and he thanks you for coming with him.

You can see in his eyes that none of it helped.

Eddie lets himself sink deeper and all you can really do is be there for him. Be there when he wakes up and be there when he goes to sleep. You give him the gift of routine. Of healthy meals. Of pleasant walks outside. Long showers after.

It helps.

But it doesn’t fix anything.

You try your best at damage control. Talk to Steve. Call Wayne a lot.

And it helps.

But about two weeks later, Eddie starts isolating.

He had never isolated before.

Not like this.

He’s in his home studio, hyperfocussing on four seconds of a song he’s working on, and when you interrupt to tell him you’re going to go to bed, he says he’ll come up in a minute. He just needs to figure this bit out. “I’m so close, I can taste it.” Eddie smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and for a moment you think Eddie’s going to let you listen to his work in progress. He always asks for your opinion, but this time he doesn’t. He just looks at you with a smile that’s just there for reassurance until you leave him alone.

At 5 AM you get woken up by Steve, who softly says, “You need to come downstairs…” and leads the way for you.

“I got up to pee, and the bathroom is right above the studio…”

You find Eddie in the exact same spot, going over the exact same four seconds of music.

He looks like he’s being tortured, barely able to keep his eyes open. When you gently pry the guitar from his hands, his breathing changes, and you think if he would have had the energy to sob, he would have cried like a child.

“Let’s go to bed, Eddie.”

Eddie lets you take him upstairs, but then locks himself in the bathroom and when you ask if he can let you in, all you can hear are soft sniffles whilst the shower runs.

It’s then that you decide.

Something is different this time around.

Something deeper has bubbled up, and you know whatever you are doing here, in LA, to help him simply will not be enough.

You establish a plan and pull out two suitcases that you place onto your bed. You’re going to pack your bags and you’re going to go get him.

It’s clearly necessary.

Eddie is no longer letting you comfort him and you’re scared that the next step is going to be a relapse.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s go get him.”

“I–… what?”

Eddie hasn’t slept, and his unwashed hair is wet from the shower he’s sat in for a while, and you’re very calmly and methodically folding clothes into a suitcase. You might as well be speaking in a different language right now.

“Yea. Come on. Let’s go. We’re packing our bags and we’re going to go pick him up and bring him back here.”

Eddie slowly moves to sit down on the bed, and he looks at what you’re doing for a moment before he sighs and softly says, “Steve’s already here… and Wayne is coming here for Christmas, we don’t need to–…”

He stops speaking when he sees your slight smile.

“I know we don’t need to.” You say and Eddie doesn’t like how you look at him with so much care in your eyes. He doesn’t think he deserves it.

Doesn’t deserve you.

“Do you want to bring both of your black hoodies?” you then ask, not giving him a chance to question what’s happening, and so he just goes, “Yea… yea, sure.” before he lets himself fall backwards onto the mattress where he shuts his eyes.

You let Eddie sleep for as long as sleep will hold him. Pack up both suitcases and let Steve help you book travel back home.

“Do you want to come?” you ask when Steve is on the phone to a travel agent. He is listening to the woman who’s reading him back information he’s just given her, so he can’t answer you, but he reaches out and holds your hand whilst you listen to him book two tickets to Indiana.

When he gets off the phone he reaches for your other hand as well and says, “I’ll watch the house.”

You give him a slight frown. “You know he’d love you to come with us… Wayne says Hawkins is covered in snow. We could watch Christmas films in the trailer… get Robin and run across Lover’s Lake again… or, call Dustin and, I don’t know, Eddie could challenge him to a snow ball fight and they could play–”

“Dustin’s 26 years old.”

“Yea...” you frown at Steve. “So?” you sound desperate.

Steve huffs a laugh as he rubs his thumbs over your hands. He grimaces a little before he says, “No offense, but… he doesn’t need us out there. Of course you’ve got to go with him, but every other person is going to be one too many.”

And Steve’s right.

The next day, Steve joins you outside as you’re about to leave. He hugs Eddie for a long time by the trunk of the car, and you know they’re softly talking to each other. You can only see Eddie’s back, and Steve’s face is hidden by all of Eddie’s curls, but suddenly you can hear Eddie laugh before he pokes Steve in the side.

You get hugged next.

Eddie doesn’t sleep on the flight. Just stares out the window and gets lost in thought. You know he’s not entirely sure of why you’re taking him back to Hawkins, but he’s also not asked about it again.

When your rental car stops in front of Wayne’s trailer, you turn the engine off and sit in silence for a moment as you both just… look at it. It’s four in the afternoon, but it’s getting dark outside already.

Forest Hills.

A surprisingly large lot of land that holds about twenty-four sporadically placed trailers; some of them neatly lined up, others facing whichever way. Wayne’s trailer was one of those ones, placed diagonally to the road, surrounded by dry grass for most of the year which was now hidden by a thick layer of snow.

Momentarily, everything about the image that you’re looking at looks like it’s 1987. Maybe 1988. You can easily envision a younger version of yourself running up to that same front door, it swinging open before you could even get up the steps, Eddie bursting through just to throw you over his shoulder and haul you inside.

“We’re here...” you break the silence, stating the obvious, and find Eddie’s hand to squeeze.

It’s a little silly, but it looks like he’s scared.

“Did you tell him we were coming?”

“Wayne?”

Eddie turns to look at you, slightly confused because, yea who the fuck else?

“Yea. I called Wayne.”

You watch how Eddie takes a breath. Watch that information settle within him.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

And Eddie does. Doesn’t want to do anything without you, ever.

But he takes a shaky breath and says, “I’ll come get you in a second.” before he opens the door and gets out of the car.

Footsteps crunch in the snow, and you watch Eddie, hands in pockets, rush up the steps to what used to be the trailer that he lived in with his uncle. The trailer that he found home in when he was about seven years old and Wayne had decided that his bedroom could actually be Eddie’s bedroom instead for a while.

A while turned into fifteen years in the blink of an eye.

You watch Eddie hug Wayne through the window. It’s another long embrace, but this one doesn’t part with boyish grins and jabbing fingers. Instead, you can see how Eddie goes limp in Wayne’s arms a little, and when he goes to pull back, Wayne just… holds on.

Just a little longer.

It feels a little wrong to be watching them like this, chin perched on the steering wheel, fingers hidden in your sleeves. It feels especially invasive when you see how when they eventually part, the first thing both men do is bring their sleeves to their faces to dry what has become wet.

Then, Eddie steps away. Slowly walks towards the room that used to be his bedroom, and he goes alone.

Good, you think.

That’s good.

Wayne didn’t understand at first, when you told him over the phone. That you were coming over for a strange, but important visit. But this was good.

It takes a while.

Your fingers start to lose their feeling a little as you wait in the car, but it’s fine. You are not the priority right now.

When Eddie eventually emerges from the trailer, you get out of the car, and wait for him to call for you. A, come on. Come inside. It’s fucking freezing out here.

Instead, you get silence. Eddie doesn’t stop walking to wave you over.

He makes his way all the way over to where you’re stood next to the car, and then, he hesitates for a moment.

Eddie can’t look you in the eye.

“Everything okay?”

You know it’s not.

“He um…” Eddie starts, voice trembling. “He’s not here.”

“What?”

Eddie moves closer to place a kiss to your temple, eyes looking away, over the top of the car, across the trailer park. “He’s not here. I didn’t find him.”

Eddie steps around you and gets into the passenger seat, and for a moment, you stand with both shoes in slush whilst you try to think of what to do next. When you look back at the trailer, you catch Wayne through he window. Gives you a smile and a wave.

For a moment you contemplate running over, up those same steps, to ask what happened inside. Maybe Wayne has answers to questions you keep asking yourself.

Before you can, Eddie roars the engine back to life.

You give Wayne a wave back from where you’re stood and round the car to get into the passenger’s seat. You can talk to Wayne later.

Back inside the car, you put your seatbelt on and look at Eddie for a moment. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, and he’s biting his lip as he stares into space.

“If he’s not here…” you start pensively.

“It’s quite the drive.” Eddie answers, unmoving.

“We have the time.”

“I don’t think we’d make it back here before midnight.”

“Hey,”

Eddie turns his head to look at you.

“We have time.” You repeat yourself and place your hand on the back of his head where you softly scratch your fingers into his hair. “You good to drive?”

You don’t get an answer. Instead, Eddie puts the car in reverse and starts backing out. Just before he’s about to fully leave Forest Hills Trailer Park, he stops the car, even though there’s no traffic to wait for.

“I can drive if you want me to–”

“N-no, that’s not it. I can drive, but I…”

Eddie stares. Looks at his hands and just sits in silence, going through it. Then suddenly, he takes his seatbelt off, opens his door and quickly says, “I’ll be right back.” and he runs.

Left in a car with a running engine and a wide open door, you turn in your seat to watch Eddie’s breath leave him in white clouds as he runs back to the trailer, back up the steps, back inside. You’re too far away to see in the windows now.

It only takes a minute.

When he comes back, jogs down those steps in the snow, he looks a little lighter somehow. Like running back towards the car is a little easier.

Eddie gets back in the car, and he’s all loud inhales and rough exhales, hands rubbing together because it’s cold and he just ran through the snow, but then he looks at you as he puts on his seatbelt and he smiles.

There’s tears in his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Had to tell him it’s okay. That I’m okay.”

Somehow, Eddie is beaming and solemn at the same time, but you’re happy that something has changed a little. That he seems to get it. You sink into your seat a bit more when Eddie pulls onto the road and starts heading south.

Eddie told you once, years ago, that he used to live in a motel before he came to Hawkins. How that’s all his parents could afford, and even then, they were always fighting with the front desk about money. Always late on payments.

It was just one big room, and even though it was just him, his mother and sometimes his dad, there were always people in their room. Strangers. Friends, his mother would tell him. Sometimes she’d even tell him, this is your Uncle Frank, and Eddie would be forced to shake the hand of a man he had never seen before and would never see again.

Eddie spent a lot of his early childhood confused.

He spent a lot of his childhood hiding.

Afraid.

Alone.

He wouldn’t ever trust anyone. People told him one thing and then they would laugh together and they would do something else.

Adults were evil, and yet the world was made so that adults were the ones that had to look after him. That made the decisions. That told him, go play outside, even if rain was coming down hard, and Eddie would have no other choice but to listen. To do as he was told.

He was only a little kid.

When Eddie was seven years old, he got kicked out of the room at eight in the morning and got told to not come back until they were ‘ready for him’.

Like he knew what that meant.

No one had told him how to tell time.

Eddie didn’t go to school.

