#hurt/comfort

[mir4inotes]

soon i’m gonna wake up, someone’s gonna bring me ‘round // kndz hurt/comfort

(kunikida-centric!!!!!!!)

originally posted 19 aug 2023

tw: self-harm, references to a suicide attempt, vomiting

read on ao3! / 3.4k words

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Kunikida hadn’t slept well in weeks. He still made a decent effort to go to bed at the same time every night, hoping something would change. But each time he turned the light off, said good night to Dazai and succumbed to the darkness, he was kept awake.

At first, when he was hopeful and convinced he only needed time to recover from recent events, he tried breathing. He’d lay there, eyes lidded, breathing in for four and out for eight in endless rounds until the fact he still wasn’t asleep raised his heart rate far too much. That initial night, he had simply laid on his back, restraining himself from flopping over onto either side so as not to disturb his partner. And if he had gotten sleep that night, it was certainly more than he’d be getting in the nights to come.

Once Kunikida realized he wouldn’t be able to get any shuteye from simply breathing and meditating, he’d asked Yosano for any ideas. She’d risen an eyebrow at the fact that Kunikida, the man who everyone assumed got a perfect eight hours every night without fail, needed medicine to sleep, then promptly wrote up a prescription for a bit of melatonin for him to take before bed. Wonderful.

After a lighthearted joke from Dazai about how Kunikida now needed drugs to sleep and was therefore getting old, Kunikida took the recommended amount and went to bed, skeptical yet hopeful.

And then he woke up to sunlight on his face, birdsong, and Dazai’s drool-smothered cheek on his chest, and he couldn’t have felt more relieved. His sleeping problem had finally been fixed, and now he could focus on getting his life back together piece by piece.

Except, not even a week later, Kunikida began having nightmares.

What had started as a physical inability to sleep had now morphed into a general dislike of it. He’d dread getting ready for bed, unable to know if he’d be blessed with a deep, uninterrupted sleep or tormented with an unsettling dream. And when he finally settled beneath the covers and waited for Dazai’s soft, pug-like snores to begin, he always fought off sleep for as long as he could until the melatonin knocked him out.

Kunikida wouldn’t have a nightmare nightly, but he almost wished he did. The feeble guessing game he had to play at got old quickly after he’d woken up shaking from his only bad dream in seven days.

The dreams themselves were nothing remarkable. For the most part, they were an amalgamation of the ones he’d suffered from a few months earlier, before the whole Decay of the Angel plot took place: blurry, muffled versions of the people he’d failed to save over the years, hostages locked in a cage while he was forced to stare and do nothing until they were long gone, among countless other scenarios that would already be muddied by the time Kunikida got up and brushed his teeth. They left a sour, unpleasant twist in his gut, but besides that, they were able to be swept aside and forgotten about with a bit of breathing.

Until, one seemingly inconspicuous night, Kunikida experienced a vivid, full-on nightmare that seemed to last for hours. And instead of showing him scenes he was bitterly familiar with, it was something new entirely.

He was sitting in the ward where Jouno had taunted him about joining the hunting dogs, but it was as if he was seeing through a thick, choking veil of smoke. He could hardly see the other end of the tiny room. His notebook laid torn in half on the cot, just as it had all those weeks ago. His thoughts swam; he wasn’t expecting to see this place ever again.

Of course, his arms weren’t working. He had hands and fingers, but he was unable to move them, met with a blank wall of resistance whenever he tried. They were mangled, sticking out at odd angles that shouldn’t be possible, and they hurt.

Outside of the window, Kunikida could hear nothing but chaos. Bloodcurdling screams, rapid gunfire, helicopters. He tried to move his neck, but it remained in place as if held there by an iron vice. His gaze was locked on his destroyed notebook in his lap. He even thought he could smell Jouno’s pear, sickeningly sweet to the point it was nauseating. His lungs were filled with smoke at that point, not that he was breathing in the first place.

Kunikida felt sweat dripping from his forehead as the noise from outside only grew in volume. Even his own heartbeat had moved to his skull, a constant, thumping bass drum that just. Wouldn’t. Shut. Up.

The room was gray, then white, then black, then back to gray. Kunikida saw someone clawing at the door with their hand over their mouth out of the corner of his eye. He hunched over, trying to block them out, but winced as the metal handcuffs scraped against his disfigured fingers.

Handcuffs? Those weren’t there before.

At that point, Kunikida thought his eardrums would burst from just how loud everything was. He brought his hands to his ears, pressing them against the side of his head so hard he thought he’d end up squeezing his own brains out. The cold handcuff chain dangled against his neck, and he swallowed against it. His throat was terribly dry.

