#I know a lot of people feel anger or grief for the time they spent thinking they could be better

[sassysnowperson]

When I was a kid - old enough to remember, young enough that I don't know how old I was anymore - I started telling myself a story. It was a good story, full of grand adventure that made me feel clever and strong and surprising and fun as I told it. And at the same time, I remember thinking...I should stop. There are other things I need to be thinking about. There's homework and chores and all the other life things I need to do. The story is getting in the way. And I'm not really telling anyone about it. It's lonely.

I tried to stop. I did, sometimes. But no matter what I was doing, I kept going back to the story. I told it and retold it, in my head, chasing the feeling it gave me. The story shifted, through the months and years, was joined by another few epics. It was interesting and creative, but still it wasn't entirely in my control. I'd feel - frustrated, sometimes. "If I hadn't started telling myself this story...Imagine what I could be, if I didn't keep thinking about this."

There's two important things I think about now, when I think about then. The first comes in 2016. I'm realizing viscerally how fucked and fucked up the world is. I feel like I can't control anything. So, I tell myself a story. And this time I share it. I write a million words of fic over the next four years. It helps me find connection. It helps me survive.

The second thing is that I got diagnosed with ADHD on Monday.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐏𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚 𝐃𝐚𝐲 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre!outbreak joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn

word count: 3.1k

summary: Months after the move you're trying to paint again. But you lack the motivation to do so. Thankfully, Sarah comes over and keeps you company until Tommy and Joel come over to pick her up.

warnings: brief themes of grief, tommy radiating younger sibling energy and being a menace, fluff

a/n: thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the prologue and a special thank you to @pedrito-friskito who edited the chapter, love you! 💜💜💜

prologue || chapter two

The dust lingers in the air, a constant reminder of what once was. You see flecks of it dancing in the beams of light that pour through the window, illuminating the room with a hazy glow. The smell of dust permeates every corner, fills your lungs. There are still boxes stacked in your room. Some of them waiting to be unpacked and some of them waiting to be filled. 

Looking through your grandfather’s old knick-knacks had been a harder task than you thought. You found pictures, lots of them. From his past, from his now. You even found a picture of yourself from when you were a kid; laughing in the sun with mud all over your face. You had promised him the perfect garden. At the end of the day, it was far from it but he still said that it was. 

Your fingers clench around the brush you’re holding. An hour ago you decided to use the grief to make something of it. You had a heaping amount of black and red paint poured onto the pallete, untouched. 

You shake your head, agitated. You really shouldn’t be wasting paint. It’s not like you can afford to continuously buy supplies. 

You’re staring deeply into the blank canvas when a loud knock jars you back to reality. You can feel a burn in your eyes, taunting you for the wasted hour spent sitting idly without so much as a brushstroke to show for it.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grumble under your breath while heading to the door. Your eyes linger on the window, it’s a clear day out, which now you decide to point all your anger at. If it was raining, it would be different. You would have the proper ambiance to be inspired. 

Without looking, you open the door, your eyes immediately dropping to the girl standing on your porch. “Sarah?” 

“Sorry for barging in,” she says with a sheepish grin. “I forgot my keys and dad isn’t home yet. Can I come inside?” 

Dad. Joel. 

You blink before smiling. You take a step to the side as a wordless invite. She steps inside with grace, her shoes blinking pink and purple. It’s hard to stifle a giggle, which earns you a quizzical look from her. 

You point to her feet, “Nice kicks,” 

“Oh,” her eyes lit up, leaving her heel glued to the hardwood floors, she lifted her foot. “Aren’t they cool? Azra offered we trade shoes for the day.” 

"Veeery nice," you nod, but as Sarah turns to head further inside, you clear your throat. "Shoes off," you remind her.

“Right, sorry.” 

You make your way to the kitchen, Sarah follows closely behind, taking off her blinking shoes as she goes. You stretch up on your toes and open the cupboard, searching for Sarah's preferred brand of tea. 

Since you moved in and formed close bonds with the Miller family, both Tommy and Sarah have been regular visitors to your home. You enjoy their company. It was nice to talk to people instead of obsessing over your muses that had clearly abandoned you.

You pull out the box of apple cinnamon tea and place it on the counter. Joel never stops by. You only see him whenever he comes over to pick up Sarah and that’s pretty much it. Sometimes you send cookies via Sarah and the next day she would tell you he enjoyed them. You aren’t quite sure if Joel is just reserved or if he just didn’t like you that much, but no matter what it is, the rest of the family seems to enjoy your presence. Which is all a neighbor could ask for. 

The staccato drumming of Sarah’s fingers against the wooden table pulls you back. You turn on the kettle, a soft steam filling the kitchen. 

“Your uncle Tommy is going to stop by too,” you say, leaning back and crossing your arms. “I’m assuming you’re dad is with him?” 

“Yeah, but it’s pizza day today so my dad will probably force them to stop by the supermarket to grab some stuff,” she lets her head fall onto her hands and adds. “If he doesn’t forget, that is. You should join us,” 

The water comes to a boil, forcing you to turn away from her. You place two tea bags into comically large mugs (the ones that make both Tommy and Sarah giggle, which brightens up your day) and pour the steaming water into them. You place one of the mugs in front of Sarah and slide into the chair beside her, watching as she wraps her nimble fingers around the purple mug. 

“I’m a busy woman,” you tease. “I need to work and stuff,” 

“Coffee shop?” 

“I’m off for the day,” 

A mischievous glint glimmered in her eyes, her smile widening into a cheeky grin. “Date?” 

You snort into your tea, waving your hand dismissively. Sarah raises an eyebrow at that. The girl has quite a sharp intuition. If you were being completely honest, it made you nervous some days.

“Nah, I just need to work on my paintings. I haven’t managed to paint a single stroke. It’s frustrating,” you stop and take a sip, the fruity flavor makes your taste buds come alive. “Very annoying,” 

“Maybe just paint something else or sketch something you like,” she states nonchalantly. “Take a break from the main thing, do a side quest,” 

“Sometimes I do that, but I really need to get a grip. I’m gonna end up working at the coffee house forever, or I’m just going to have to risk starvation,” 

“Don’t worry. We’ll take you in, feed you,” 

Teenagers. You shake your head with an amused smile, “What am I? A dog?” 

“A friend.” 

You still at that, fingers curling around the hot mug, it burns to the touch. Sarah starts to look around your house as if what she just said just now wasn’t ridiculously sweet. 

She hops off the chair and starts to wander with her mug nestled between her palms. Taking a sip, you smile into the porcelain rim, your heart beating fast. 

When you first moved here, you were scared to be alone. That you wouldn’t be able to make any friends. After your grandfather died and left you the house, you had half a mind to not make the move. It was nerve-wracking at the time. But ironically enough it was your grief that spurred you to take the leap forward. 

Sarah slows down, reaching the bookshelf. The one you have in the living room isn’t really that impressive, mostly put there for decor. She pushes a succulent out of the way and allows her fingers to trace the smooth spines. “You have a lot of children’s books,” 

“What can I say, I’m a kid at heart,” you observe the bookshelf next to her. She isn’t wrong. A lot of Roald Dahl books, which are followed by a series of Nicholas and the Gang books. “If you want to see my more serious stuff, we can check the one upstairs.” 