But he knew that being sent outside meant that he had to go find his own entertainment for a while, and so he did.

Eddie was seven years old when he came back around lunch time with skinned knees and grass stains in his shorts, and there was commotion.

Lots of people.

People in uniforms.

A cop car.

A kind woman who asked him if he had lost his way. If she could help him get home. Eddie had just smiled and said, no thanks, and had tried to hide in the spot where he always hid. Adults were not to be trusted, Eddie knew. No matter how kind they looked.

Eddie was seven years old when he got pulled from his safe space, his little hiding spot, kicking and screaming, and got brought over to Wayne’s trailer. He’d never been back to that motel room again. Had never even gotten close.

The sun has fully set by the time you pull up outside of an old, run down motel that looks like it should’ve been torn down ages ago. Most windows are boarded up, paint on the walls is chipping and what used to be a light-up sign has been torn down.

It’s a dump.

Just trying to imagine someone growing up here has you choking up.

Little four-year-old Eddie running around these grounds? In dirty clothes too big for his body because nobody was feeding him right? Being exposed to things no child should ever be exposed to, simply because his bedroom was also the only room they had?

Before you can let it make you cry, you hear a faint chuckle beside you.

It’s small and weak, but it’s a chuckle none the less.

“I remember this place much bigger,” he says, like it’s funny. “There’s only like… seven rooms.” Eddie counts.

You’re momentarily unsure if coming here was a good idea. If facing this reality of his past is going to be doing him any good. If it won’t just break him down even more. But then Eddie turns to look at you and says, “Come, let me show you.”

Eddie visiting the place where he spent the first few years of his life turns into him giving you a surprisingly pleasant tour of the grounds. He recounts the other people that lived there, the rooms he wasn’t allowed into. How there used to be a soda machine here, and how sometimes the older kids would ask him to get them some cans for free, because his arms were small and skinny enough to just sneak them out the bottom.

It’s easy to skim the surface of this place like this.

To make it about showing you around instead of sinking down past the layers of self-protection that would have him walking around here with wobbly legs.

Yea.

This is easier. Better.

All of the doors are locked, but it doesn’t take much more than a good shove of a shoulder for the locks to give way. For the wood of the doorframes to splinter.

“Entering the Forest Hills way.” Eddie grins, and you suppress a smile. It’s a lie. Forest Hills is full of all honest, all hard-working people. But, it’s still a trailer park, and thus, the joke is funny.

Without much care, Eddie easily manages to open every door he comes across. It’s dark everywhere you go, none of the lights work, but the streetlights out front provide you with plenty of it, and your eyes quickly adjust.

Eddie shows you the laundry. Breaks into a little back office. A supply closet. Some other motel rooms - some that had semi-permanent guests staying there too, just like he used to be one. And some that would have overnight guests that didn’t know about the draft that would make the door slam so hard, you’d lose your fingers if they got caught in between.

It’s almost joyful, how Eddie talks about his memories. He hasn’t got many, he was so young, but every time he comes across something he remembers, he seems pleasantly surprised at his brain’s ability to bring it all back to him.

But then, when you eventually stop outside room number five, he pauses.

Stops.

Stares at the doorknob.

You can feel how his entire demeanor changes, and even though it’s painful to witness, you know that this is why you came here. This is the whole reason you drove all the way out here.

Eddie takes a good, deep breath but doesn’t move otherwise. Just keeps his eyes locked on a rusty old doorknob to a locked door of a room that probably looks exactly like all the other ones Eddie had already shown you.

“Is this where you lived?” you ask, doing your best to make your voice sound as neutral as possible. You don’t want to scare him off. Don’t want to trigger something.

Eddie nods, a barely-there up and down movement of his head, and then he goes for the doorhandle, rattles it weakly.

Keeps staring at it.

“Door’s locked.” He croaks, like that had been a problem for any of the other doors.

But it does make sense.

You understand that the person who opened up all those other doors was Eddie in his thirties, showing you around.

The person staring at the doorknob now, was Eddie as a child.

Afraid to go inside, unsure of what he was going to find there.

Not strong enough.

Maybe only just tall enough to even reach.

But, you were strong.

You had witnessed how a little force had gone a long way with these locks, and after giving Eddie a second to maybe ask for help, because God, you really wanted him to realize he could just ask for help, he doesn’t ask for shit, and you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Before Eddie even registers you taking a few steps back to get a running start, the wood of the door has already split from the blow of your shoulder.

“Oh my G–” Eddie jumps, both arms reaching out to grab at you and to pull you close. He makes sure he holds you where you ran into the door, large palm cupping over the curve of your shoulder, and he rubs the skin there. Which helps, because, you’re not really hiding the fact that Jesus fuck that fucking hurt very well.  

Despite the sting, there’s a moment where you both see the humor in what just happened, and looking at each other, you both let huffs of laughter escape you.

“Are you crazy? What you do that for, huh?” Eddie pretend scolds.

You shrug, “Forest Hills way.”  

The comedic relief is so welcome, but it’s short-lived. You see from up close how Eddie’s expression drops. He goes from looking at his insane girlfriend with all the love he’s got for her spilling from his eyes, to looking over your head into the dark room where he used to live, and it all slips away.

You wait by the door.

Want Eddie to do this alone because you think it’ll be better that way.

You also truly don’t know what to do, so it feels a little safer to just… wait outside. You wouldn’t know how to help anyway.

Just like when you were outside of Wayne’s trailer, it feels a little invasive to look at Eddie as he silently takes slow steps inside and looks around. At the same time, you can’t really look away. If he’s going to break down and fall to his knees, you want to be there within a second to pick him back up.

Eddie trails slow fingers along a dresser.

Takes careful steps towards a nightstand of which he opens and then closes the drawer.

“Huh…” he comments. Looks around the full room again, sees it in different light as he stands in another corner, the lights from outside showing him different parts of the room.

He disappears into the bathroom for a moment before he steps back out, and he looks… confused.

Surprised, maybe. A little dumbfounded.

He gives the room another glance, and then turns to find you watching him in silence.

“This is really weird,” Eddie comments, both eyebrows raised.

“Yea? How so?”

“I don’t know… it’s different. It’s not like I remember. I think… I don’t know, I think my mind made this room the most terrible place ever in the world, but it’s just… it’s just a room. There’s nothing…” Eddie twirls on the spot, “Yea, it’s just a room. Nothing’s… nothing is scary.”

You swallow audibly, and hesitate before you speak.

“It’s not scary.” Eddie concludes again before you can say anything, and he raises both shoulders at you in a long shrug, like he’s trying to convince you that it’s all right.

You’re not the one who needs convincing though.

“Is, um…” you start, and you clear your throat, entirely unsure of how Eddie is going to react to your question.

After visiting Wayne, you think he gets it now.

He gets why you took him back to Indiana.

Eddie has let his eyes fall on a weird piece of wall art he doesn’t remember, something that maybe they added to the room after his parents had been kicked out, and he’d been taken away to go live somewhere safer.

“Is he here?”

“Huh?”

“Is he in here, somewhere?”

It takes a moment of Eddie looking at you before he fully registers what you’re talking about.

His gaze drifts towards the closet next to the bathroom door.

It’s shut. Both bifold doors closed.

Eddie stalls for a moment, and then he raises an arm to open one of the doors before he drops it by his side again.

The closet’s empty.

It seemingly comes from nowhere, the way your lips suddenly quiver. How your eyes well up with tears so quickly. You have to cover your mouth with your hand to remain silent; this isn’t about you.

Eddie is slowly taking it all in, looks around the inside of the closet. The stains in the carpet. The peeling wallpaper. The mismatched hangers, a couple plastic ones amongst a couple more wire ones. And then he looks up and finds the the little yellowed piece of string that hangs down from way up high.

He reaches up and pulls it.

An audible click is heard.

Nothing changes though.

No light springs on.

Eddie pulls it again. Softly smiles. Pulls it a couple more times.

Click, click.

Click, click.

Nothing happens.

You’re about to burst with a violent sob when you see how Eddie, entirely in his own thoughts, inside of his own memories, slowly steps into the closet and closes the door behind him.

You hear the clicking of the light a couple more times, and need to step away.  

It’s too much.

The visuals of a tiny little malnourished Eddie hiding in a closet unable to reach the string of the light in there is going to make you hyperventilate if you’re not careful, so you have to take a walk.

It’s fucking freezing but hot tears trail down your cheeks as you hurry back to your rental car.

It doesn’t take much longer for Eddie to step outside, leaving the place where he spent the first few years of his life. His long legs carry him over to you quickly.

You can tell that he’s holding back sobs until he’s close enough to crash himself into you.

Arms wrap so tightly, they almost hurt. Bodies wrack with silent sobs until deep breaths calm the both of you down.

It takes a good while.

Eddie is first to pull back, and whilst cupping your face, both his thumbs wiping underneath your eyes in a bid to rid you of your tears, he manages to squeak, “Found him.”

“Yea?” you ask wetly. Hopeful.

This is why you came out here.

To find the small version of Eddie who, even as a toddler, knew that calling out for help was a waste of time because the calls would go unanswered.

To take him home.

“Turned on the–” Eddie throat closes up before he can even say it.

“Turned on the light for him?” you finish for him, and he just nods as he presses his lips together to keep them from wobbling.

Eddie goes in for another hug, hides his face in the side of your neck and grounds himself there.

You can feel how he’s actively trying to steady his own breathing.

It works, eventually.

“Did you…” you start, still holding him, but falter for a moment.

“Did I what?” Eddie asks, sniffing loudly, pulling back after you nudge your nose into his hair.

“Did you take him with you?”

It’s such a silly question. Eddie can’t help the smile that carefully plays at the corner of his mouth, and his eyebrows scrunch up as he looks down at you. He can dissect the question that pops up in the back of his brain for the fourth time today another time. How can he even begin to figure out why he deserves someone like you in his life?

“I did.” He confirms, and you let the breath you were holding escape you in a shudder.

He doesn’t think he deserves you.

“Good.” you smile, and maybe things are starting to look up, a little. Maybe the universe is slowly starting to make amends with Eddie. Is starting to apologize for all the shit it put little Eddie through in this godforsaken place no one should spend more than a single night at.

“Let’s take him home then.”

Eddie cries.

Thought he was done, but he’s not.

He lets you press kisses to the skin just underneath his eyes as he closes them.

He lets you open the car door and help him into the passenger’s seat.

Lets you drive all the way back to Wayne’s whilst he cries, because this is the second time little Eddie makes this trip, from the motel to Forest Hills. But this time he’s not scared.