Without needing to think about it, Kunikida brought his hands past his ears and behind his head, steadying the chain against the vulnerable skin of his neck. One last desperate, strangled wail reverberated through his entire being like a gong, and he yanked on the chain, tugging it against his neck until the room went black again.

//

Kunikida jolted upright in his shared bed, sputtering and gasping for breath. His hands instantly flew to his neck, almost expecting the resistance of the handcuff chain as he did. After confirming that no, he hadn’t actually choked himself to death, the grip on his neck relaxed, but only slightly.

His hands had returned. He lowered them from his head, holding them out in front of him. He couldn’t keep them still.

The sight of his own two hands, functioning and whole, made Kunikida feel sick. A horrendous wave of nausea swept through him, and he almost gagged right there in his bed.

He could hardly remember what had happened between heaving himself up out of bed (nearly tripping over discarded clothing as he did) and sinking to his knees in front of the toilet, already coughing up bile as soon as his legs hit the ground. His head was pounding too hard for him to care.

He stayed there, miserably slumped on the bathroom floor, resting his forehead on his arms on top of the toilet seat. He wondered briefly if Dazai would come find him, almost wanted him to, then decided he really didn’t want his partner to find him in such a state.

Not that this hadn’t happened before, Kunikida being sick in front of Dazai. On rare nights when he attempted to keep up with the rate at which Dazai tossed drinks back, he’d usually find himself retching in the bathroom (or worse, the kitchen sink) with Dazai drunkenly comforting him, slurring his words while combing his fingers through Kunikida’s hair.

The memory of those nights alone made Kunikida gag again. He’d been trying his best up until now to be as quiet as one can in such a situation, yet he unwittingly let out a low groan as his stomach began cramping up again.

His wrists brushed against each other as he shifted his arms around. He heaved again. He shouldn’t have those hands back. Those damned hands that were meaningless if they couldn’t save every person they attempted to help. Kunikida’s nails dug into his pale wrists.

They shouldn’t be there.

He’s screaming, Dazai’s arms wrapped tightly around him, tugging him away from the glass wall

The skin on his wrists began to sting.

Rokuzo’s in front of him, stumbling, neat entry wounds patterned on his chest

He staggered to his feet, ran the tap water over his dirty, quivering fingers and watched the blood swirl down the drain. He left his wrists alone.

He’s being forced to the ground, vision blurry and ears ringing. There’s blood in his eyes, but he doesn’t feel a thing. He only gazes at the ceiling through lidded eyes as he hears the muffled voices above him.

Kunikida leaned forward on his forearms, resting against the sink now. Nothing was being improved by the breathing techniques he swore by; each gasp for air felt like a fishhook being drawn up through his throat. His wrists burned.

And then, of course, there was a timid knock at the door. Not that Dazai needed to, considering the door had never been shut in the first place. Kunikida cringed as Dazai’s light footsteps reached his side.

Kunikida didn’t speak, or move. He stayed still with his head hung, letting his hands dangle above the sink. Dazai slowly reached for Kunikida’s bloody wrists, turning them over with icy fingers. Kunikida let him.

He also let Dazai rinse them clean, until there were only small, red crescent moons dotting his skin, and he let Dazai wrap his favorite brand of bandages around his wrists, just as Kunikida had so often done for him.

Then Dazai plopped himself onto the bathroom floor while tossing a dirty hand towel up into the sink. “Sit” was all he said as he patted the space in front of him.

Meanwhile, all Kunikida wanted was to drag himself back to bed. His breathing had managed to steady itself as Dazai worked earlier, but the rest of his body ached from exhaustion. He felt horrible enough having woken up Dazai, he wasn’t about to subject him to a pity party on top of it all.

Dazai tapped the floor again, looking up at him. Kunikida opened his mouth to reply, to say he was going to try going back to sleep, but a sudden surge of nausea crept up on him instead.

And so he was back on the floor. He was vomiting for the second time, though most of it ended up being dry heaving. Kunikida heard Dazai shuffling over to him, his hands sliding to their usual comfort spots: one hand brushing his hair away from his face, the other slowly rubbing circles into his upper back.

Kunikida would lean against Dazai in between gagging and coughing fits, his throat too sore to say anything. Dazai would murmur gentle comfort against his ear, quietly reassuring him that he was doing well, it’d be over soon.

Dazai particularly took note of the fact that Kunikida made no attempts to push him away. Every other time he’d taken care of Kunikida in times like this, he’d try making some blabbering excuse (as he was typically blackout drunk) that he could take care of himself, or that Dazai was suffocating him.

Now, however, Kunikida slumped against Dazai once his coughing and heaving had ceased. He shut his eyes and let his head settle against Dazai’s chest, curling into him sideways. He didn’t say a word.