“I’m good,” Hooking her fingers around Matilda, she pulls the paperback out of its home. She flips it over and scans the back. “Can I borrow this one?” 

“Sure, be my guest. That’s one of my favorites,” 

“Living in a house full of dumb-dumbs sounds like my life story,” 

“Oh, believe me, your dad is much smarter than he looks,” the sigh you let out attracts her attention, eyes flitting back to you. “And so is your uncle. Also, Matilda’s parents are kind of assholes,” 

“Woah, spoilers.” 

Another knock at the door. Compared to Sarah’s slow, more careful ones. These knocks sound eccentric, hitting the wood as if the person behind it is out to break it. 

“Uncle Tommy,” Sarah guesses, rolling her eyes but smiling. “My dad’s probably with him,” 

She’s spot on with her guess. Sarah peers from your side, looking over both her uncle and dad. Tommy shoots you a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Joel stands tall right behind him, his arms crossed, he greets you with a small smile and a signature head tilt. 

“Hello boys,” you say, returning the nod and smile. “Do you guys wanna come in?” 

Joel lifts a bag of groceries, “Pizza day,” 

Sarah’s ears perk up at that, her eyes wide with disbelief, “You didn’t forget!” then she narrows her eyes, sticking her bottom lip out. “Who are you and what did you with to my dad?” 

“I had to remind him,” Tommy chuckles, nudging his shoulder into Joel’s. He holds your gaze. “But I’m here for you, beautiful,” 

“My hero.” 

Joel scoffs with a half grin and gestures his head towards Sarah, “Get your things. Let’s get going.” 

All Sarah has to do is lean to the side and grab her backpack from behind the door. Joel waits for her below the short set of stairs, one hand in his pocket, eyes flicking between you and Tommy. He seems impatient, almost. 

Tommy brushes past you while Sarah takes her first step over the threshold. At that very moment you feel suspended in time, your eyes finding Joel’s for a brief moment until Sarah comes into view. He slaps a hand over her shoulder and smiles at you. Sarah is still holding the book as she waves you both off. 

When you close the door, Tommy is already in the kitchen, rummaging through your fridge. “You have nothin’ to eat,” 

“I thought we could order out,” you offer, your gaze falling to the blank canvas. Tommy moves his entire upper body out of the fridge and slams it shut. 

“You have anything in mind?” 

You don’t have to think long for an answer. 

“You know what? I think I’m craving pizza.” 

The thing about Tommy Miller is that he’s a good listener, paired with quite the mouth. 

He can talk for hours. You always comment on how that was his superpower; there RE no awkward silences when Tommy İs near. He’s also ridiculously intuitive, which makes you think Sarah got it from him. 

You two are sitting on the couch with crossed legs and facing each other. Your knees press together as he tells you about his day, munching on the last slice. He’s telling you how the concrete deliveries got delayed, which meant that the rest of their schedule got fucked. His words, not yours. Joel was furious, apparently. You never would’ve guessed. He just looks tired all the time.

“By the way,” he says, swallowing and reaching for the glass of bubbling coke. “If you were cravin’ pizza so much, we could’ve gone over to Joel’s. Eat some of that good homemade shit,” 

Picking up the empty pizza box, you place it on the coffee table and push it with the tips of your fingers. You don’t know how to answer him. Your brows furrow, and when he sees it, worry crosses his face. 

A bitter chuckle drops abruptly from your lips, “I don’t think Joel likes me very much,” 

“What?” Tommy sounds positively horrified. If anyone heard, they would’ve thought you said something along the lines of your mother dying. “Nonsense. He adores you. Why would you even think that?” 

Your eyes drop to the cushions you sit on. You feel the brush of his knuckles ghosting over your cheek, prompting you to meet his gaze. His eyes are a soft brown, a shade lighter than Joel’s. 

“Hey, you can talk to me. Did he do something to make you feel like that?” 

“N-No,” you slowly shake your head, your pulse throbs under your skin. “I just…I don’t know. It seems like he’s wary of me, like I did something wrong once and he’s expecting it to happen again,” 

He sighs, his palm now fully cradling your cheek. You can’t help but lean into his touch. “That’s just Joel for you. He’s got a fair share of weight on them shoulders—I’m also probably not a big help to him. Always getting into trouble,” 

“I know for a fact that Sarah and Joel love you very much,” you have the need to remind him, and his eyes light up at your words. The skin under his hand burns. “Besides young siblings are always trouble, I would know since I’m the younger one as well. It’s character.” 

He blows a raspberry into the air. His hand falls from your cheek and takes refuge over his lap. “Some character,” he utters under his breath, shooting you a playful gaze. “You want me to talk to him?” 

“Please no,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder as you get up. “That would be super embarrassing,” 

“Sometimes you need to tell that stubborn dog to behave,” his voice reaches you in waves, his socked feet following you to the kitchen. You dispose of the boxes, start to prepare him, and you some late-night tea. 

“He is behaving,” you reply, feeling his presence behind you. “I just get into my own head sometimes. Don’t worry about it.” 

Your hands are still above the kitchen counter when you feel his warm breath fanning the back of your neck. You watch his fingers curl around the edge, his chin not quite pressing but lingering a couple of centimeters above your shoulder. 

“Anyone who doesn’t like you is a grade-A idiot, just sayin’” his voice is a low echo in your ear. He’s not physically touching you, but it feels as if his entire being is consuming you by just being so close. The click of the kettle parts the silence. “The water’s done.” 

You’re surprised when you turn and find that there’s actually quite a bit of space between you still. You could’ve sworn that his body was only a breath away. 

Tommy steps closer, caging you between his arms and the kitchen counter. He has a lazy, yet adoring, smile on his face. Your legs start to tremble, a habit you found you did whenever you were in any kind of confrontation. 

Now, there isn’t really anything to confront, so you blame the crackling of tension between you and him. You take a breath and your chest heaves.

You hold your breath when you notice he’s starting to inch closer, gorgeous browns dropping to the flush of your lips. You don’t pull away. But you don’t lean in either. You’re like a deer in headlights, shocked by the sudden beam of brightness. 

“Is this okay?” he asks in a whisper. You swallow, your muddled mind finding it difficult to string the words that might or might not form a coherent sentence. 

Tommy has always been a close friend. A confidant. Someone you can call in the middle of the night with noquestions asked. You know for a fact that he can be a flirt. And this quality of his cheered you up from time to time—like when he calls you beautiful or praises you in any shape or form. But you’re quite not sure you want to breach the limitations of a platonic relationship. 

Suddenly you feel his lips on your cheek, pulling back as quickly as he leaned in, he releases you from the cage and grins at you. 

“Gotcha.” 

“Excuse me?” Your mouth feels like sandpaper and your throat dry. You swallow and watch him sit on a stool across from you. His fingers grip the peaking part of the stool head between his legs, he looks like a toddler. 

“I’m just doing my thing, being a troublemaker. Just like you said,” he hunches forward, eyes looking up to you between dark lashes. “It’s character, right?” 