He knows he’s going to go to a better place.

A safer place.

To a person who will try his very best hand at proper damage control. Who’s got a nice trailer, and a room that will get turned into his own bedroom three days into his stay.

To a person who will join Eddie in the closet for those first few nights. Who will just bring him food in there, have their dinner hidden away together, and who won’t force him out.

Who will play silly games with him in there, until the trips to the bathroom feel safe enough to do on his own.

There’s never other people in the trailer.

Just them.

Safe.

Eddie cries as he remembers more. Thought he had forgotten almost everything, but he remembers so much. He can’t talk about anything yet. Not now. His voice won’t let him. But that’s okay. You’ve got the radio on and need to focus on the road, and you’re taking him back to Wayne, and all he really wants to do is sleep.

And you just drive, and hold Eddie’s hand as he clings to you, and this is good.

It’s good.

Little Eddie deserves the fucking world.

You think so.

And you know of a handful of people who would wholeheartedly agree.

Slowly, you think Eddie might start to understand where you’re coming from.

He was never okay and happy and fine.

Still isn’t okay and happy and fine.

But the light has been switched on.

There’s light now.

He might one day be okay and happy and fine, and that’s something that before today was the most difficult thing to grasp.

“We’re taking you home, kiddo. I got you.” Eddie whispers, soft enough so only he can hear it over the engine and the music coming from the radio.

“Let’s go home.”

---

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Add yourself

[mage-ical-character-person]

I think it’s pretty tragicomic that Loop considers the way their wish turned out to be the Universe playing a cruel cosmic joke on them when really there’s no other way it could’ve gone. What did they want to happen? They didn’t want their party’s help, they asked the Universe instead.

…because even as they begged and pleaded for help they still didn’t want to involve their party. They STILL, even after, wouldn’t want them to remember. A Siffrin is not a Siffrin if they’re not determined to remain self sufficient while needing others so SO badly.

So BAM! You get another self! You want it both ways? Here you go! Also unforeseen but inevitable consequences.

This is the only way that wish could be fulfilled. To receive help without having to share their burden with the people they care about. Instead the burden is shared and halved by splitting it between two Siffrins. A Siffrin will remain convinced that sharing their burden makes them a burden. They need to do the opposite. They need to be the opposite of a burden: helpful, useful, so people won’t leave! So the Universe goes: okay, if you’re gonna insist on being the one to fix everything, fix yourself. There you go! Help! From someone who knows you as well as you know yourself! Without the pesky prerequisite of having to open up and ask someone for help verbally and actually talk about things! They just know, they just get it!

There we go! Wish fulfilled! Help given! The Universe pats itself on the back

Try keeping a journal or something next time guys.

[nshtn]

// Mimesis

Wesker attempts to console you when you cry.

He's used to barking orders, biting at others' achilles heel, and firing people for baring their stomach to the wolf...

...so how, how does he deal with it when it's someone meaningful?

How does he put down his fangs?

595 words, tags: existential h/c fluff :)

You bite your lip trying to suppress a sob.

Wesker’s hand lands behind you, near your back, sinking into the plush of the bed as he sidles closer. A large and angry part of him wants him to say ‘that’s life,’ and ‘get over it,’ but his sense and the softer, wetter thing you drag leaking from the caved-in cavity of his chest holds back. Instead he puffs an affected sigh from his nostrils and recounts what he’d do during the Arklays.

He slips his gloves off and to the side. His perfectly-ironed tuxedo doesn’t bleed intimacy, but to bare his hands to you is its’ own breed.

And he sits there with you, beside you, respectful – and listens. He listens as you’re racked properly with the weight of sobs, and he listens when you wipe your runny nose and burning eyes, and by the time you’ve gotten to reigniting yourself he’s done the only thing he could think of – even if it sprouts such deep, aching discomfort in him stronger than being the voyeur of this, feeling so conflicted and lost in what humanity calls for – and wraps his arm around your back, pulling your face against his chest.

The movement is stiff and mechanical, but you allow him into your little world nonetheless. Perhaps it had been the gesture of vulnerability in abandoning his gloves?

No one prepared him for this, the times when it’s someone you love. Perhaps he had never been loved enough to experience it, this kind of sharing. A burden shared is a burden halved, or so the radio dramas and old movies had said. He fears his intimacy is too artificially approximated to do that.

He experiences it now. This will give him brooding pause later.

As soon as he pulls you, you cling to him, and it is a wicked thing, perhaps, for him to enjoy your decision to trust him with this in this moment, but, then, you’re not privy to the way his expression shifts.

He cannot relate to your plight – that part of him is fossilized and preserved only as scar tissue and warning signs. Wesker relies on other means to act. He does you the silent, automatic favor of sparing you the signs, and he does not expect you to thank him. Some part of you knows, and if it does, you don’t care – the effort is appreciable to you in your time of need, so rare.

“I’ve got you,” he says, arms holding – caging – you close with necessity, running the fumes of empathy through the enrichment of possession to guide him. He recalls movies, a little, but much of this is real.

That’s how he prefers it with you – that’s what he can offer you, now, hands sliding up and down your back in repetitious strokes as he angles his head atop yours, protecting you from the unseen forces that mean your undoing. You brush your nose against him, safely surrounded in him, and whimper.

That he can relate to, being afraid to come undone at the seams by someone else's pulling.

Too easily, perhaps, as he holds you tight and pets you and forces his breathing to even and slow into a lull. Yours follows the pattern laid out before it subconsciously, and eventually you settle down against ruffled, tear-stained fabric that bleeds warmth into you, even if the source of it is saccharin.

A moment of saturating silence.

Then...

"Thank you," you say, weak but resolute and real.

Ah, there you are.

[skywalker1dream]

Title: Lost and Found in Monaco

Note: Helloo guysss, I can't believe it's been so long and so much has happened!! I started working, met new people and now we are good friends. I hope everyone is well and i you all are having a great summer! And OH MY GOD? 125 FOLLOWERS?? THANK YOU SO MUCH!❤️❤️

Sebastian vettel x fem!reader

Warnings: none?

Summary: let's just say one word "Soulmate's"

[⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️]

[⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️]

Part one: The Soulmate's Myth

Sebastian Vettel had always known the stories. Everyone did. From the moment a child could comprehend language, they were told tales of the soulmates—a person born just for you, a perfect match that would make your heart sing. For most people, it happened quickly. A touch, a glance, sometimes even a name heard in passing, and you just *knew*. You’d feel the warmth in your chest, the invisible string tying you to someone else. It was as real and undeniable as gravity.

But for Sebastian, that connection had never come.

He was surrounded by stories of love and fate. He had watched with quiet envy as friends and family found their other halves. He heard about the rush of meeting your soulmate, the sudden certainty that you had found the one person who completed you in every way. But Sebastian, despite all his accomplishments and fame in Formula 1, despite being adored by fans around the world, was left with a growing emptiness.

As the years passed, Sebastian became increasingly convinced that something was wrong with him. Was he broken? Defective? He masked his worries with the thrill of racing, the roar of engines drowning out the silent fears that plagued him. But when the race was over, and the adrenaline faded, he was left with the cold, stark truth: he was alone.

The rumors started, whispers among the media and even within the paddock. "Why hasn’t Vettel found his soulmate?" they asked. Was it possible that one of the sport's brightest stars was meant to shine alone? Sebastian did his best to ignore the speculation, but it gnawed at him, deepening the void.

And then, there was you.

Part two: A Shared Loneliness

You were not so different from Sebastian. Born into a world where everyone had a destined partner, you had grown up with the same stories, the same hopes. But, like Sebastian, you had never felt that fateful connection. The years went by, and with each passing birthday, your hope dimmed.

It wasn't that you were unhappy; you had a good life, a solid career, friends who loved you. But there was a piece missing, a shadow that followed you no matter how bright the day. You were certain that you would never find your soulmate, that you would forever be the one left behind.

People tried to comfort you, to tell you that perhaps your soulmate was still out there, waiting to be found. But you had stopped believing in those words long ago. You went through the motions, attending weddings, celebrating friends' and siblings' soulmate connections, but inside, you were numb.

The idea of soulmates had once filled you with hope, but now it was a burden, a cruel joke that life had played on you. And so, you threw yourself into your work, into your passions, trying to fill the void with anything that could distract you from the painful truth.

It was your love of racing that brought you to Monaco that fateful weekend. As a lifelong fan of Formula 1, you had always dreamed of attending the Monaco Grand Prix, the crown jewel of the racing calendar. The glittering harbor, the streets transformed into a high-speed circuit, the world’s best drivers navigating the treacherous corners—it was everything you had imagined.

You were there to enjoy the race, to lose yourself in the speed and the spectacle. You had no idea that your life was about to change forever.

Part three: The Collision

Monaco was buzzing with excitement as the race weekend began. The narrow streets were packed with spectators, the air filled with the sounds of engines revving and fans cheering. You wandered through the paddock, trying to soak it all in, feeling a rare sense of peace as you lost yourself in the world of racing.

Sebastian, on the other hand, was in a foul mood. The track had always been one of his favorites, but this year, it felt different. The usual thrill was overshadowed by a persistent sense of unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, something important. It gnawed at him, making him restless and irritable.

He was walking through the paddock, his mind elsewhere, when it happened. You were turning the corner, your attention caught by a display of racing memorabilia, when you collided with something—no, someone—solid. The impact sent you stumbling, your heart racing from the sudden jolt.

Sebastian barely registered the collision until he looked down and saw you. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. You were just a stranger, someone he had never seen before, and yet…

You felt it too. That strange, inexplicable pull, like a magnetic force drawing you closer to him. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up into his eyes, eyes that seemed to hold the same shock, the same recognition that you were feeling.

Sebastian blinked, trying to make sense of the sudden rush of emotions. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, was it? He had always imagined that meeting his soulmate—if it ever happened—would be a grand, cinematic moment. But this? This was something else entirely. It was messy and confusing and utterly real.

You didn’t say anything, neither did he. Words felt unnecessary, even impossible in that moment. But as you stood there, staring at each other, the crowd and noise of the paddock faded into the background. There was only you and him, and the undeniable connection that sparked between you.

Sebastian was the first to speak, his voice a low, uncertain murmur. “I’m sorry… are you okay?”

You nodded, still trying to process what was happening. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… surprised, I guess.”

He chuckled, a soft, almost nervous sound. “Surprised would be an understatement.”

There was a pause, a beat of silence that felt loaded with meaning. You could see the wheels turning in his mind, the same questions swirling in your own thoughts. Could it be? Was this really happening?