Dazai instinctively wrapped his arms around Kunikida’s frail, shivering frame. This sort of thing had began happening nearly every evening since the Decay of the Angel situation; Dazai would let Kunikida rest against him just before they went to bed, neither of them saying anything. Occasionally, that would be how they fell asleep, too. Dazai would wake up some mornings to Kunikida coiled around Dazai’s lanky figure, an arm flung over his torso like some sort of rope.

It was endearing, sure, but the action was bittersweet, too.

Dazai combed his fingers through Kunikida’s hair as they sat there. The hair between his fingers was Kunikida’s usual dirty blond, except when Dazai peered a little too closely he could make out tiny rivulets of gray as they caught the light. It seemed like the jokes Dazai had made only months earlier about Kunikida going gray young were coming to fruition after all. Dazai looped a few strands around his finger and pretended the flashes of gray were due to his lack of sleep and nothing more, and that they would be gone by the time morning came.

Kunikida shifting his neck a bit brought Dazai’s attention back. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been holding Kunikida for; the only thing that clued him in to how much time might have passed was how the bathroom light had started flickering. That only happened after at least 45 minutes-or-so of it being turned on.

“Kunikida,” Dazai started, lips brushing past Kunikida’s hair. “Do you want to talk about anything?” His voice was hardly above a whisper.

Kunikida took in a deep breath before shaking his head. “It’s late,” he mumbled before tucking his head in even tighter against Dazai’s chest. “I’m sorry for waking you up.” He hoped Dazai hadn’t noticed the unavoidable crack in his voice that so often punctured his words now.

Dazai only hummed in response, continuing to idly play with Kunikida’s hair. A few moments went by before he spoke up again, sitting up a bit more as he did.

“Can I ask you something?”

Kunikida didn’t look up. “…What?”

It wasn’t until after an eerily long pause when Dazai opened his mouth once more, and asked in an impossibly languid voice:

“You’ve thought about suicide, haven’t you?”

He’s being forced to the ground, vision blurry and ears ringing.

Kunikida didn’t move. Faint, blurry snippets of those moments when he was recovering from the explosion trickled through his memory like ice water.

There’s blood in his eyes, but he doesn’t feel a thing.

His mouth went dry. He could still feel Dazai’s heartbeat thumping against his side, yet he still felt himself falling away from him all the same. Kunikida wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to steady his grip or let himself be lost.

Yes, he had thought about it. He had turned it over in his mind repeatedly while sitting in that bed as if it were as natural as breathing. For at the time, his world as he knew it was gone. The agency. His coworkers. His partner. His ideals. There was nothing left except for the searing reminders of everyone he had failed to save.

“Easy, Kunikida. Breathe.” Dazai gently tapped Kunikida on the back.

Each time Kunikida inhaled it felt like the air was being chased out of him again. He knew he was shaking, knew he was gripping Dazai’s leg with too much force, but with one sentence, all the memories he had been trying to suppress out of shame were being unearthed one by one.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Kunikida muttered finally. His fingers began to knot themselves in his tangled hair. “I had nothing. There was nothing…” He cut himself off with a muffled sob.

Dazai’s heart stuttered as he felt that slow drip of realization dawning. The question had been assuming Kunikida had only thought about it. A person required a very specific mindset in order to turn those intrusive thoughts into a reality. Quite honestly, Dazai didn’t believe Kunikida had it in him to attempt anything.

Why didn’t he believe that?

As Kunikida’s body began melting even further against Dazai, his voice nothing but unintelligible sobbing and whimpering, Dazai could feel the slow drip becoming a waterfall.

Sure, the Kunikida of a mere few months ago wouldn’t have let himself go so far. Even if the thought had crossed his mind, he wouldn’t have succumbed so easily, especially not with the ideals he held himself to so strictly.

But now, the Kunikida who left his clothes scattered on the floor, who showed up to work a few minutes later than usual, who isolated himself from his coworkers and who hardly even ate three meals a day anymore; thinking about this Kunikida in such a situation suddenly became a lot more believable.

“I didn’t think you were alive.”

Dazai twitched as he was brought out of his own thoughts by Kunikida’s thick, hoarse voice. His fingers were digging into Dazai’s thigh so much it almost hurt. He considered saying something, except he didn’t want to tip Kunikida over the edge again on accident; he didn’t know what he could or couldn’t say anymore.

Kunikida took in a shaky, unsteady breath, and when he spoke again he sounded like he was seconds away from collapsing into another fit of tears.

“I thought they might have killed you…” he paused and took a breath at that, “when the terrorist accusations came out.” His breathing picked up again, but he didn’t stop speaking.

Dazai only kept holding him, since it was the only thing he knew wouldn’t set his partner off again.

Kunikida always complained about how cold Dazai’s skin was, but now he clung onto him as if that iciness was the one thing that could cool his very core.