“Oh fuck off, Tommy Miller,” 

“You know I’m not above accepting that offer, right? It’s been a while.” 

You roll your eyes and turn on the kettle again, the steaming water now probably tepid. 

“What would you do if I actually kissed you?” 

The question lingers in the air and uncomfortably presses into your skin, you lack the air to take a breath. You don’t dare to look at him. Gaze stubbornly watching the button of the kettle to pop, signaling you that the water is boiling. 

“I don’t know Tommy,” you answer honestly and press a palm against the heating surface of the kettle. “I don’t know.” 

You hate taking out the thrash. 

You don’t know why. When you were a kid, it was your dad who took it out and that would always be accompanied by a series of complaints. His habit of talking to himself and to the inanimate objects around him had passed on to you. The night air chills your skin, a shiver shuddering up your spine while you struggle to keep the trash bag in the air with one hand. Your nails begin to tear the plastic and you start to walk faster. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter, arm cramping. “Come on, just a little further,” 

When you reach the container, you lift the bag with a heave and do a small little hip wiggle at the small victory. 

Turning around you see Joel watching you with a wide smile. 

You’re stunned into silence, arms and legs tingling at the thought of how stupid you must’ve looked. He’s holding a trashbag of his own. Red flannel accentuating his narrowing hips perfectly. He cocks his head to the side when you continue to stare. 

“Are you always this excited after throwin’ out the thrash?” he asks, humored by your reaction. 

While you think of an answer, he takes wide steps and throws out his own trash. Joel then turns to you, the only thing separating your bodies being the white picket fence. 

“Let’s just say that I was happy it didn’t rip while making the trip,” 

He nods while pressing his hands into his thighs, “A worthy thing to celebrate.” 

You shift from one leg to another. The conversation you had with Tommy the night before echoes in your head worry clouding your chest with the question ‘did Tommy say anything?’.  But you assume not when Joel takes a step back, palms sliding down his jeans like a nervous tick. 

“Well then,” he clears his throat. “See you later neighbor,” 

You lift your hand to wave, an early smile starts to curl over your lips. However, your half-uttered goodbye is cut short by the absurdly loud growl of your stomach. 

Ah fuck. 

Joel stills. Your cheeks and the tips of your ears burn. His eyes drop to your arms that are now wrapped tight around your stomach, then he lifts his gaze back up to meet yours. 

“You wanna join us for dinner?” he asks, he pronounces every word slowly, reminding you of the way you whisper to animals that you don’t want to scare away. “Sarah’s makin’ her special burgers,” 

“Special?” you ask back, ignoring the fact that you’ve become a charity case in a blink of an eye. “What makes them special?” 

Hand sliding into his pockets, Joel gestures with his head for you to come over. 

“Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?” 

[bi-bard]

I Dial Drunk, I'll Die a Drunk, I'd Die for You - Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto Imagine [The Bear]

Title: I Dial Drunk, I'll Die a Drunk, I'd Die for You

Pairing: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto X Reader

Based On: Dial Drunk

Word Count: 1,907 words

Warning(s): drunk character, a lot of cussing, argument, mention of unhealthy coping/bad mental health

Summary: A night of drunken grief lands Carmy in more trouble than he thought it would. He calls the one person that he remembers being able to rely on. His night of calls brings up old memories of the person that seems to be hellbent on ignoring him.

Author's Note: I knew that this song was going to be for Carmy since I first heard a clip of it on TIkTok.

**Flashbacks are indicated by "--" and italics**

NOAH KAHAN - STICK SEASON [WE'LL ALL BE HERE FOREVER] WRITING CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

--------------------

The first missed call was understandable.

Carmy would've missed it too if someone decided to randomly call him at damn near three in the morning. He couldn't fault (Y/n) for that one.

But the second missed call made him close his eyes and shut his eyes.

He never wanted to be here.

He never planned to spend his night in a fucking cell. He never planned to be leaning his head on a payphone, trying to get in touch with the one person that probably never wanted to hear his voice again.

He had originally planned to spend the whole night alone. He was going to drink until he could pass out on his sad couch in his sad apartment and have a few hours where he didn't have to think about the world around him. A night without the pressure and guilt and anger seemed comforting.

He didn't truly remember why he left his apartment.

Truly, his only vivid memory was the cop pulling up next to him on the bridge as he drunkenly stumbled around. He didn't know what had led the cops to him, but he didn't truly feel like he had enough time to question it before he was getting placed in the back of the car.

Now, his head was starting to hurt, and he was getting more and more upset with the ringing on the line.

--

There weren't many people that Carmy tried to reconnect with.

That was usually because either they didn't have any desire to or because he didn't have any desire to find that out.

(Y/n) was an exception.

They had tried to keep in contact when he went to school. Carmy was the reason that such a plan didn't work. He didn't try like they did. It was some twisted consequence of his anger and self-worth issues and a million other problems that he didn't even acknowledge enough to try to solve.

When he came home, they were one of the first to find out.

Through all of the stress and chaos, they basically grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the restaurant for a while.

He ended up spending the morning with a cup of arguably shitty coffee and following (Y/n) around while they ran errands.

Somehow, he got dragged into a bookshop. He felt entirely out of place there. He spent most of his time looking at the covers and giving random feedback on how books looked.

"Thank you for coming out with me today," (Y/n) said after a while. "It really does mean a lot."

"Yeah, you're welcome," Carmy replied, admittedly zoned out before the fact. "Why did you want me to come with you?"

(Y/n) shrugged. "You just seemed so... overwhelmed. I thought that something like this would be a nice enough escape from whatever the fuck is going on in that restaurant."

"Oh," he nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," they chuckled.

Something in Carmy's mind seemed to click at that point. It was as if his body was moving without his conscious thought catching up.

(Y/n) was about to round the corner of one of the aisles before he caught their hand. They went to question him but didn't get the chance to do so before he leaned in and pressed his lips to theirs.

There were a few moments where (Y/n) froze where they were, but that soon wore off. Their arms wrapped around Carmy's neck as they kissed him back.

They started to grin into the kiss after a few moments.

And Carmy couldn't help but mimic them.

--

"Alright, come on."

Carmy snapped out of his thoughts when the cop spoke up.

"You clearly aren't gonna get an answer," the cop explained. "I can't let you spend all night on the phone."

"Fuck that," Carmy said simply before holding out his hand for another coin. "They'll answer. I know it."

The cop glanced around at the room around him. He knew that he shouldn't even entertain this idea. But, against his better judgment, he held out some more change for Carmy to use.

Carmy nodded as a silent thank you before turning back to the phone, silently begging for this to be the time that (Y/n) answered.

--

He didn't mean to slam the door.

In all of his anger and stress and poor coping abilities, Carmy wasn't thinking straight enough to stop himself.

He should have thought about it more. He got home at almost one in the morning. He knew that (Y/n) had been waiting for him. He knew that they probably had fallen asleep after work. But some part of him refused to acknowledge any of that.

"What the fuck," (Y/n) grumbled as they sat up from where they had fallen asleep on Carmy's couch.

Guilt found a place in Carmy's chest as he looked at their tired face.