Finally, Sebastian took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t know if this is crazy, but… do you want to get out of here? Maybe grab a coffee or something? I think we need to talk.”

You felt a smile tug at the corners of your lips. “I think you’re right.”

Part four: Discovering the Truth

The café was tucked away in a quiet corner of Monaco, far from the noise and chaos of the race weekend. It was the perfect place to talk, to try and make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that had taken you both by surprise.

You sat across from each other, two strangers bound by a connection you couldn’t explain. The initial awkwardness gave way to a tentative conversation, each of you sharing your stories, your fears, your doubts. It was surreal, how easy it was to open up to him, how natural it felt to be with him.

Sebastian listened intently as you told him about your life, your struggle to come to terms with the idea that you might never find your soulmate. It was a struggle he knew all too well, and as he shared his own experiences, you realized just how similar your journeys had been.

“So,” you said, stirring your coffee absently, “do you think this is it? That we’re… soulmates?”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “I don’t know. Everything I’ve been told about soulmates makes this seem… different. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not meant to fit into the same mold as everyone else.”

You nodded, understanding what he meant. This connection, whatever it was, didn’t feel like the stories you had heard growing up. It was more complex, more real. It wasn’t about instant love or perfection. It was about finding someone who understood you, who shared your fears and your hopes.

As the conversation continued, you felt the walls you had built around yourself start to crumble. With Sebastian, there was no need to pretend, no need to hide your loneliness or your doubts. He saw you, truly saw you, in a way that no one else ever had.

And slowly, the fear that had been with you for so long began to fade, replaced by something new. It wasn’t the all-consuming, fairy-tale love that you had been led to expect. It was something quieter, something deeper—a connection built on shared experiences, on understanding and empathy.

By the time you left the café, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over the streets of Monaco. As you walked side by side, you felt a sense of peace that had eluded you for years. You didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, you were okay with that.

Sebastian glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “So… where do we go from here?”

You returned his smile, feeling lighter than you had in a long time. “Wherever we want, I guess. Together?”

He nodded, a look of quiet determination in his eyes. “Together.”

And with that, the two of you walked into the night, leaving behind the fears and doubts that had haunted you for so long. You didn’t have all the answers, but you had each other, and for now, that was enough.

**Bonus Chapter: Future Dreams**

A few years had passed since that magical time in Switzerland, and your life with Sebastian had become everything you’d ever hoped for. The two of you had settled into a rhythm that was both exciting and comforting, filled with laughter, love, and a sense of contentment that you’d never known before.

But recently, you had felt something shift inside you, a new longing that had taken root in your heart. It started out small, just a fleeting thought here and there, but it had grown stronger with each passing day.

The catalyst had been a simple moment—watching Sebastian interact with children at a charity event. He had always been good with kids, but that day, as you stood on the sidelines and watched him crouch down to talk to a little boy who couldn’t have been older than five, something inside you clicked. The way he smiled at the child, the gentle tone of his voice, the easy laughter they shared—it made your heart swell with love for him in a way that was almost overwhelming.

You could picture it so clearly: Sebastian as a father, his strong, gentle hands cradling a tiny baby, his eyes filled with the same warmth and love that he always showed you. The image was so vivid, so real, that it took your breath away.

From that moment on, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea of having children with Sebastian, of starting a family together, consumed your thoughts. You imagined what it would be like to hold your own child in your arms, to see Sebastian’s smile reflected in their eyes, to build a future that included more than just the two of you.

Sebastian, ever intuitive, noticed the change in you almost immediately. He saw the way your gaze lingered on families when you were out together, the way your hand would rest on your stomach as if imagining what it would be like to carry a child. He didn’t say anything at first, wanting to give you space to sort through your feelings, but he was more attuned to you than ever.

One evening, after a particularly heartwarming day spent with friends and their children, Sebastian gently broached the subject as the two of you were getting ready for bed. You were brushing your hair in front of the mirror when you caught his reflection behind you, his eyes soft as he watched you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “Can we talk about something?”

You set down the brush, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve noticed you’ve been different lately… thinking about something. I think I know what it is, but I want to hear it from you.”

You turned in his arms to face him, your heart pounding. “I’ve been thinking about us, about our future,” you admitted, your voice soft but steady. “About… starting a family.”

Sebastian’s eyes lit up with understanding, and he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing over your cheeks. “You’ve been thinking about having kids,” he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I have. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually. Seeing you with children, the way you are with them… it makes me want that for us. I want to give you that, Seb. I want to have a family with you.”

His expression softened even more, a look of pure love and adoration filling his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it too,” he confessed, his voice tender. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to bring it up, but I wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you reached up to hold his hands, squeezing them gently. “I’m ready, Sebastian. More than anything, I want to build a life with you that includes children, a family.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if sealing the promise you had just made to each other. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled, that soft, heart-melting smile that had made you fall in love with him all over again.

“Then let’s do it,” he whispered. “Let’s make a family together.”

That night, after your heartfelt conversation, you found yourselves wrapped up in each other, a sense of unity stronger than ever before. As you lay together in the quiet of your bedroom, Sebastian's fingers traced gentle patterns on your back, his touch both soothing and electrifying.

But there was something more in the air tonight—a different kind of intensity. The love between you had always been passionate, but this felt deeper, more purposeful, as if the shared dream of creating a family had added a new layer to your bond.

You turned to face him, your heart full as you looked into his eyes. "Sebastian," you whispered, your voice a little shaky from the emotions swirling inside you, "I want to start now. I don’t want to wait any longer."

His eyes darkened with understanding, and without a word, he pulled you closer, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both tender and full of promise. The kiss quickly deepened, fueled by the desire that had been simmering between you all evening.

Sebastian rolled over, pinning you beneath him with a gentle but firm hold, his gaze locking onto yours. “Are you sure?” he murmured, his voice husky and filled with a raw emotion that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, your hands moving to slide under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. “More sure than I’ve ever been,” you replied, your voice breathless with anticipation.

That was all he needed to hear. He kissed you again, this time with a hunger that matched your own, his hands moving to explore your body with an urgency that made your pulse quicken. The world outside your little cocoon seemed to disappear as you lost yourselves in each other, every touch, every caress charged with the knowledge that you were creating something new, something beautiful together.

Clothes were shed quickly, almost frantically, as the desire between you became a tidal wave that you couldn’t hold back. Sebastian’s hands were everywhere, exploring, caressing, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The way he looked at you, with such reverence and need, made your heart swell with love for him.

When he finally settled above you, his body pressed against yours, the intensity of the moment hit you both. There was a brief pause, a shared breath as you both realized what this meant—this wasn’t just another night together, it was the beginning of a new chapter, the start of a journey you were both eager to embark on.

With a whispered “I love you,” Sebastian moved, and the two of you became one, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. The passion between you was overwhelming, every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of love sending you spiraling higher. It was as if you could feel the future being written in that moment, your hearts beating in time as you both gave yourselves fully to each other.

As the intensity built, your hands gripped onto Sebastian’s shoulders, your body arching into his as you both reached the edge. And when you finally tipped over into bliss, it was like nothing you had ever felt before—deeper, more profound, a connection that went beyond the physical and into something almost spiritual.

You cried out his name, your voice filled with love and wonder, and Sebastian followed soon after, his own voice breaking as he whispered your name in return. The two of you held each other tightly as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your bodies trembling with the force of it, your hearts full to bursting.

When the world slowly came back into focus, you found yourselves still wrapped up in each other, your breathing heavy, your skin damp with sweat. But there was a sense of peace that settled over you, a deep, abiding contentment that came from knowing you were on this journey together.

Sebastian brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his eyes soft and full of love as he looked at you. “You’re going to be an amazing mother,” he whispered, his voice filled with certainty.

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words, and you smiled, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. “And you’re going to be the best father,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

He kissed you softly, and then pulled you into his arms, holding you close as you both basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, and it soothed you, lulling you into a state of blissful contentment.

——————–———————

Note: hope you like it leve the comments don't be shy tell me bout your day or how is your summer going so far..❤️ ; [AND LOOK AT HIM OH MY GOD HE IS SO HDDHJDDBFHDBGVD❤️❤️]

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 23: never as lost

"I'm not ashamed to own my pain, never as lost but I found my way, always knew I'd show my scars one day." -Black Sheep by Dorothy

Regent Masterlist A03 Mundane Macabre Part 22

Jason could keep a secret from his family, that was a given, but he would sooner let Titus use him as a chew toy before he kept something so wonderful from his grandfather. 

It was as if Gotham herself felt his happiness, the shadows embraced him with warmth where there should have been fingers dragging down his spine. No, it seemed the Lady of the city he loved was happy for him too. 

(He loved the Lady, for all she sacrificed to bring him back.) 

(Without the pit clouding his mind, he could find it in himself to be grateful for his chance at life.) 

He wanted to scream the news from the rooftops. 

His love, his soulmate, is having their baby. 

A blend of the two of them- Jason’s fortitude, Jazz’s strength of will. Her determination to protect those she loves, the lengths she would go to made him ache with his love for her. 

That wasn’t to say that they were without fault, no they were flawed beings that would make mistakes in the future. But Jason knew in his bones that any kid of his would be offered the chance to make mistakes without a fatal outcome. To be a kid before having to grow up. A luxury so few got to have. 

Jason decided to call Alfred, unwilling to leave Jazz for longer than he had to. She wasn’t ready to leave her haunt quite yet. 

The private line rang once, twice, three times before the familiar accent answered.

“Wayne Manor.” 

“Hey Alf.” 

“Master Jason! It is good to hear your voice.” 

“You too, Alf.” Jason paused for a second, giddiness bubbling up in his chest before he squashed it down, “I have some great news, but the bats can’t know just yet.” 

“I will not share whatever it is you wish to tell me.” 

Oh yes, his grandfather was the greatest man he would ever know. 

(Suck it Bruce.) 

Jason let the giddiness rise up, just a little, “I’m gonna be a dad.” 

There was a gasp on the other end, “Oh Master Jason that’s wonderful news! Congratulations!” 

“Thanks Alf. I wanted you to know before everyone else.” 

“Thank you Master Jason, I’m honored.” 

“I’ll let everyone else know soon, but it’s not safe right now. I’ll keep you updated, but I have to get back to Jazz. Love you,  Alf.” 

“Love you too, my boy. Whatever you need-“ 

“I have your number memorized. Bye Alf.” 

“Goodbye, Master Jason.” 

She hadn’t been able to hold down much food, morning sickness striking with a vengeance now that she’d been forced out of her cluelessness. 