“Eventually, the only thing i could think of doing was—“ Kunikida hiccuped, his breathing now just as erratic as it had been when Dazai first entered the bathroom. “…was slamming my head against that wall until it was over.”

And then all Dazai could hear was a desperate string of apologies, suppressed by Kunikida’s own arms as he hid his face from view.

At that point, all Dazai thought to do was wait until Kunikida managed to calm himself down. Even if he did speak, what would he say? It wasn’t as if suicide was some foreign topic to him, it was very much the opposite. But somehow, when it came to discussing it with the one person he never would have thought to consider it, the person he planned to spend the foreseeable future with, it put a knot in his throat.

So, for now, Dazai only gently swayed from side to side, returning to his routine of pressing circles against Kunikida’s back. Kunikida had let his arms fall in front of him, where Dazai decided to lace his fingers between one of Kunikida’s hands, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of his partner’s palm as he fought to get his breathing under control.

Even through everything else going through Dazai’s mind, there was a tiny voice at the back of his head criticizing Kunikida’s method for being too painful, too messy.

And that is why he kept his mouth shut.

//

The bedsheets had been sucked of all warmth by the time the pair returned. Kunikida noted through puffy eyes how his side of the bed has clearly been tossed around with panicked hands, whereas Dazai’s side looked more like he’d slid out much more gracefully. He bit back the rising swell of guilt for the nth time that night, and clambered back into bed.

As soon as Dazai wriggled back under the sheets, he pressed his chest against Kunikida’s back and tossed an arm over his waist. His breath felt warm and soothing against the back of Kunikida’s neck.

“i know you’re beating yourself up over waking me, so stop,” Dazai whispered in the gentlest tone he could muster. He wasn’t a very gentle person after all; unless he was with Kunikida, that is. Even then, he could struggle to get his voice to sound calm enough.

Kunikida sighed heavily, all energy drained. Dazai was right, as he often was. He could read Kunikida so easily.

“You aren’t upset?” Kunikida mumbled, shifting his legs slightly.

“No.” Dazai’s fingers slid up to Kunikida’s chest, pressing against his skin so he could feel his heart beating. “I’m just glad you’re here,” he murmured, burrowing his face into the crook of Kunikida’s neck.

Kunikida briefly thought about getting up to fetch some water, both to soothe his sore throat and to rid the lingering bitterness from his tongue, but he decided against it so as not to disturb Dazai for the second time that night. Dazai’s leg had slithered its way between Kunikida’s own two, anyway.

Gradually, with Dazai’s gentle snoring as background noise, Kunikida found his eyes growing heavy. Relief at Dazai’s words had spread throughout his body, although he wasn’t sure how long it would last.

Dazai shuffled a little closer to him, then, and Kunikida sullenly decided he’d deal with any remaining thoughts in the morning.

No, it wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly some of the best sleep Kunikida had gotten in weeks.

[tenderly-wicked]

I'm taking part in two giveaways at Prolific Works: Love Is Love and Sparks Fly. You can download a VERY steamy first chapter of Tenderly Wicked for free. It can be read as a standalone, although I highly recommend to read the rest too ;) And there's a bunch of other hot stories as well.

[rebmik]

Me: *spiraling while pouring my feelings out* … I feel like I mean nothing to anyone else, i feel so lonely…

Him: … you should do some self care…

Yes because doing my make up will help me feel less alone? More appreciated? Less like a maid?

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

I Need To Know

by beetlesandstars

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley & Eddie Munson Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley Additional Tags: Secret Identity, Alternate Universe, spiderman steve harrington, Oblivious Eddie Munson, Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Alcohol, Getting Together, Minor Injuries, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Pining, Eddie Excessive Tea Drinker Munson, Friends to Lovers, gasp what will eddie do now that he's crushing on TWO people at once??, robin is sooo sick of eddie's pining but also weirdly fascinated, kinda like watching a car crash in slow motion, eddie munson vs his competence kink, steve harrington gets beat up in every universe, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, POV Eddie Munson, Podfic Available Words: 9,372 Chapters: 1/1

Summary

Spider-Man keeps knocking on Eddie's window, is the thing. Eddie's not sure what the guy's looking for, be it the company, or a warm place to stay for a couple hours, but begrudgingly, he finds himself leaving the window unlocked before going to bed. Or, the one where Eddie's a little bit in love with Steve Harrington, and starts bitching about it with the kind, if a bit cagey, vigilante, Spider-Man.

[emo-empath]

It's okay what you are going through, and it's okay to cry when you've been hurt by someone so badly. Just do not allow this to become in who are in what they tell you. It's okay to break down, and it's okay to be depressed for a time. Don't allow it to stay within you for so long, however. One day at a time 🫂

[sketchbonked]

does anyone have any fic recs with the “i didn’t know where else to go” trope?