(Y/n) rubbed the sleep out of their eyes before looking back at him. Their face went from tired to concerned in a matter of seconds. They had always been better at understanding his emotions than anyone else... even himself.

They made it over to him in a matter of seconds. Their hand found the side of his face. The feeling of their skin on his made his eyes fall shut for a moment as he took a deep breath.

"What happened," (Y/n) asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm just... I'm really fucking tired."

He had a love-hate relationship with the knowing look that crossed (Y/n)'s face. It was great that he didn't need to perfectly explain his every emotion for (Y/n) to understand him, but it was awful to know that he had little chance of ever hiding how he truly felt from them.

With almost no words spoken, (Y/n) dragged Carmy to bed, letting him slip his shoes off and lay on top of the covers. They laid down next to him. He laid on his stomach and they laid on their side. Their hand ran through his sweaty hair, leaning over to press a kiss to his temple.

His eyes slowly closed as another kiss was pressed to his cheek.

He fell asleep that night feeling comforted for the first time in years... and he never knew how much he truly craved that.

--

"I don't know who the fuck this is, but you need to stop fucking calling me."

Carmy jumped when he finally heard a voice on the other end.

"Leave me alone-"

"(Y/n), wait!" he said quickly. "Please, don't hang up the phone."

There was a short pause. "Carmy?"

"Yeah," he let out a quiet huff.

"What do you want," they asked.

"I... I got myself in a bit of trouble," he explained. "I just... I need your help."

There was another pause between them. It was longer this time. Carmy wondered if he had been just a little less focused on himself, would he have heard the building anger from (Y/n)'s end of the call?

"You have some fucking nerve, Berzatto," (Y/n) snapped. The words came out like venom, stinging as they hit Carmy's ear. "I tried to help you! I always fucking have! No fucking more! Go fuck yourself, you selfish fucking prick!"

Carmy flinched a bit when the call suddenly dropped.

His jaw clenched.

"Come on-"

"Let me try again," he cut off the cop before the sentence could be finished. "Just... Just one more call."

He watched a pitiful look cross the cop's face. That was when he realized that tears had filled his eyes. The cop didn't know him or (Y/n) or why they were so quick to hang up the phone.

Another coin was placed in Carmy's palm.

Maybe it was for the best that the cop didn't know the truth.

--

He started the yelling.

(Y/n) didn't deserve it.

They had just been pushing so much. Pushing to know his thoughts and feelings. They wanted to help him so much.

He knew that. He knew that every intention was good.

But that didn't change the boiling anger sitting in his chest. He wanted to ignore and avoid everything, and he couldn't do that with (Y/n) constantly there. With them constantly asking the right questions and perfectly explaining what he needed to hear.

His foundation may have been unsteady and broken, but it was his. He didn't want to be pushed to change it. No matter how good that may have been for him.

"Shut up!" he snapped, cutting off (Y/n)'s words completely. "Stop trying to fucking fix things for two minutes!"

"I... I wasn't trying to-"

"Don't act like you don't know what the fuck you're doing," he shouted. He didn't stop to notice how (Y/n)'s eyes changed into this mix of sadness and fear. "You always fucking do this! You try to fucking fix me and the situation and everything! Do you have any idea how irritating that shit is?"

They didn't respond to him. They just sat there with their mouth opening and closing a bit as they contemplated if they should speak or not... and what they would say if they did.

"Guess what? If you gave a shit about me, then you would be able to be with me without trying to fucking- I don't know- mold me into... whatever the fuck you want from me!"

The silence that followed felt a million times louder than Carmy's yelling. It was tense. It felt heavy and suffocating. If he hadn't been such a stubborn asshole, then maybe Carmy would have apologized to bring an end to the feeling.

And then, (Y/n) finally moved.

They shoved past him and stormed out of the room. They only stopped at the door because they had to grab their shoes and jacket.

"Running away instead of talking to me now, huh?"

"Go fuck yourself," (Y/n)'s response was quiet, spoken through gritted teeth and embarrassing tears. "I never wanted to mold you into anything. I just... I wanted you to stop hurting."

"Not your job-"

"Yeah, you're fucking right, it's not," they turned back to him. "But would you have ever fucking done anything about it on your own?"

His jaw clenched and he didn't respond.

"And I let you treat me like shit in the name of you getting better... but you never fucking worked to do anything about the shit you were dealing with!"

He almost jumped at the yelling.

Their voice went back to that quiet, angry tone, "Never fucking contact me. Forget that I fucking exist if that's what it takes for you to leave me the fuck alone. I don't care. I am done."

He didn't move to stop them as they pulled the door open.

"Go fuck yourself, Berzatto."

The last thing that Carmy heard that night was the sound of the door slamming shut.

--

Carmy's muttered a few curses to himself before slamming the phone back on the hook.

"Let's go," the cop instructed. "Before you get embarrassed anymore."

Carmy sighed and ran his hands over his face before following the cop. Neither one of them spoke until it was time for the cop to finally leave Carmy to sit in the cell in his own misery.

"For what it's worth," the cop said, "I think it was shitty that you were treated like that."

Carmy just nodded.

He didn't have the heart to respond... to tell the cop the truth...

that Carmy deserved to have his calls ignored.

--------------------

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[violet-shadows]

Wish Things Were Different (Part One)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Masterlist

Summary: You know your mate loves you, but as he and Elain get closer, you begin to wonder if he wishes things had turned out differently.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 2.0k

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

You tried to swallow back the lump in your throat as you watched your mate, emotions warring within you. When Azriel first started spending time with Elain, you hadn’t minded at all. In fact, his compassion for the middle Archeron sister was yet another thing you loved about him. Their friendship seemed to be helping Elain cope with her trauma and newfound power, and slowly but surely, she became lucid, behaving more like herself. Azriel didn’t pull away as Elain got better, though. In fact, he seemed to be spending more and more time with the female, often coming home late after spending the afternoon with her. At first, you didn’t mind that either, but as time went on and the two became closer, you began to grow nervous.

Azriel was your mate, yes, but Elain was undeniably lovely. Despite what she had gone through, she hadn’t been hardened by the world like you had, remaining soft and gentle where you built walls. You wondered if her placid nature was a breath of fresh air for Azriel, who spent most of his life around people like him, with sharp edges and quick tempers. It didn’t help that Elain bore similarities to Azriel’s first love, Mor. Her light hair, warm brown eyes, and breathtaking beauty stirred old insecurity in you from when you first learned of your mate’s affection for Mor.

You couldn’t bring yourself to mention your feelings to Azriel, too afraid he would simply dismiss you, or worse, confirm your fears. There was a part of you that was indignant at the thought of your mate leaving you for another woman, but underneath your anger, was deep unyielding hurt. You weren’t sure what you would do if he left you and the thought alone was gut-wrenching. There was another part of you, perhaps an immature part, that hoped you wouldn’t have to tell Azriel how you felt, that your mate might be astute enough to pick up on your discomfort. In the past, you had marveled at his ability to notice the slightest changes in you, but now, even as you dropped subtle hints, he seemed to take no notice that anything was amiss. So, as you watched him laugh with Elain on the balcony, unaware of your presence entirely, grief and hurt surged within you. You came to the conclusion that you would have to say something to him, even if it hurt; you couldn’t let this wound continue to fester.