When Jason stepped outside for a minute to call his grandfather, Jazz had tried to choke down some yogurt to no avail, but it only made her retch into the sink. Jason tied her hair back and made her sit on the couch with her favorite blanket as he made her some soup, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he moved to the kitchen. 

It was…domestic. 

(She wouldn’t say that their lives together hadn’t been domestic, but it was in the way two vigilantes could orbit around one another.)

(They were two halves of a whole.) 

(Both vengeance and protection.) 

Their child would be born of the most liminal being in existence, the Regent bearing the Crown, but would its fragile heart be able to bear the burden of liminality? 

It would break hers if she lost the life she now carried. 

Perhaps she was meant to be pregnant now, to defy the odds she’d been given, if only to bridge the gap between her existence as Danny’s protector and as her own person. A person who would be a mother to a child born to a couple who had blood dripping off their hands- maternal grandparents murdered to protect their uncle Danny. Paternal grandfather a Kevlar-clad vigilante who was born into tragedy. 

(Perhaps, she and Bruce had something in common.)

(Other than Jason, of course.)

Jason had the sin of the Pit weigh on his soul, held down down down by rocks in his gut to the bottom of the harbor. A bright soul meant for more than what he had been given. In another life, Jason might’ve been a different man. Not better or worse- different in all aspects, all his rough edges that she loved. 

(If she can love his broken parts, why couldn’t he love hers too?)

(He did.) 

No amount of redemption could ever wash away the blood. It was a fact they would have to contend with for the rest of their lives. 

(In another life, Jason Todd would never meet Batman in that alley.) 

(He would never die at the hands of the clown.) 

(He would find his faith in the Catholic Church.)

(Father Jason.) 

(He would never meet Jasmine Nightingale.) 

(Not better or worse.) 

(Just different.)

“…about seven, eight weeks along.” 

If Jazz did the mental math, she would come to the conclusion that her child had been conceived on the same day the Anti-Ecto Acts had been demolished. 

However, this wouldn’t come until far later in the day as both Jazz and Jason watched, enraptured, by the strange black and white image on the monitor. 

Their child. 

The undeniable mix of two souls, two vigilantes, two death-claimed- was visible right there. 

If Jason hadn’t been squeezing her hand in an iron grip, Jazz would’ve convinced herself she had fallen prey to a Dijon. Her buried dream of a family, of children, rested underneath her heart safe and sound. 

“Alright mom and dad, got some pictures printing out. We’ll see you back here in a month for another checkup, alright?” The nurse gently prodded the couple, a knowing smile on her face as she walked them back to the waiting room. 

A month. Four weeks. Jazz would be eleven or twelve months along. 

This was really happening.

With how toned Jazz’s frame was, given her rigorous training and vigilante schedules, any differences to her body was rather noticeable. 

She had to be in shape for the armor to fit properly, because it was crucial for her vital organs to be protected. 

With her pregnancy about to surpass the second month a small slightly curved bump had been her reward. Just above her waistline and obvious to a trainee eye, Jazz had taken to wearing her least restrictive clothing around the apartment. When in the presence of others (bar Jason), her layers were doubled using the approaching winter season as a reasonable excuse. 

As for Jason, he had been supportive of Jazz’s choice to wait until the second trimester to reveal the pregnancy to their loved ones. 

(Jazz had heard Jason on the phone with his pseudo-grandfather.)

(She had no qualms with him telling the patriarch he respected so much.) 

It had taken Danny walking into the living room a few days after her appointment for him to know. 

His head cocked to the side as he came to a standstill, a confused look on his face as he appeared to be listening intensely to whatever had caught his attention so suddenly. 

“Danny?” Jazz sleepily called, book open on her chest where she’d fallen asleep reading it. She stretched out her limbs from where she’d been laying across the couch, taking a moment to rub at her sleep-encrusted eyes before focusing on her little brother. 

The teenager in question offered no sign of having heard his sister, his gaze stuck to the far wall as his head remained cocked to one side. 

“What’s wrong?” Jazz asked, moving to stand, but Danny stopped her with a fervent ‘shh’ motion. 

Shrugging, Jazz leaned back into the couch and sighed. Late night patrols were not the best idea with a passenger leeching energy. Should she still be patrols  by? Probably not, but she wasn’t going out unarmed or un-armored- short of driving a tank, Jazz was as protected as she could be and the Ridge needed to see her out and about alongside Phantom before they got any funny ideas. 

Danny’s neck made a sickening sound as his head snapped towards her direction.  “What the fuck is that.”

[A/N: Happy Holidays! This ended up a lot longer than I intended so I cut it off right with Danny there. Its not quite angst, but the undercurrent is there, but way subtle. (If you haven't picked up on the "mix of the two" hints...) Anyways, the next part will be a while, considering I'm working on a new one-shot I promised for 700 followers and I rewrote the ending of Regent again. If I don't post for Christmas, consider this your present. Stay safe out there and keep warm!] Thanks for reading!

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

Mitsuru feels as though a shroud has been lifted from her. At last, she can breathe again.

She still misses her father. The pain of losing him will likely never fully fade; she will have to carry his absence in her heart for the rest of her life. But for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t seem as though that burden is on the verge of crushing her. For the first time, she feels strong enough to bear the weight of her grief.

Sorrow shared is sorrow halved, and finding solidarity with Yukari had been exactly what Mitsuru needed– all the more so for being so unexpected. Even after all the harm that had come to her and her family as a direct result of the Kirijo Group’s actions, Yukari had still offered Mitsuru her sympathy, an olive branch, a lifeline.

And now Mitsuru can hold her head high again. She hasn’t failed her father, not as long as she continues to fight for his sake– for the sake of his hope for the future, his hope for her future. She’ll fight for Yukari’s father’s last wish, and for everyone she cares about.

There’s a great deal of work to be done in that last area. Her fledgling bond with Yukari has made her realize just how much she has taken her team for granted. They’re comrades in arms, and Mitsuru would risk her life for any of them without hesitation, but until now she has still kept them at a judicious arm’s length. She’s unsure if she can claim to truly be friends with most of S.E.E.S.– two very notable exceptions notwithstanding.

She’s already taking steps to remedy this dereliction: tomorrow she’ll be joining Yukari, along with Yamagishi and Aigis, in their exploration of the city. Yukari has promised to share a wealth of secret insights from her time spent living here– many of which concern where to find her most highly recommended sweets. Once they’ve returned home, Mitsuru will make a point to spend time with everyone one-on-one and truly get to know them.

As she steps back into the lobby of the inn from the courtyard, Hiraga flags her down and inquires after her wellbeing, as he is wont to do; both he and Odagiri express their relief when she can genuinely say that she’s doing better. She leaves them to the playful argument that Hiraga incites soon after, smothering her amusement at how strongly they remind her of a certain other pair.

She turns towards the stairs and her eye catches on a figure standing conspicuously apart from any of the clusters of students milling around. It takes her a moment and a second glance– one she can only pray was adequately subtle– to register just who she’s looking at.

In her own defense, the sight of Shinjiro Aragaki, of all people, wearing a traditional yukata was not one she would have ever predicted seeing.

That being said… it isn’t a sight she has any complaints about.

Technically his silhouette is a bit smaller without the added bulk of his coat, but the fine cotton drape serves to showcase the actual breadth of his shoulders very nicely. The low collar and his tied-back hair emphasize his throat– the strong, corded line that runs from the corner of his jaw to his breastbone.

For once his eyes aren’t half-concealed under the shade of that hat he favors, either. She finds it a terrible shame that he keeps them– and their subtle, warm expressiveness– hidden away so much of the time.

…

What an awkward time she’s chosen to discover that her very dear friend is, in fact, incredibly attractive.

No, that isn’t entirely accurate. Mitsuru has known for some time that he’s quite good looking, and perhaps more to the point– good looking in a way that she, specifically, finds very appealing. She’s been aware of this fact since before she had begun to enjoy his company; since even before the two of them had been able to get along at all.

At the time, it had been infuriating. As they had grown to be friends, it instead became amusing. An entertaining but trivial and easily ignorable quirk of their relationship.

Lately however, ignoring it has been more and more difficult, even with the considerable amount of practice she’s had with the exercise.

It’s been part of her daily routine since Tanabata, when the confrontation with the Lovers Shadow had forced Mitsuru to acknowledge certain elements of her feelings about Akihiko that she’d previously avoided considering too closely. She had dutifully unpacked those elements, examined and identified them, and then promptly boxed them up again to actually be dealt with at a later date.

Whatever event or events had catalyzed the paradigm shift when it comes to Shinjiro had been subtle in comparison to the… near-incident… in that hotel room with Akihiko, but the results are the same, and the conclusion is no less undeniable: she cannot put off addressing this unnamed pull between the three of them for much longer.

Of course it had never been her intention to keep it all swept under the rug forever. Back in July she’d sworn to herself that it was a temporary measure, to be kept in place only until they had finally vanquished the Dark Hour. Then she would broach the subject with Akihiko, and they would be free to explore what it might mean.

But now the day when they can lay down their weapons seems more distant and uncertain than ever, and it’s been made all too clear to her just how easily someone can be snatched away while she waits for the right time to reach for them. They’ve come so close to losing Shinjiro once already.

Perhaps ‘the right time’ is not this very moment, but it will have to be soon.

Despite her continuous attention, Mitsuru is still caught off guard to suddenly find her gaze returned. Shinjiro’s expression changes very little aside from a scant inward slope to his brows, but she can see the question there as clearly as words printed on a page.

Holding fast to all the manufactured serenity that a lifetime of navigating social minefields has earned her, Mitsuru strides to stand beside him. She is the very image of someone who had not been shamelessly ogling mere moments ago.

She’s overstepped again. He’s been very kind about her lapses in decorum these past weeks, never once calling her out on those moments of weakness– but she cannot and should not expect him to tolerate such behavior forever.

Ah, so he’s merely being bashful again. She’s relieved, of course, but also– more than a little charmed.

Shinjiro blinks at her, seemingly at a loss for words. Mitsuru preens, pleased with herself for rendering him speechless.

And then, ducking his head, he laughs. He’s been freer with laughter since he’d awakened from his coma, but always with a guarded quality to it that hadn’t been there when S.E.E.S. was new.

That restraint is nowhere to be found now– Shinjiro laughs openly, quiet but full-throated and just like he used to.

Her heart flutters like a hummingbird high in her chest. She can only hope that it isn’t as blatantly obvious from the outside as it feels.

The right moment will have to come soon, indeed.