[thekristen999]

Fight In the Shadows (1/7)

(Buck/Eddie) Multi-POV

"Buck. We’re inside a secret underground lab with monsters," Bobby told him. "I don’t think anything you say to Eddie could be any scarier than this."

The 118 are summoned to a distant location in the desert, become trapped, have to fight for their lives, and Buck and Eddie finally realize they've been pining for each other for years. Now, if they can all make it out alive.

Snippet:

The air felt different, recycled, tinged with metal, and something Buck couldn't place. It was freezing, like there was no source of heat. His breath was visible with every exhalation. They seemed to be inside a large underground structure with hallways leading to the east and west.

“Captain, maybe we should head back,” Chim said, shining his flashlight at the floor.

Buck pulled out his light, scanning the ground, his lips parting in surprise. “Why are there bullets everywhere?”

Eddie put his medical bag down, crouching to study one. “They’re shell casings. Looks like from an automatic rifle.” He bit his lip, shining the beam of his flashlight across the floor. “There’s got to be hundreds of rounds.”

Buck swallowed past a large lump in the back of his throat. He was a first responder, having witnessed numerous accident scenes and his fair share of scary situations. But this felt different. All the hair along the back of his neck stood on end, a queasy feeling of dread lodging in his stomach.

Chapter 1

[homobuckybarnes]

I’m doing great at the moment that’s for asking. No you cannot look at my ao3 history

[syncopein3d]

Shun the Light: A Friendly Review

Introduction and Format Explanation:

I've just finished reading Shun the Light by @thoughtsonhurtandcomfort. In the communities where I spend most of my time here on Tumblr, I see occasional recommendations but nothing I would call a review, so I thought I'd go into a little more detail about why I enjoyed this story. I'm still a relative newcomer here in 2024, so if I'm wrong about that, send links in the notes and I will include them here!

The reason I think a positive review might be useful to my audience is that, when people praise a story, they seldom give enough detail for me to know as a reader if I will also want to read it. These are stories I liked personally, and this means that reviews will mostly be of hurt/comfort stories with happy or at least ambiguous endings.

Ambiguous here means characters may part, or may have dangling plot threads for later, but they have survived and are in some way better or recovering. Please always read authors’ trope/warning lists before taking off into their other work. I review hurt/comfort without NSFW usually, but lots of whump writers have both h/c content and NSFW, torture, pet, slave, or other subgenres of whump. I support everyone in this community, and I don’t want anyone to be mad at them or me because you dove directly from a reviewed story into something you didn’t like or were triggered by.

This doesn't mean I disliked everything I didn't review; I read a lot of stories and can't review them all. This is just for stories that are completed according to the author (something of a rare category already) and that I thought deserved special mention.

I'll attempt some light analysis, but I won't ask authors if I'm right about their intent first, so you only get my reader impressions on it. As such, I might be wrong about some or all of how I describe a story and its lore. I don't insist on death of the author once a review is up, so authors are welcome and encouraged to comment!

Summary:

A werewolf and a vampire meet under difficult circumstances and forge an unlikely bond through various injuries and incidents.

Vibes:

I will try to refrain from gushing, since the author is no doubt tired of seeing me type rows of capital A’s on the story posts themselves. This is a very sweet and pleasant hurt/comfort story. It feels warm and comfy even in the slightly gory parts. If it’s possible to write a cozy Universal Studios Horror Gothic, it’s this right here. A lot of it takes place in the same old house and its environs, increasing both the intimacy of the story and the sense of warm familiarity. This is just a delightful palate cleanser if you’ve been reading darker material lately and want to just sit back and feel better.

Characters and Setting:

The story centers on Dante and Matteo, a vampire and a werewolf who wander into each other’s lives by accident. Both are well-intentioned, both are grieving what they lost, whether recently (for Matteo) or long ago (for Dante). When misunderstandings happen, it flows reasonably out of the difference in their ages, their circumstances, and their mutual exasperating tendency to assume the other person’s emotions incorrectly. There’s some delicious angst as a result of that.

Dante is an old soul both literally and figuratively, low-energy and depressed, without rapacity of any kind. The only times he uses a vampire mind control ability are when he is helping to care for Matteo – motivating him to get up the stairs to bed, soothing him to sleep, helping him feel better. It’s almost never for his own benefit. Matteo is not a roaring monster so much as a whipped stray, used to disappointment, expecting the worst. He has a giving heart, but he can’t believe Dante would care about him in return. This doesn’t feel like he’s being stupid in a writing sense; it feels like he has been taught by bad experiences that he has no value. I thought that was handled really well. The dynamic is excellent.