Just as you were about to leave, unable to bear watching them any longer, a voice startled you. “Are you alright?”, asked Rhys, who was leaning casually in the doorway. You wondered how long he had been watching you agonize.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice squeaking. He raised his eyebrows, giving you an incredulous look, and crossed the room to sit next to you on the sofa.

“This about Azriel?” He asked. “Because I can kick his ass if you want me to.” You laughed despite your heavy heart, shaking your head.

“No, you don’t need to kick his ass,” you replied, not offering any more details. The two of you sat in heavy silence for a few moments before you worked up the courage to ask Rhys the question that was eating at you. “Do you think… do you think Azriel ever wishes things had turned out… differently?”

“I think he probably wishes a lot of things were different. What, exactly, are you referring to?” Rhys said, the humor in his eyes fading.

“I mean, do you think he wishes he wasn’t my mate?” you said, staring at your hands. You picked at your cuticles, your throat growing tight.

“What?” Rhys straightened, sounding genuinely surprised. “Why would you– no. No, Azriel loves you.”

“I know he does,” you said sadly, still avoiding eye contact. “But just because he’s learned to love me doesn’t mean he doesn’t resent being stuck with me a little bit… I just wonder if he would have chosen differently, had it not been for the bond.”

“This is about Elain,” Rhys surmised, glancing at the pair through the window. You felt tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and swallowed thickly before you nodded. “Have you talked to Azriel?” he asked, and you shook your head, not trusting your voice not to break. You hadn’t realized how much hurt you’d been keeping a secret, and now it was spilling forth like a tidal wave. Rhys was quiet for a moment, and each second that ticked by without him denying your suspicions felt like a blow to the heart.

“Y/N,” Rhys said softly, his expression kind, “All I can tell you is that Azriel loves you, more than he’s ever loved anyone before, and he’d want to know that you feel this way.” You drew a deep steading breath and nodded.

“I’ll talk to him,” you said, a plan beginning to form, “tonight.”

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

Azriel promised he would be home for dinner, so you were cooking one of his favorite meals. It wasn’t every night that you went to such effort, so you’d checked with him that morning that he would in fact be home at six o’clock. While you were nervous to bring up your concerns about Elain, you were also looking forward to spending the night alone with your mate. It had been several weeks since you last had dinner together, just the two of you, and you missed those quiet evenings with Azriel when nothing and no one mattered but each other.

You left for home sometime in the mid-afternoon, stopping by the market to buy ingredients for your dinner on the way. You hadn’t spoken to Azriel before he left, too rattled from your conversation with Rhys to hide your emotions, but you were sure he would be headed home shortly thereafter. You set to work in the kitchen right away, the meal you were making more complex and time-consuming than most. Perhaps it was a bit desperate, but part of you hoped that such effort would remind Azriel how much he meant to you.

Time passed and the sun sank low in the sky, yet there was still no sign of your mate. A knot began to form in your stomach as you put the finishing touches on dinner, and when there was nothing left for you to fuss about, you took a seat at the table to wait. Ten minutes turned into twenty, then half an hour past when he was supposed to be home. Still, you waited, clinging to naive hope that a meeting just ran long. Outside, night had fallen and the streets had emptied, the residents of Velaris all inside with their families, eating dinner as the day drew to a close. Your hope began to fade as the minutes ticked by, and when he was an hour late, you decided to eat without him.

The meal was cooked to perfection, yet it tasted like ash in your mouth, spoiled by the dark emotions churning within you. You gave up eating after a few bites, abandoning your plate on the table in favor of pacing the living room. Another hour passed, then two, and the heaviness in your heart was all but crushing you. You wondered if he forgot about his promise or simply decided he had something better to do, and you weren’t sure which was worse.

When the clock struck ten, four hours past your planned dinner time, you decided it was time to give up waiting. Just as you stood to head upstairs, though, the front door swung open, revealing your mate. He stalked inside, kicking off his shoes by the door and discarding his jacket, barely giving you so much as a glance. “Hey,” he muttered, brushing past you with his head down. You were frozen in place, shocked by his indifference. You had expected him to at least act remorseful about standing you up, but he didn’t even seem to notice your tear-tracked face or the cold dinner on the table.

“Really?” You hissed, anger bubbling within you. Broken promises you could fathom, but this complete lack of interest was downright offensive. Azriel froze in place, his shoulder tensing, then let out a deep sigh.

“What, Y/N?” He asked, something like annoyance creeping into his tone.

“Are you serious right now?” you demanded, stepping closer to him. As you did, you caught a whiff of another smell intermingling with his: sweet and floral, like jasmine and honey. Your mouth went dry as you recognized the scent.

“I’ve had a long day, Y/N. Please don’t make me guess why you’re mad this time,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. You felt nauseous like you were trapped in a sick nightmare.

“Where were you?” you asked, your heart thundering in your chest.

“Working,” he replied as if the answer were obvious.

“Then why do you smell like Elain?” your voice wavered as you asked, rage and sadness consuming you in equal measure.

“Seriously?” Azriel barked a laugh, his eyes cold. “I talked to Elain today. Is that not allowed now?”

“Are you sure you just talked?” You spat, irritation getting the better of you. This wasn’t at all how you wanted to have this conversation, but Azriel’s dismissal had your defenses up.

“What else would we be doing?” he demanded, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“I don’t know, Azriel. What were you doing? Because from where I’m standing you’ve been spending an awful lot of time with someone who clearly has feelings for you,” you said, voice raised.

“What are you talking about? Elain and I are friends and that’s it. She doesn’t have feelings for me,” he spat, his shadows swirling around him in a frenzy.

“She does, Azriel. She does and anyone can see it,” you hissed. “I’m beginning to wonder if you might return those feelings.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We both have mates!”

“Oh, so now you remember you have a mate because you certainly haven’t been acting like it lately,” you snapped.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he shouted, crossing his arms. Anger flashed in his hazel eyes, an emotion you rarely saw directed at you, and it took everything in you to not recoil.

“It means you’ve been coming home late or not at all for weeks. It means you haven’t touched me in nearly a month. It means that when Elain is around I feel like I’m fucking invisible.” The rage you felt was giving way to hurt and tears gathered in your eyes. “By the Mother, Azriel, I cooked your favorite meal tonight because you promised me you would be home, then you show up smelling like another female and don’t even apologize. If you want out of this relationship, you could at least have the courtesy of saying something.”

Your voice broke as you spoke the last part, tears spilling over to run down your cheeks. Azriel was silent, the anger in his eyes slipping away, replaced by the mask of cold indifference he wore when he was acting as a spy, rather than your mate. Several beats of silence passed, each more agonizing than the last. He seemed to be deep in thought, but you could only guess what he was thinking. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice quiet. “Are you even going to say anything, Azriel?”

That seemed to grab his attention, and he stepped forward, hand outstretched as if to touch you, but you stepped out of his reach. Something like hurt flashed in his eyes and he finally spoke, his voice low and sad, “Y/N. I’m sorry about dinner. I just—”

“This isn’t just about dinner, Azriel!” You cut him off, unable to bear further excuses given for the sole purpose of placating you. “I think you should go.”