[xximmortalkissxx]

💕Am I Making You Sweat?💕 🎀 Part Two🎀 Lips Like Rain, Kind As Summer

A/N: I was completely blown away and touched by the positive response to part one, of what was supposed to be, a silly horny little one shot! Luckily, Soft Dom Elrond has permanently etched himself into my brain. 

Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

Summary: You and Elrond discuss a mutually beneficial proposal over a simmering afternoon tea. Gil-galad, however, takes some convincing to forgo his duties for the evening, leading to the Herald of the High King seizing control of the situation.

Warnings: smut, fem!reader, soft dom elrond, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal sex, anal sex.

Sindarin Words/Phrases: Melethel: Darling/Sweetheart Hiril Vuin: Beloved Lady Meleth Nín: My Love Elbereth: Star Queen Goheno nín: Forgive Me

AO3 Link

Part One: 💖

Content Warning Banner: cafekitsun Elrond Collarbone GIF by thevoicefromanotherworld Gil-galad GIF by bilbo-babe

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The rhythmic tapping of a warm summer rain pelts the tall windows of the palace, while the last remnants of sun shimmer over the Gulf of Lhûn, refracting like countless jewels across its serene waters. 

Elrond sits across from you in the High King’s informal drawing room, deftly pouring steaming tea into two porcelain cups. His expression is one of quiet amusement as he glances at you, noting the playful glint in your eyes as your fingers brush against his while accepting the offered cup.

“I must admit,” Elrond muses, reclining into his chair. “I’m rather surprised the High King is yet to join us.” He raises a curious brow. “Do you happen to know what has delayed him, Hiril Vuin?”  

You grin behind your cup and take an indulgent sip, savoring the delicate brew of hibiscus and black currant. “Oh, I fear he’s a bit tied up at the moment,” you reply innocently, peering over the rim.

“I’m sure he is,” Elrond responds with a subtle smirk, setting his cup down with a soft clink. His sharp gray eyes regard you with their usual measured scrutiny, acutely aware of the game at play between you.

“I can only imagine how weary you must be,” you sigh, absently running a finger along the lip of your cup. “Ereinion has so little time to tend to his own needs, let alone yours. As his Herald, I’m sure he runs you positively ragged.” 

Elrond exhales through his nose with an amused chuckle. “While I appreciate the sympathy, I fear you vastly underestimate me, Melethel.”

“I am not so easily spent,”  he adds, casually sipping his tea.  

You respond with a pleased hum, easing back into your chair as you cross one leg over the other. “Exceptional vigor aside, even you must admit the burdens of governance are heavy.

I suspect our High King would bear them better if he were properly…persuaded to forgo his duties-if only for an evening?”

Elrond tilts his head in playful contemplation, picking up a biscuit from the ornate tray between you. “Ah, persuasion. A most delicate art. One must know precisely where to apply pressure,” he remarks evenly, breaking it in half with a crisp snap. “Or negotiations will simply- fall apart.” 

Continuing to trace the rim of your cup, your eyes flicker with mirth as you observe him lick stray crumbs from his nimble fingers. 

"Admittedly, Ereinion often requires something more... tangible than mere words to persuade him of anything."  

A faint thump echoes from the next room, followed by a muffled groan, barely discernible through the heavy doors leading to the High King’s private quarters. Elrond pauses, his brows raising slightly.  

"A more direct approach then. A shared effort, even." He offers, allowing the implication to settle between you, savoring the flicker of amusement in your gaze as he leans back, taking a measured sip.

"After all, I have often found that shared burdens are halved... and shared pleasures, doubled." 

You laugh in response, a soft, musical sound, sweeter than any elven-harp. Elrond’s storm-gray eyes linger on you adoringly. To him you are both a vision of effortless grace and a maddening temptation. Your fine gossamer robes, embroidered with delicate golden stars, hang loose around your shoulders. 

Just enough to tease your supple skin. 

Just enough to tempt him with the gentle contours of your breasts, rising and falling as your laughter subsides. 

"Speaking of shared pleasures, there is something I wish to ask..." you admit, leaning in conspiratorially.

Another, slightly louder thump resounds from Gil-galad’s chambers, but Elrond’s eyes are locked on yours. Curiosity roils within him, his pulse quickens, and images of pleasures once thought only attainable in dreams flash before his eyes. 

“By all means, Melethel, ask.”  

Your gaze remains fixed on the handsome ellon sitting before you. His fingers softly tracing the rim of his cup, eyes dancing with anticipation.

"Would you care to join Ereinion and I? As our companion in a more…intimate capacity.”

Elrond doesn’t answer immediately, letting the moment stretch between you, savoring the intoxicating thrill of anticipation. 

“You certainly do not lack for boldness,”  he muses, exhaling a soft chuckle.

“It is one of my finer qualities.”  You reply, raising your cup.

Another faint thump sounds from Gil-galad’s chamber, and Elrond’s lips twitch. “And what of our High King?” He nods toward the doors. “I assume he is aware of this invitation?”  

You chuckle, chin resting against the palm of your hand. “Of course, it was his idea,” 

“There is nothing Ereinion wouldn't trust in your capable hands… including me." You add, delighted by the faint blush dusting Elrond’s pointed ears.

For a moment, silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, but contemplative. The offer, long teased, now laid bare.

Then, with a slow nod, Elrond stands, offering you his arm.

"By all means, lead the way, Hiril Vuin," 

One final thump emanates from within the chamber, followed by an exasperated moan.  

Taking his arm, you lean in with an impish smirk. “Shall we untie him?”  

Elrond huffs a laugh in response. “That entirely depends on how willing he is to follow directions...”  

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The large opulent doors groan as you push them open, mischief sparkling in your eyes at the carefully curated scene before you.

Elrond blinks.  

High King Ereinion Gil-galad lays sprawled across his grand canopied bed, utterly composed despite the compromising nature of his current predicament. 

His robes are pristine and unrumpled, save for the sleeves, which slip down just enough to bare his forearms. Securing him to the bedposts, wrapped with expert precision, are lengths of soft pink ribbon. The culmination of which is a neatly trussed bow, fastened over his mouth.

The High King lifts his head slightly, with an expression of long-suffering patience.

Relinquishing Elrond’s arm, you approach your liege and lover at a leisurely pace, and carefully untie the ribbon secured over his mouth. 

“Ah,” he greets dryly, surveying you with feigned annoyance. “I see negotiations went well.”  

“Naturally,” you answer, clearly pleased with yourself as you drop onto the bed to test his restraints. “Though, the same could not be said for your patience, meleth nín…”  

Gil-galad exhales through his nose, noting the playful severity lacing your voice. “You took an age.”  

Elrond, still standing in the doorway, tilts his head, surveying his High King. “Ribbons?”  

“I had to ensure duty wouldn't call him away, like the song of some seductive water spirit.” You reply utterly unrepentant.

“Besides…they suit him, do they not?”  

Elrond exhales and glances at Gil-galad fondly, who quirks an expectant brow. 

They did suit him. The soft pink ribbon contrasted perfectly with his long dark hair, his steely eyes, and Ilúvatar help him… the way each measured loop pinched the flesh of Gil-galad’s thick forearms.

“They most certainly do,” Elrond replies, stepping fully into the room as the doors swing shut behind him.  

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The High King’s bedchamber, dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casts soft shadows of your figures against the high stone walls. Subtle and inviting scents of sandalwood and bergamot diffuse in the air, mixing with the soft rustle of sheets as you and Elrond flank Gil-galad.

Sitting on the High King’s left, your fingertips lightly graze the fabric of his robe, tracing a path across his chest as you lean in close. Your breath is warm against his skin, placing soft kisses along the side of his neck and up along his jaw, lips moving with excruciatingly slow deliberation.  

On his right, Elrond mirrors your movements, lips trailing firm kisses up the High King’s neck with equal precision as a hand traverses down the firm planes of Gil-galad’s chest. But whereas your presence is fluid and playful, Elrond's is steady and commanding.    

"Tell me, High King," you purr with a soft melodic whisper, unclasping the fastenings of your sheer robe with ease. "How does this compare to your typical afternoon?"  

Gil-galad's eyes hold a hint of playful exasperation as he watches the fabric fall around you, revealing the beauty of your naked body. "I must admit, this is certainly a more enjoyable use of my time," he murmurs, voice thick with desire, "though, it does little to diminish the mountain of reports awaiting me..."  

Your eyes glint at the prospect of a challenge. "Well, we'll just have to see how long it takes for you to forget all about them then, won't we?"  

Comfortable and still very much restrained beneath you, Gil-galad’s lip curls as he watches you lift Elrond’s chin with two of your fingers. “I suspect," he responds casually, "it will take quite some time."  

You and Elrond are close, so close you can feel the warmth of his body as you hover over your High King. Then, without hesitation or preamble, you lean in, capturing his lips with your own. 

There is something both playful and reverent in the way he kisses you; slow, deliberate, filled with a long unspoken curiosity, finally being explored with touch and taste. 

Elrond's breath catches as your fingers thread into his dense curls, deepening the kiss with a sharp tug. He retaliates by placing a firm hand on your waist, pulling you closer. A shiver runs down your spine as his thumb grazes your hip, fingers gliding down until they slip between your legs, stealing a muffled moan from your mouth against his. 

You can feel Elrond grin as he continues to kiss you, easing two fingers inside while his calloused thumb circles your clit with ceaseless pressure. A whimper escapes your lips and your body begins to tremble, as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“That’s it Melethel, come for me…” Elrond murmurs against your mouth, adjusting his pace with every hitch of your breath.

Beneath you, Gil-galad exhales a rough groan, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as his two dearest companions lose themselves, however briefly, in each other.  

Elrond breaks away as you come around his fingers, lips hovering just above yours while your breath mingles. His keen eyes flicker downward, meeting Gil-galad’s with a quiet authority. A  rare expression for him, outside council chambers.  

“If you would like us to share our affections with you, High King,” Elrond prompts, his voice smooth yet commanding, “you must vow to put aside all official duties for the entirety of the evening.”  

Gil-galad huffs a soft laugh, tilting his head against the pillows. “Bold,” he muses. “You intend to barter affection for my compliance?”  

You smirk in response, still basking in the afterglow of your climax, brushing a thumb idly over the High King’s lower lip. “We intend,” you correct, in a voice rich with amusement, “to ensure your well-being.”  

Elrond hums in agreement, withdrawing his hand from you, and trailing it down to rest lightly over Gil-galad’s burgeoning arousal. “A wise king knows how to delegate.”   