As I mentioned, a lot of the story happens in and around Dante’s house, a slightly decayed mansion where the graves of his loved ones are and which, we receive the impression, he has been haunting like a ghost for some years now. Gradually, we come to see it as more of a safe haven as the story advances, the characters and their exchanges transforming the atmosphere even though the old house remains nearly unchanged. There are brief moments in the woods, in a small nearby town, but they’re not important; they hover vaguely around the place where the characters seem to belong.

Themes (Mild Spoilers):

A lot of stories with vampires in them try to work with themes of renewal. A lot of stories with werewolves in them try to work with themes of found family. Tropes aren’t inherently bad, it’s all in the execution, and it was very interesting to see those two things collide and mingle in this.

Dante needs someone to drag him out of his grave. Matteo needs someone to care and give him value. We morph from the two of them trapped in a slowly rotting antique, wounded and exhausted, to the two of them taking care of each other with more purpose and determination inside what is becoming their home. I would hope that, if the author writes a future story still set here, they would work on renovating parts of the house, as a metaphor for their ongoing dynamic; or burning the place down as a symbol of moving on from their traumas into a new life. But that’s just me writing fanfiction. The story is complete in itself, and I love it.

Final Comments and Recommendation:

This is a lovely, cozy story about two sad people treating each other’s wounds. That’s one of my favorite flavors of story, and if it is for you, too, this is absolutely for you. When I say I like whump, this right here is what leaps to my mind. For fellow loss-of-consciousness fans, Dante has a numbing venom that’s used for that purpose several times, so there’s lots of that here, too. I can hardly recommend this one wholeheartedly enough. If you like hurt and comfort at all, you really, really should give it a look.

My writing masterpost is here, including more Friendly Reviews!

[lunaoliv04]

O sentimento de que estou sendo imatura por chorar por algo que me machuca, como se chorar fosse uma representação da minha imaturidade, fosse algo errado, inapropriado, mesmo doendo tanto

E ao mesmo tempo, não permitir que esse sentimento flua, e não chorar, causa uma sensação de repreensão, que acaba prolongando e expandindo ainda mais esse sentimento, gerando uma sensação descontrolada de frustração, e dói. Dói ainda mais do que doía antes.

Odeio

[pigeon-pumpkin]

"I have never needed anyone, but I want you."

yippee! minthara/gender neutral! tav

aka my thoughts on minthara's perceptions of romanced based on her previous ~ambiguous~ relationship with Orin, growing up a nobel, and surviving all the stuff with the absolute. i <3 my girlie and her intimacy issues.

word count: 2.1k

It was different, having a lover outside of the Absolute. Years, even months, ago it had been about efficiency, satisfying a biological need and then moving on. Minthara remembered the discomfort when their hands would linger afterward, or this specific look a fling might get in their eyes upon seeing her again. Desire, of course, she was used to. She basked in it, and, if not, she could at least use it to her advantage. Regardless if she wanted the man across the tavern undressing her with his eyes or not, she could at least get a free drink from it, or a solid kick at the balls. But that addition of something she now knew as longing, no, that was something she always tried to nip in the bud. 

It was difficult to view it as anything other than weakness. She’d seen civilians jump in front of their lover to take an arrow – pointless, if she was pursuing them, they’d both die, anyways– or beg for their lives on account of their partners and children. Having a consistent lover in the way she’d seen of civilians seemed only of use as a means to a quicker end or as a bargaining chip, neither of which she had use for. Of course, growing up nobility, she’d seen plenty of partnerships to ease political tensions, but rarely did the two have anything else to do with the other than living in the same building, and not even that was a hard and fast rule. Regardless, companionship for the sake of companionship was not something she had often seen. 

In a secret she kept close to her chest, the closest she’d previously come to it was Orin. The casual touches to her waist and shoulders, a hand on her lower back while explaining a battle plan. She vividly remembered the way Orin’s lips would brush the shell of her ear when she got particularly enthusiastic, murmuring her murderous intent for someone that most likely didn’t deserve it in a hurried fervor. She hadn’t ever let anyone touch her so casually, so easily. Orin must’ve known the way it impacted her, the quickening of her heart rate followed by a flash of shame. It was to toy with her, nothing more nothing less. She was nothing more than a pawn in Orin’s plan, and maybe that was what she could use to justify her reaction to Tav’s casual hand on her waist. 