“What?” he asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

“I think you should stay at the townhouse tonight. I’d like to be alone,” you told him, your voice barely a whisper. You turned away, wrapping your arms around yourself and hunching your shoulders, trying to ease the ache in your chest.

“Okay,” he said, sounding defeated. You didn’t turn to watch him leave, waiting until the front door clicked shut to fall apart.

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

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Taglist - All ACOTAR Fics:

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Taglist - Azriel Only:

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[thebigolbee]

hello i am here to say two things

i want marlow as a companion so badly please let us know if you make a mod i'd cry/pos

Please tell me anything about your ocs one of my favourite things is hearing about people's ocs or what they're interested in. just rant at me like you've got a red string conspiracy board if you'd like

1. Ahhh you are just the sweetest! Sorry it took me a bit to reply, I really appreciate your words!

2. Thanks so much for giving me an opportunity to share things about Richie. I’m don’t know the best way to put OC lore out there so these kinds of asks help a lot! More to read below :)c

A fact about Richie is that he tried isolating himself in the Glowing Sea before his long trek out to the Mojave Desert. He had just cut all ties in the Commonwealth and heard the earth-shattering news that Mr. House was still alive. He thought the tough conditions in the Sea might calm him down and set him straight, but it turns out manifesting about the man who doomed you in a twisted hellscape isn't very healthy. His time spent there only turned his heartbroken anger into a full blown revenge quest. Surely killing an old flame would make him feel better...right?

The fact of the matter is, even if he hadn’t passed the point of no return in the Sea itself, it would have happened somewhere else eventually. His steady decline was inevitable because he is just... so hard on himself, refusing to accept any kind of help or prolonged companionship. Under his confident exterior, the guilt and grief is eating him alive, and sadly all this self-destruction leeches out onto his friendships and lovers as well.

The sorrows of a man who needs to feel love to be okay, but snuffs it out before it can grow...

[lavendertales]

Fire on fire—Javier Peña x f!reader**

Chapter 17 of the Unholy series

summary: you and Javier spend your first full night together. A new chapter waits for you both in Cali.

word count: 4.8k

WARNINGS: talk of grief in the beginning. Blindfolds, lingerie, face sitting, dry humping, doggy (implied rough sex), squirting, cum play.

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

A/N: last chapter, lovebugs! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had sharing it with you all. Thank you so much for all the love and support💕 P.S: here is the inspo for the lingerie😌and keep an eye out for the extra one-shot post-Colombia that’s gonna come real soon!

gif: @vera-kozhemiakina 

series masterlist | AO3 

There’s an unusual heat around you this morning. Granted, the atmosphere in Colombia is always this way, but you wake up to the sound of rain tapping lightly against your window, wrapped in your beloved blanket and fingers intertwined with yours.

It’s the second time Javier has spent the night, only now there is so much more to be felt between you. Grief, anger, tension, love, everything that has been boiling for the past fifteen years.

You’re nose to nose with him, having the perfect opportunity to study every little detail about him. There’s something so soothing about watching him finally get proper rest; you can see his long eyelashes, his stubbly cheek, and plush lips that can be both the sweetest and sinful touch you have ever felt on your skin. The fact that he’s holding your hand in his sleep makes the moment all the more endearing, like a perfect little gesture that’s a secret between the two of you.

“Staring is creepy, you know.”

God, his voice is huskier in the morning and you begin to wonder how come you’ve spent this long without moments like these.

“I’ve heard it can be romantic,” you retort, smiling as he’s slowly waking up.

You caress his hand, and Javier fully opens his eyes—his brown, warm eyes that don’t cease the look of admiration for you.

“How would you feel if you’d wake up to me staring at you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Pretty good. You look cute when you’re needy.”

Javier makes a mocking sound, some disapproval mixed with admiration, and your smile widens.

“You mumble in your sleep,” you say out of the blue. “Did you know that?”

Javier seems surprised by your statement, but he doesn’t question it. Instead, he gazes fondly at you, awakening more and more with each passing second.

“How would I know that?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I figured one of your lady friends noticed at some point in time.”

The sound that leaves Javier’s mouth has a hint of mockery, though not explicitly so. You reckon it is one of his default noises when people mention his personal life or habits, so you don’t bother with it. Perhaps you’re not the most qualified person to mention this at all.

Or perhaps you are.

“They never stayed long enough for that,” he casually mentions, shifting in bed so that he’s staring at the ceiling, seemingly contemplating everything.

“I feel so special,” you gush, hoping to catch a glimpse of his eyes.

But Javier doesn’t move.

He keeps staring at the ceiling, barely blinking, and you figure something’s the matter. Not that he’s the most communicative person in the world—particularly with you—but you have enough of that God complex to actually believe he might open up to you in some way, especially now, given how yesterday went.

“What do I mumble about?” Javier asks absentmindedly.

“You keep saying ‘I’m sorry’ a lot. Not sure to whom or for what. Some things in Spanish too, about forgiveness, I think.”

Bits and pieces return to Javier’s mind, crystal clear now. The faces he sees are ghosts of his past, as well as his present, always lingering in the dark, haunting and tormenting, laughing at him on occasion.

He finally turns towards you, and you see it: somewhat of a sadness darkens his eyes, otherwise emptied of the happiness he momentarily felt last night with you.

“My mom,” he replies after a while. “The first person I apologize to is my mom. Always. I apologize to her for… not being able to be there more for her. She died when I was fifteen.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“She was sick for a long time and I couldn’t do much of anything. Then I apologize to Loraine. My ex-fiancé. I met her after college. I proposed for all the wrong reasons. We weren’t—“

“Did you love her?”

Javier doesn’t need to ponder over that. Though he cannot help the embarrassment that comes with that story.

“I thought I did,” he tells you with honesty. “I did care for her, but it wasn’t true love. She lied to me about being pregnant, I lied to her about being in love… match made in hell.”

You chuckle softly, your head resting on his bare shoulder as you let him speak freely. It’s probably the first time in God knows how long that he gets the chance to let it all out, raw and real, in a place that keeps him safe.

“Then I apologize to all the innocent lives I couldn’t save since I arrived in Colombia. All the children, the mothers and fathers I failed. And, at the end, I apologize to you.”

“To me?”

Javier grunts a soft mhm that resembles a purr, and you feel your body tauter, warmer.

“Why do you apologize to me?” you ask.

He turns to look at you, meeting your eyes with a remorseful glare, and you hold your breath.

“For not being honest with you in the first place. I could’ve spared us both a lot of pain and anger if I’d just… told you back in college how I felt. If I would’ve been open.”

“You’re not the only one carrying the fault,” you try to coax him. “I wasn’t the most open person in the world either.”

“Match made in hell.”

You chuckle more audibly this time around, with Javier mimicking the sound as well.

“Then how come this works?” you retort.

He can’t argue against that. There is no answer to that. What he does know is that, whatever the trouble or the question, you are the answer.

“We’re made of the same clay,” you continue. “We… think the same, we act the same and we do the same.”

“A little troubling how similar we are.”