A husky moan breaks from Gil-galad at the delicate touch. “I am very aware,” he grumbles, his gaze drifting between you, “that I am somewhat outnumbered…”  

Elrond leans over and bites the lobe of Gil-galad’s ear, while his hand deftly slips underneath the heavy fabric of the High King’s robes. 

“Well?” Elrond murmurs, breath hot against Gil-galad’s ear. “Do we have your word, High King?”  

Gil-galad bites his lip, failing to stifle a strangled moan, his head tipping back against the pillows. 

A stubborn moment passes, then another.  

“…For one evening?” he clarifies, breath hitching as Elrond takes hold of his now fully erect shaft, with an agonizingly still hand.

You grin wickedly, feeling Gil-galad’s pulse quicken as you run your thumb up his neck and along his jaw. “Mm. Perhaps, two...”  

“Valar help me,” he murmurs. Then, with a resigned sigh, he offers you both a slow, lopsided grin.  

“Very well,” he concedes. “You have my word. One evening.”  

“Good,” Elrond replies, beginning to slowly stroke Gil-galad’s cock, his fingers still slick with your arousal. “Now, High King, tell us what you want.” 

“Mm…to touch you,” Gil-galad whimpers, flexing his arms bitterly against the ribbon. Craving to touch and taste the gentle curve of Elrond’s neck, where his collarbone peaks tantalizingly from under his tunic. 

Elrond exhales a lusty chuckle, “Once you prove you deserve to, I’ll happily let you.” 

“Until then…” you add playfully, “and with your permission, we will be the ones touching you.”

“Elbereth, you’re a formidable pair,” Gil-galad huffs, his hips involuntarily bucking against Elrond’s skillful hand. “I should send you both as my representatives…f–for the trade negotia-” 

Elrond’s hand stills, and you tilt your head with a long-suffering sigh, clearly vexed.

“Ereinion…” you warn, seizing his jaw in the way you know makes him swoon. Your thumb brushes along his chin, guiding him to look into your eyes.

“Goheno nin,” his apology is quick but sincere as he leans into your firm touch. “Please, please don’t stop.” 

A raspy whine escapes Gil-galad’s throat as his Herald removes his hand entirely.

“Patience,” Elrond soothes, repositioning himself between his High King’s legs while giving the stubborn knots securing his robes a sharp tug. Once Gil-galad is laid bare before you, midnight blue robes pooling around his solid frame, Elrond offers a hand to you in invitation. 

You take it eagerly, allowing him to guide your body with reverent hands. Hovering over Gil-galad, you straddle his waist, the golden glow of candlelight gleaming over his glistening skin. Elrond’s hands skim down your sides, until they find purchase on your hips and squeeze, easing you slowly onto Gil-galad’s aching cock.  

Simultaneously, you and the High King gasp low rasping moans as Elrond sets your pace with benevolent authority. Your hands rest on the toned surface of Gil-galad’s chest, desperately trying to keep balance, as you’re vigorously bounced along the formidable length of his shaft. 

If the sight of you taking Gil-galad’s cock wasn’t enough to break Elrond’s concentration, the tantalizing sounds of your plump rear slapping against his thighs, mixed with your combined cries of pleasure, nearly succeeds. 

“A Eru…” you sigh, leaning your head back against Elrond’s shoulder. Moaning against your neck, he peppers it with ravenous love-bites, then lifts a hand from your hip and slips two fingers inside your mouth. You suck on them greedily, with so much enthusiasm that when he removes them, a string of saliva follows in their wake.  

With one hand still grasping your hip, the other dips between you to grasp a handful of Gil-galad’s firm ass. Elrond then slowly eases a slick finger inside the tight ring of muscle, earning a pleased whimper from the High King as he continues to rut into you, his white-knuckled fists clenching the ribbon. 

Elrond’s touch is gentle and distinctly playful as he fingers Gil-galad, adding another digit once he’s sure it won’t cause him any discomfort. The sound Gil-galad makes as Elrond hooks his fingers, stirs his already painfully stiff cock, causing it to twitch against the confines of his trousers. 

“Do you wish for me to fuck you, High King?” Elrond asks, his breath raspy and warm against your ear, as his eyes lock on Gil-galad writhing beneath you. 

“By Eru, yes…” Gil-galad responds fervently, throwing his head back against the pillows, every muscle in his body taut with strain as he desperately holds off his release. 

Withdrawing his touch for a moment, Elrond makes short work of removing his tunic and loosening the laces of his trousers. Swiftly, he reaches for the vial of oil resting on the bedside table, and liberally applies it to his shaft with a throaty hum. 

One of Elrond’s hands returns to your hip, while the other guides the tip of his cock against Gil-galad’s willing entrance. Steadily and very gradually, he squeezes himself inside, until at last he is fully sheathed and pressed firmly against your back. 

Once he’s sure Gil-galad has acclimated to his size, Elrond begins to thrust at a deliberate pace, one hand firmly grasping your hip while the other seizes the High King’s leg. 

A string of nearly unintelligible Sindarin praises leave Elrond’s lips as he continues to piston his hips against both you and Gil-galad. The tight passage of muscle grips Elrond’s cock like a vise, with each erratic stroke luring him closer to his climax. 

A low moan erupts from Gil-galad, sweat beading on his brow, his thrusts becoming more and more furious. “Fuck, you both feel so good…I can’t hold–”

The steady hand that grips your hip swiftly slides between your legs, and Elrond’s nimble fingers begin to skillfully massage your clit as he whispers in your ear, “I would love for you to come with us…” 

You bite your lip, your body begins to quiver, and an all-encompassing warmth begins to crackle through your body. 

“Can you give us one more, Melethel?” Elrond pants, the pressure of his fingers increasing along with his thrusts. 

Your body shatters before the question fully leaves his lips, your vision goes white, and a sharp gasp bursts from your chest. The symphony of noises you produce, along with your hips involuntarily riding out your orgasm, is more than Gil-galad can take. Using the already strained ribbons as leverage, he buries himself inside you with a hoarse groan, releasing torrents of seed with each languid thrust.   

Elrond continues to chase his impending climax, his fingers incessantly guiding you dangerously towards overstimulation. You moan his name like a prayer, and his fingers finally still, the hand grasping Gil-galad’s leg tightening as his hips snap against you both. His own seed spills within the High King, his thrusts becoming weaker until Elrond nestles his forehead against your back, breath heaving.

“That was-” Elrond murmurs breathlessly.

“Spectacular…” you finish, face flushed and equally breathless. 

Withdrawing from Gil-galad, you release him from his bondage and flop down beside him,  nuzzling against his tired arms.

“Indeed. I could even be persuaded to take more time away from duty, if these are the promised distractions…” Gil-galad teases, wrapping Elrond against him with his other arm, and giving him a gentle kiss. 

“We will hold you to that High King,” Elrond replies, resting his head against Gil-galad’s chest as you all drift off peacefully in each other's warm embrace. 

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[into-september]

“Guilttrip” and the problem of conditional morals (or: why man invented the principle of the principle)

NOTA BENE: this was written very shortly after the episode aired. I found it in some draft document just last week, and the time appears to have come to discuss the way this show goes about the principle of confidence.

...

...even if it sure has changed its tune since then. So with the note that there is an ocean of difference between medical issues and vital information about someone else's supernatural origins, their creators and the dangerously fragile conditions of their life and freedom: enjoy, I guess.

I have problems with this episode. I don’t take issue with the the intended moral (“don’t suffer in silence; a burden shared is a burden halved”), but the fact that the narrative used to address this moral SHOULD NOT EVER be made an ideal to be followed in real life.

Content warning: This post mentions in general terms the existence of things which all too many children experience, but which patently do not exist in the narrative of Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir. Specifically: child abuse, substance abuse, sexual abuse, eating disorders, suicide, serious illness and the messy bodily consequences of such.

In other words: Things that we don’t talk about for very different reasons than keeping your superhero identity a secret from the world.

Note for context: I’m under two different levels of professional confidance; the kind of “can get me fired and both me and my employer taken to court if the breech is grave enough” kind of not talking about other people’s personal information. That is the main background why this episode bothers me: If that had been Miss Bustier telling the kids why Rose didn’t come back to class, she’d been in serious professional trouble - not because sharing this particular information to these particular people would be harmful, but because of the highly held principle she’d be violating and which would’ve not ended so happily if that was someone else than Rose they concerned. Not the least because this case wasn’t just the PRINCIPLE of confidentiality, but in fact Rose’ explicit wish for this information to remain secret. For reasons that the episode revealed were well-considered and reasonable because once said information got out, the outcome was exactly what Rose feared.

Since a part of my profession concerns keeping track of doctor’s notes and being mindful about the challenges my pupils might face because of health-related reasons, the years have seen me hearing a lot of stories far less pretty than Rose’s. I hear the stories of the kids who have been abused, and kids who have been molested, and the kids struggling with substance abuse - be it their own or their parents’. Kids with EDs and kids going to therapy and kids who were bullied, kids whose parents are dying from cancer and kids who found their brothers after the suicides. Many of us are broken in so many different ways, and airing all the world’s dirty laundry isn’t always where healing lies.

The only reason “Guiltrip” can be a happy story is because Miraculous Ladybug happens in a universe where the working class can afford to live in the most expensive properties in Europe, in a Paris where there are no homeless people sleeping on the streets and where Rose Lavaillant’s optimism turns out to be merited. Rose’ condition manifests on screen only as fairly managable headaches; no collapsing in public, no missing large amounts of education because of migraine, no having half-digested food come out in either direction; Rose is the 21st C update of the Victorian consumption victim beautifully wasting away in pristine white bedsheets.

To be clear: this isn’t me wishing MLB would depict the revolting realities of disease weaponising the body against itself. MLB is rose-tinted and sugary-sweet; it’s a romantic fantasy and that is why it is enjoyable, that is exactly what I want it to be. My objection isn’t with MLB’s romanticism, but with this particular application of romanticism to teach children a lesson that could have disastrous consequences if followed in real life.

Because imagine that the “serious disease that isn’t going away” causing Rose’s headaches was anorexia, which was her way of handling a background of sexual abuse. Instead of the innocent victim who inspires everyone with the way she handles her cruel fate, Rose’s story is now the story of a girl who DIDN’T handle it; who was broken, and who keeps breaking herself. Maybe she throws up her food after lunch. Maybe she got the pixie cut to hide that her hair is falling out. Maybe the reason she refuses to share her girlfriend’s worry is because she’s in denial about how serious her illness is, or even that she’s ill at all.