“You best keep your hands to yourself.” She had snapped, eyebrows furrowed as she jerked out of Tav’s touch. She could see the hurt flash across their face before it was quickly masked with indifference. Their hands came up in surrender as they backed away, falling in step with Gale instead. He had clearly overheard, and she could feel the judgment radiating from him, but instead stared ahead at the horizon in front of them. She wasn’t shaken by it, she couldn’t be. It wasn’t that it had brought back the memories Tav seemed determined to label as “traumatic”; the slimy touches of men in the night, of the Moonrise Tower guards, of Orin. The list could go on, but she refused to whimper about it in the same way some of the other companions did. Astarion, broadly, she had respect for, but as they neared the city, his whining over his former master continued, following late nights of thrashing from the tent over. She noticed his flinching away from their touches, the nightmares, his penchant for manipulation, all classic signs of a darker history that she would usually use to hold over someone’s head. All signs of weakness, clear places to target and abuse. 

No, she /liked/ it. Which was so much infinitely worse. Allowing herself to fall into the same trap as she had with Orin was foolish and not a mistake she would make again. Maybe if she hadn’t let herself fall into the lures of infatuation, she would’ve realized sooner how far she had been led astray. It was a weakness she, by now, had let herself acknowledge, but would not allow to be exploited. Sure, Tav was the opposite of Orin in many ways, both positive and negative. They had wholeheartedly supported her on her quest for revenge, and she’d watched the efficient way they had fought through their more significant enemies. But, a motherless child was now staying in their camp at Tav’s and Shadowheart’s behest, and they continued to pick up meaningless tasks that granted them much less gold than deserved, if any at all. While it could be frustrating it, surprisingly, wasn’t a dealbreaker. She’d seen Tav’s own struggle with their past and violent inclinations. She had seen how strong they were in battle and how much conviction they held in regard to their principles that their fascination with being a “good person” almost wasn’t annoying. Almost… endearing, in a way.

It had taken a while to progress to this point. They didn’t often have the time to engage in more carnal desires, but, when they did, Tav seemed to have the want, or need, to be held afterwards. The first time, Mithara had thought they’d been attempting to get another round going, and had only pushed them off once realizing it was only for rudimentary purposes. They cited something called “aftercare” which Minthara could give less of a shit about, even as she felt some degree of a feeling strikingly similar to regret after kicking them out to their own bedroll. She seemed to sense their absence more acutely on those nights. 

But Tav, something she generally admired about them, was persistent. Night after night, they’d curl up next to her, resulting in their first real fight. They had both yelled and yelled, though Minthara had to admit she’d been struck by Tav’s romantic intentions. 

“I /care/ about you, idiot! Of course I want to spend time with you!” They’d shouted, face flushed from yelling and clearly angry for the first time they’d been in awhile. No, not angry. Frustrated. Minthara had slowly been learning the difference between the two, and didn’t know how she felt about the realization. After that, and an admission into their thoughts, Minthara had hesitantly allowed them to stick around a bit more. The nights where Tav fell asleep against her chest were… nice. Weirdly so. She was just indulging them, of course. Clearly, this was something they needed and they’d shown they, at least, weren’t planning on killing Minthara in her sleep, so might as well satisfy them. No one would know any better if it gave her a bit of extra warmth on those nights, or if she had fallen asleep just a bit easier. 

Then came the kissing. Kissing, Minthara had learned growing up, was only a lead up to sex. An odd meshing of lips and spit only done between lovers to express interest. So when Tav had ran up to her after a battle and kissed her straight on the lips, she couldn’t help but be surprised when it didn’t lead to anything after. For once, her shock had led to silence, stone faced as she watched Tav gleefully bounce away to loot the Githyanki that had threatened their camp. Almost worse were the knowing looks their companions had given them after. They clearly weren’t surprised, not with the wink Gale of all people had given her while walking by, and she wondered when this relationship, for lack of a better word, was something that had stretched beyond the two of them. And now there was the touching. 

It wasn’t necessarily new either. As they’d grown closer, there would be a touch on the wrist to show her something or a tap on the shoulder and a nod to lead her over to their tent. But those had purpose, they had meaning. How does an arm around her waist help her in any way, truly. Shamefully, that surge of warmth in her chest returned, as did the sense of being chosen by someone she, perhaps stupidly, cared about. Or at the least, would be important in achieving her future goals. It was still a feeling she couldn’t help but relate back to Orin, even as she realized she had considerably more choice in this. Surely Tav couldn’t be indulging for the simple pleasure of /holding her/. They were both too battle hardened for those simple, civilian comforts. Holding hands and walking through the streets was an activity for the creatures she killed, not for survivors. Not like them. 

—

Tav was distant the rest of the day, granted they were all busy with running through the streets of Rivington. Minthara expected to have the night to herself, yet still, as she had settled into her nightclothes, there were the shuffling of boots at her tent entry. Tav’s shape was just visible through the thin entry flap. She sighed. 