“Shockingly, I agree.”

But there’s something else Javier wants to ask, and he’s hesitant to do so. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up after last night, nor live under the impression that spending the night together might change your professional feelings.

He coos your name, looking at you as if he’s desperately trying to memorize every detail of your face.

“I gotta leave for Cali tomorrow.”

His voice is small, afraid to go on, and you can tell he’s forcing himself to go on as brave as he did till then.

“I know.”

“Steve and Sofia are coming, too. They’ll be part of the team. They put me in charge, not really sure why—“

“Javi.”

“—but they want me and someone else to supervise the entire Cali operation. I nominated you.”

“Javi.”

He finally hears you, sees your pleading face, begging him to listen to reason and end his babbling. It’s an unusual habit for him, talking this much, but you always managed to bring that out of him, one way or the other.

“If you want to know if I’m going or not, just ask me, like a normal person,” you almost giggle.

“I meant every single thing I said in that letter. Including the part where I said I want you to be okay, no matter where you are or who you are with. If you don’t want to, I understand it.”

“I do want to. I will be joining the team in Cali.”

You see the relief on Javier’s face, and you almost laugh fondly at his stubbornness to conceal it through a rugged, yet forced expression.

“You are?”

“Mhm. I’ve made a commitment to the DEA, to the case… of course I’m sticking around and seeing this through.”

Javier exhales, after what feels like an eternity, and simply looks you over.

“I’m flattered you thought to nominate me as your coworker,” you smile. “I would’ve thought you’d ask Steve first.”

“He was the backup in case you said no. Just don’t tell him I said that.”

“God, you’re so stubborn.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

You peck his lips, getting lost in his scent and his taste once more. Soon, your bodies get entangled, skin pressed against skin. Javier’s lips leave a wet trail as they suck on a particular spot on your neck, and you hum softly.

“I’m so much better than you at this,” he says, keeping up his sweet torment.

You smile, your hand grazing his chest and stomach in its devilish pursuit. Javier stops, gasping when your hand fists his cock, as slowly as humanly possible. You reach up for his lips while you keep that same pace, beyond satisfied with the result.

“You’re kidding, right?” you joke. “I’m actually crushing you at this.”

“Maybe—don’t use the word ‘crushing’ when you’re—hmm—doing this.”

You giggle against his lips, the moment making Javier ticklish and causing him to laugh alongside you. But then, his smile fades as your face darkens, haunted by something.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pulling away.

You simmer in the bizarre sensation for a little while, trying to pinpoint what the exact issue is. And then, you come to the realization.

“I’m fine,” you say, still frowning at the sudden change of pace. “It’s just… I don’t know why, but Escobar popped into my head.”

“Trying not to take that as an insult.”

You chuckle, watching him with a guilty figure. “He knew me. When I went after him, he recognized me by my birthmark, he knew my middle name—“

“Carina.”

You look at him, stunned that he knows that piece of information that truthfully, you don’t recall confessing to him.

“Economics professor, Mr. James, always insisted to call us all by our full names. I know you really hated to be called Carina. Especially by me.”

“Which is why you kept doing it in front of others.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I don’t know why this happened now. I’m sorry. I mean he’s dead, he doesn’t…”

Javier rolls over to the side, taking your hand in his and stroking it gently. “Don’t have to apologize for anything that shithead did or said. You can be angry and upset about it.”

You respond to his touch, smiling fondly at him.

“Don’t ever say you’re not a good man,” you tell him.

“You’re going soft, cariño.”

“In your dreams, Peña.”

You press a chaste kiss to his lips, then get out of bed, leaving Javier behind to watch your naked figure roam around the room.

“Where are you going?” he asks, almost saddened by your departure.

“I gotta head down to the embassy, confirm my transfer for tomorrow. You can either stay here or come along with me.”

Javier grunts, exhaling along with it, and he smirks your way. Hate as you might to admit it, you were a sucker for this sassy side of him.

“You’re putting me in an impossible situation here,” he huffs.

“How come?”

“Cause if I stay here, I get to see you walk around with nothing on, but if I go with you… well, we could make out in the evidence room.”

You chuckle, shaking your head at him. You bounce back to the bed, pressing another kiss on his lips. His hands sneak around you, giving your ass a good squeeze, and you give him an unimpressed glare.

“Could you go there and bounce back here again?” Javier asks, earning another chuckle from your side, paired with a playful push of his arm.

“You’re so filthy,” you coo.

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

You pull away abruptly, leaving Javier hanging low and dry.

“I’m going to the embassy,” you insist, starting to get dressed. “You can stay here playing with yourself or you can join me and make a good impression.”

“Leaning towards the first one. How would I make a good impression there?”

“As the lead man for the Cali operation, showing up at the office to ensure the smooth transaction of the other lead man, on a Sunday, no less, would look good for you.”

Javier huffs, finally getting out of bed and searching for his clothes. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

As it turned out, no one was happier about your return to the office than Claudia Messina. She even gave you a hug, which was a rare sight and treat for any agent at the embassy, repeatedly making sure that you were okay and that you were, in fact, there to sign as the co-lead in the Cali operation.

Javier stood by your side the whole time, proudly nodding to confirm Claudia’s questions while also ignoring her side-eyeing him whenever you spoke. He was fairly certain by now that she knew you and he had something going on behind closed doors, but then again, she needn’t know more than the absolutely necessary information.

After you signed the papers and confirmed your transfer to Cali early on tomorrow, Javier invited you for lunch, thus marking your first official outing as a couple and your very first date. You enjoyed a rather quiet meal together, which was a welcome change from the usually fast-paced, loud and deadly environment you learned to navigate your daily tasks through.

“I’m glad you’re joining the team,” Javier tells you as he’s parking the car in front of your building.

His soft voice, a little huskier than usual, pairs devastatingly nicely with the rain that’s pouring outside. The raindrops tap fast and cruel on the windows, cooling down the city, yet it has the exact opposite on you.

“I know,” you retort coyly. “What would you do without me?”

Javier smiles and huffs. “Probably be more productive.”

“More productive, really? Weren’t you the one being needy this morning?”

“Weren’t you the one who threw herself at me two days ago?”

“Oh, you wanna play this game?”

“I do.”

“Do you? Cause may I remind you, you were the one getting a hard-on in the conference room while staring me down.”

Javier smiles, walking you to the door and shielding you from the rain at the same time.

“No comeback?” you huff, opening the door. “You’re really going soft on me, Peña.”

“On the contrary.”

You notice his wicked smile and it triggers one of your own.

“What do you feel like doing?” you ask.

“It’s fuckin’ blazing outside and we’re free till tomorrow morning. What to do, what to do…”

He approaches you, gently grabbing the hem of your shirt and giving you a lustful look.

“I might have something in mind,” you say, brazen and zealous.

Fire spreads rapidly throughout your veins, your skin burning at the mere sight of Javier, and the simple thought of what you’d like to do getting you wetter than you would’ve thought.

“Yeah?” Javier grins. “Like what?”

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

“Then make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.”