In this tale, Rose’s disease isn’t so easily comprehended. Here, her classmates’ inability to mind their own business means she’ll be expected to answer invasive questions about her mental health. Their monitoring her symptoms will be the very least thing she needs in order to heal. Their insisting that they’ll share her pain will never be sincere, because Rose is very unlikely to make public the trauma and the shame and the reason her cousin is in prison.

Am I reaching into hyperbole? Certainly, but per real world standards, both explanations for Rose’s mystery conditions are equally realistic, and one of them is not something your average crowd of middle schoolers is ready to handle in a mature and helpful manner.

THIS is why “Guilttrip” works only within its own hermetically closed narrative, and is a disaster as a moral tale: Because in the real world, there are very good reasons why your medical history is private information that people are professionally required to never talk about. Something as innocent as digestive problems can be a topic you don’t want to discuss with your classmates; I absolutely sympathise with not wanting to share with all your peers that you’re not in school today because you haven’t had a dump for a week. I’m a grown-ass woman with a personal goal of normalising talk about “women’s issues”, but even I feel uncomfortable telling my boss that I’ll be going home early today because my uterus is not my friend.

[loyaldeserter]

Heath is tired.

He'd slept the first night back with Hyperion curled up next to him in the remains of the wyvern stables. It was a poor choice on many levels, both for his already-aching back and the numerous disruptions, but he needed it. Just him and Hyperion, like old times.

And multiple other wyverns of varying levels of noise. Ah well.

Bad sleep doesn't exempt him or Hyperion from work. Hauling stone, ferrying tools, physical labor that an able-bodied man with a wyvern is perfectly suited to. Really, it just makes winding down at the end of the day with a stiff drink (procured helpfully by a fellow worker) and the luxury of a well-cooked meal all the sweeter. Yep.

Maybe he's coping, maybe he's not. But the approach of a friendly face has him feeling lighter, and he grins as he takes a sip from his own cup.

"By some miracle." Shamir's a no-nonsense mercenary like himself, a personality he melds with easily. With that and all they've gone through together, Heath finds himself feeling inclined to pursue the conversation, rather than simply entertaining it. "Having a wyvern makes you really handy for hauling, so probably more of that, I suppose."

Another draught. It really is a testament to how much he likes Shamir that he continues to keep her company despite the memories that prickle at the back of his mind at her presence. The noose around his neck is loose enough for him to swallow, and the burn helps distract him.

"How about you?"

a burden shared is a burden halved

Post Epiphany w/ @loyaldeserter

[mgghoney]

pairing// matthew gray gubler and reader || wc// 355

summary// strike of joy, fix me, oh sun.

"H—"

"Don't get mad"

"That you're in Florida? Nah." You go back to writing, humming quietly as Matt goes quiet to observe you.

"Something wrong?"

"I'll get over it in the morning." You puff out your cheeks.

"You met with someone."

"Yes." You pause. "Were you stalking me?"

"Maybe."

"I'm not any better, actually." You mumble. "I was stalking you too."

"Yeah, mutual stalking or whatever."

You tap the back of your pen against your diary, and you huff. "I'll be fine."

"You want me to sing for you?"

"Matt, I love you, please don't." You grimace. "Not tonight."

"You wanna talk?"

"I'll be fine. Isn't it late for you too? Didn't call me for three days and next thing you know, you're in Florida."

"Yeah." Matt mumbles. "But you're visibly not okay."

"Realizing that I'm growing up, maybe." You sigh. "That people around me are growing up. Ugh, that's so grim. I swore I wouldn't burden you with my stuff."

"A burden shared is a burden halved. T.A. Webb." He hums.

"Okay, Doctor Spencer Reid." You laugh, humming. "I'll be fine. I promise. Tell me about your day?"

"I went wandering around the area." He hums. "Wanted to explore a little. It's super cold in New York right now and all I really wanted was a little bit more of sun."

"After I made your welcome back sign?"

"You already made it?"

"You didn't hear that from me." You mumble, looking to the side and whistling. "Nope. Not at all."

"Must've been the wind."

"Yep." You hum. "I get anxious that we'll stop being friends one day."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll be officiating the wedding, and then you'll be seeing me as your children's godparents for the rest of your life."

You blink at him, raising a brow.

"Don't give me that look. I'll live til a hundred."

You laugh, lips curling upwards fondly as Matt beams.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." You hum. "I gotta sleep, Matt. But, thank you."

"Rest well. Text me in the morning. Or call. Maybe I'll wake you up."

"Yeah, go ahead and do that." You hum. "See ya."

"'night."

[winebearcat]

Original short story

Under the cut because I hate being perceived, but I've been bullied into posting this.

Words: 1,133 | Rated: M | Pairing: F/F

Eloen swivelled her head in a slow pan, studying the towering bookcases. They groaned with age and burden, looming overhead like long-forgotten sentinels.

“Guardians of knowledge,” Senior Cleric Aresath used to drone in his holier-than-thou disposition. She rolled her eyes as his reedy voice pinged inside her skull, swatting it away to drink in her surroundings.

Candles dotted the Grand Library, burning feverishly low and casting odd shadows across the book spines. Enough to muddle the sleep-deprived mind, preying on those scratching and scribbling against the burn of midnight oil. Rumours were rampant here, passed through whispering lips as often as furtive kisses, breathing life into a single half-truth: the library was haunted. 

It stood silent, blanketed in a suffocating hush whilst Eloen navigated the byzantine maze of bookcases. Searching, as always, for Sehre. She slipped into the nook where they first stole a kiss, tucked between timeworn tomes and dripping pillar candles. Eloen wondered how many books still contained her renegade doodles. 

Kings skewered by quills. Temples cleansed with fire. E + S scrawled inside a margin. 

Eloen idly traced a finger down a dust-caked spine. Canticle of Transfigurations. She pulled the tome out and flipped through it, scanning for her artwork. For their initials, the only written confirmation of what they share. What they are. Two fragile halves of a tentative whole, sealed between brittle pages of a long-forgotten tome. Safely tucked away for eternity, immune to the passage of time. 

She thumbed and flicked, searching, as always, for Sehre. When the pages turned up blank, she shut it with a sigh, slotting it back into place. Fated to fade away into obscurity, as with the rest of this tomb. 

“Guardians of knowledge” her arse. 

“There you are,” Eloen heard that familiar hush. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Eloen whirled around. Sehre appeared before her, robed in funereal black and softly smiling. Her dark hair was flecked with salt and pepper. “My grey Lady,” Eloen always teased, even though Sehre was a young lady. “Stress,” she’d quip back. “Or perhaps my father.”

They bore no love for their fathers. It was one of the truths they first bonded over. A maxim that shaped the hate inside Eloen, but somehow spared Sehre. 

“Me too,” Eloen whispered, her throat tightening. It mildly jarred her, but she couldn’t place why. Sehre approached with an outstretched palm, her eyes sparkling in the low candlelight.

“Dance with me?” Sehre murmured. Eloen nodded earnestly, as if she could ever deny her.

Eloen’s hand moulded so perfectly against Sehre’s that she wondered how far Father’s cruelty extended. Well beyond the curse of time, and everything it took from them. Her heart clenched when their fingers threaded, stitched back together like a wound that never fully healed.

“It’s so good to see you,” Eloen blurted out. A soft melody began to tinkle, honey-sweet, beyond the edge of vision. Sehre smiled warmly, bright eyes swelling with a sea of emotion. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she repeated. Eloen swallowed thickly and glanced at their joined hands, made in His image yet far from blessed. The library’s hush was suffocating. It constricted her throat. Her lungs. But Eloen didn’t care what He thought. She only cared what Sehre thought. 

Their eyes met again, and Sehre placed her hand on the small of Eloen’s back. She pulled her closer, until their noses brushed. It earned a soft smile and an even softer laugh as Eloen slid fingers over her shoulder, slotting back into place. The lump in her throat tightened when she searched Sehre’s face, drinking in every detail, desperate to commit her to memory: 

The black flecks which dotted her eyes, ocean-blue and just as expansive. The softness of her skin, radiating warmth like a forge. The dark inkwell of hair, cascading down her back like broad quill strokes.

Sehre led Eloen by the arm. They took one step, then two, gliding across the aisle together before Sehre slowly twirled her. Bookcases were swallowed up by the earth, the library melting away, until only Eloen and Sehre remained. After one rotation, Sehre spun back into view, and they were pressed together again. Candlelight glimmered in the reflection of her too-blue eyes, swimming with unspoken thoughts. Eloen noted a trace of sadness and ached to kiss her. To draw it from her lips as if it were poison. For in the way that Sehre was spared from hatred, she was not spared from melancholy. 

Eloen closed the space between them and captured her mouth in a kiss. The room came to a halt as she drank down Sehre’s surprise. Her lips were soft, a cooling balm for the ache in her chest, and she cherished the way Sehre gently lifted a hand to her neck. Eloen melted into her, warm and so achingly familiar, safely tucked away together in their own timeless tome. 

An age passed, perhaps two, before Sehre finally broke the kiss. Eloen blinked her into focus, exhaling when she lightly fingered the amulet resting below her collarbone.

“I can’t believe you still have this old thing,” Sehre murmured, appearing slightly dazed. The pendant was worn, burnished from a lifetime of contact. Oh, how Eloen loved to trace its shape, committing the feel of it to memory.

“I always will,” Eloen promised, as easily as breathing. The amulet had been a permanent fixture since Sehre crawled into her bunk, strung it around her neck and claimed her one fateful night. 

Without warning, Eloen heard a tome slam shut. Thick and heavy, like the knot in her throat. She felt it tighten, ice spiking through her veins when their dance slowed. Sehre flinched when the melody veered off-note, her eyes misting over for reasons unnamed. 

“What’s wrong?” Eloen whispered, searching her face for answers. Her own eyes pricked hotly, feeling cold coil in her gut as they came to a stop. Something began to worm its way through her unconscious mind, struggling to breach the surface of understanding. 

“Father is here,” Sehre murmured, her expression heartbroken, and everything inside Eloen shattered.

“No. Please don’t go,” Eloen’s voice cracked. Her knuckles whitened, clinging onto Sehre even as she felt her throat slowly constrict. Felt the melody warp into corruption, marching upside down. Backwards.

“You know I can’t stay, love,” Sehre smiled sadly. 

The pressure began to burn, squeezing the air from her windpipe. Eloen gasped in agony and clawed at the amulet, sharply twisted into a ligature. She dug her fingers beneath the chain, biting into her skin like a noose. The edges of her vision dimmed when Sehre ripped the amulet from her throat, and all the air rushed back into Eloen’s lungs. 

“Sehre,” she gasped, collapsing as darkness closed in. “Tell me you’re at peace.”

Only silence followed.