“Come in.” She said, pulling a familiar air of authority into her voice as she stood up. As Tav walked into her dimly lit tent, she could tell they were anxious. Out of character for them, and a warning for Minthara. 

“We need to talk.” They started simply, already looking even more uncomfortable. That was considerably worse. Minthara’s lips thinned, but that was her only tell of discomfort as she nodded for them to continue. 

“Minthara. I know neither of us are ones for, well, romance. It's hard, and complicated, and maybe not the smartest when we could die any day now. I know I’m not saying anything new, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about us. I know it's not logical, truly.” They laughed awkwardly, looking down at their feet instead of at her, “I know that. And I understand if you’d rather stay away from, y’know, physical stuff. In public and everything. I know this was just supposed to be sex and turned into something else. And we don’t have to put a name to it, truly. But I care about you and I.. well, I want to do stupid shit like hold your hand sometimes.” They let out an almost manic laugh, hands gesticulating aimlessly, almost to prove the pointlessness of their words. “And I feel stupid saying that. I know it sounds stupid. But I couldn’t let myself live if I didn’t at least try and say something. Something could happen any day now, and I want to be with you if it does, in whatever way you’ll have me.” That seemed to calm Tav down a bit, their hands finally dropping at they looked over at Minthara, that thing she had now labeled as longing shining in their eyes. 

Minthara let out a silent exhale, thinking over Tav’s proposal. It was… definitely a new way to frame what had been happening. Tav was right, the exchanging of physical comforts was essentially meaningless in the long run, especially depending on their eventual fight with the Netherbrain. But they didn’t seem to have any issue in acknowledging that. They knew that it may be pointless, but they wanted it anyway. And if Minthara could appreciate anything, it was that boldness, the easy expression of desire that she associated with Tav. When framing it that way, maybe it was slightly more understandable, rather than this nebulous thing she and Orin had that was never named. 

She stepped forward, taking Tav’s hand even as her hesitation was obvious. “You’re right, it is pointless.” She started, but continued forward as she saw Tav’s face drop. “But that doesn’t mean I am unwilling. I see the merits of your proposal and it is one I can appreciate. I will not lie and say it is not an adjustment. I am unused to whatever it is we have, but I do treasure your presence and do not wish to lose it. I will run a sword through anyone who dares touch you and this… I can allow.” Her words were somewhat stilted, but Minthara finished her statement, watching the warmth return to Tav’s face. And oh, how she preferred it that way. 

Of course, Tav always continues surprising her and they drop to their knees, hand still in Minthara’s as they look up at her through their lashes. “I’ll put it this way.” They brought Minthara’s hand up to their cheek, pressing a kiss against her palm. “I am yours, Mithara. I do not care if it makes me foolish, but you have my trust and my fealty.” Their eyes were bright in the dim lighting, and Minthara couldn’t help but pull them to their feet at the confession. 

“My dear heart, you always know the right things to say.” She murmurs against their mouth after a kiss, possessive hands at their waist. There was still the lurking thought of empty words, of trickery and shapeshifting, but that was placed aside for tonight. Tonight was Tav on their knees, pledging the fealty that Minthara was unaware how desperately she wanted. Perhaps, now, had even needed.

[paulinawoodpecker]

Sad Reena fan art

@jakkiisthatboy2

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

Eternal zero

by loveinhawkins

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Steve Harrington & The Party, Dustin Henderson & Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Dustin Henderson Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Season/Series 04, Missing Scene, the hike from Skull Rock to Lover’s Lake, the walk through The Upside Down woods, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Steve Harrington, Protective Steve Harrington, Perceptive Steve Harrington, Survivor Guilt, Eddie Munson Has PTSD, Trauma, Perceptive Eddie Munson, Banter, Bittersweet, trying to outrun that gnawing feeling of dread, trying to have hope despite it all, Developing Relationship, One Shot, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, s4 missing scenes we are so back baby, Character Study, Introspection, Scene Rewrite Words: 3,622 Chapters: 1/1

Summary

“Woah, man, take it easy—” “M’fine,” Eddie mutters. He scoffs harshly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s shaking. “This is kinda normal for me now.” His head’s still half bowed, hair falling across his face like he doesn’t want to be seen. It doesn’t stop Steve from noticing the evidence of tears on his face; he thinks they’re simply from the exertion of throwing up, but he can’t be sure. “Just—just give yourself a minute,” Steve says. “We’ve got time.”

[bingqiu-fanfics]

Words: 7,454 Summary: All it took was one comment, carelessly made, to send things spiraling in a very different direction.

Luo Binghe speaks up in defense of Shen Qingqiu after the sower incident and ends up on the receiving end of one of the Old Palace Master's schemes.

[the-bloody-sadist]

Sinner comfort sketches, as a treat 🖤

[whump-side]

Reassuring hands ❤