You steal a kiss from him, and rush to the bathroom, making sure the door is locked behind you. You actually forgot about the bold fashion statement you’re currently slipping into, with everything that’s been going on. You’re not even sure as to why you’ve bought them in the first place, but the timing couldn’t have been better now.

You check yourself in the mirror, slowly twirling and making sure everything is in place. The black straps of the fabric wrap your body in a taut way that’s giving you a big confidence boost. Inhaling deeply, you smile to yourself and grab the tie that’s been gathering dust on your bathroom drawer.

When you re-enter the bedroom, leaning seductively against the doorframe, you see Javier sitting on the edge, hands joined in between his legs and staring down. He senses your presence and looks up, eyes wide and pupils fully blown out.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, eyeing you up and down.

“That’s the plan. I take it you like it?”

Javier huffs, the sound mocking you and your silly little question, and for once you don’t take offense at it. You know the overall look—the black lace underwear and its garter belt—is sultry and inviting in every way anyone can think of. The only thing missing from Javier’s facial expression is drool.

You inch closer to him, tantalizingly slow, revealing the tie in your hand. You reach around his broad shoulders to remove his leather jacket. Javier watches you intently, curious as to where is your brilliant, filthy mind headed but at the same time, all too eager to process your latent moves. So he reaches to unbutton his shirt, but you are quick to grab his hands, thus putting an end to his actions. Without a word, you guide him further up the bed, and when he’s leaning against the pillows, still in his shirt and jeans, you open the bedside drawer to reveal some more fabrics.

It’s only when you’re tying his hands around the headboard’s ends that Javier raises his brows and starts to get a sense as to where the afternoon is headed.

“Are you serious?” Javier asks, though not making an effort to free himself from the constraints.

“Do I look like I’m not?”

“What you look is gorgeous. And fuckable.”

“And you look like you’re about to get needy, which I happen to enjoy.”

Securing him to the bed, you move on to his face, pressing a languid kiss over his lips before tying the tie around his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Javier whines.

You have to admit, the sight of a restrained Javier to your bed stirs powerful emotions inside of you. A smile breaks from the corners of your lips as you join him on the bed, your legs on either sides of his clothed thigh. You bite on your lower lip as you press your core onto him, arms on his shoulders for support. Before you can even realize it’s happening, you’re grinding on his lap, while Javier is completely unable to response.

“This what you had in mind for the rest of the day?” Javier asks in an unusually raspy voice. “Use me as leverage to make yourself cum?”

“A little,” you smile in utter delight.

The sensation of rubbing your barely clothed pussy on his thigh, the raw electricity of it, is causing your head to spin.

“That why you’re dressed like this? To make me feel worse?”

“Not worse,” you coo while continuously grinding on him. “Just a little riled up.”

“A little? We’ll see about that.”

You smile and grind faster, needier; Javier clenches his fists, anger building fast within. Sheer anger at being unable to see your gorgeous figure desperately fuck yourself on him, using his body as a propeller for your own pleasure. And then he comes to realize that that’s been your plan all along.

Devilish and effective. Just like you.

He loves this, too; the way you’re using his body as leverage to reach that pinnacle of desire and ecstasy, making him squirm and nearly beg for release himself. He feels his cock throbbing in his jeans, pulsing with immense need with each roll of your hips against his jeans, yet he knows that soon he’ll get to feel you properly.

He hears your breaths get ragged, soft moans cooed in between, and he smiles. He can picture your beautiful figure fucking yourself on his thigh and getting warmer and wetter with each passing second, and the mere thought could easily make him come in his pants like some lousy, horny teenager.

Well, maybe he is that way with you.

“Fuck,” you mutter, and Javier smiles.

“That feel good, cariño?”

“Yes—“

You know that if you keep going down this treacherous path, you’ll eventually come, messily and speedy, and you don’t want it to happen this way.

Besides, this is simply a test of strength and self-control. For both of you.

Your hips no longer rut against his thigh; instead, you cup his cheeks and kiss him, hungrily, like you haven’t felt the touch of his lips for the longest time.

“Cariño?”

“Hmm?”

“Sit on my face.”

Bewildered, you stare at his immobilized figure, contemplating, craving. You haven’t really done this before and it’s stirring all kinds of emotions inside of you.

“Uh—are you sure?” you check.

“Did I stutter?”

“No, but I just wanna make sure—“

“Sit. On my face. Now.”

He doesn’t bother asking you to untie him, nor does he squirm or try to break free. No; he simply waits, breaths deep and as hungry as the body they’re being freed from.

“Panties to the side. And sit,” Javier enunciates, as if reading your mind regarding your struggle about the lingerie.

You follow through, nearly embarrassingly wet by this point. You notice the erection strangled in his jeans, and you can’t help but admire his self-control.

Both legs on either sides of his face, you lower yourself onto him. That first brush of his stubble and mustache against your folds is thrilling, his tongue lapping diligently to collect every ounce of arousal you’re capable of giving him sensational. It’s also mighty impressive how he’s able to provide you with so much pleasure already, even with his hands tied. Between moments of ecstasy, you remark Javier’s clenched fists, tugging at the restraints. You know that he craves to mold your skin between his fingers, to grope you till he leaves bruises.

“Javi—fuck—“

He can’t say a damn thing, not with his mouth full of your soaked pussy. You start to rub yourself all over his face, feeling the buildup in your belly, ready to be detonated. Javier grunts, the vibrations an additional aid towards your impending orgasm. Your mind gets foggy, your breaths shallow and your chest tight; and then you feel it throughout your entire body.

“Fuck, right there—oh God—“

You finally come, your body seizing entirely on Javier’s face as your orgasm knocks all air out of your lungs. You feel a hand tightly gripping your right ass cheek, and you come to your senses enough to realize that his left hand broke free from the headboard. Shit, that’s a determined man, you think.

You look down, seeing Javier licking his lips. “Good girl,” he praises.

Blood rushes to your face, your cheeks now appearing sun-kissed, as you climb down, settling on his lap. His free hand is now on your back, gently resting there, waiting for you to make your next move. You remove the blindfold, and Javier blinks several times in a row, taking in your gorgeous attire, almost unable to believe that this is real and that he gets to have you this way.

His other hand is now free as well, and they both move to hold your waist, not daring to move. He stares you down, and you know he’s gonna take his revenge for what you did.

That’s exactly what you were counting on.

“My turn now,” Javier mutters.

He rolls you on the bed, flat on your tummy and ass up. He bites his lips, quickly disposing of his clothes. When he wraps his hand around his aching cock, he grunts as if in pain. He gives himself a few strokes, stopping abruptly the second he realizes how sensitive he truly is and that he’d probably come in a matter of seconds if he keeps doing this.

“Can I fuck you my way?” he asks.

And his question comes so kindly and sweetly that you nearly tremble.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“On all fours then.”

You obey, sitting in position. His hand grabs your hip, pulling you closer, and you suck in a breath. The anticipation is killing you, and you know that no matter how hard you try to tell yourself that you’re prepared for what’s to come, it won’t be true.

Cock in his hand and hand on your waist, Javier thrusts inside you in one languid motion. You instantly moan, the feeling of having him so thick and eager inside of you utterly maddening. He starts to fuck you with fervor, wasting no time. He’s fucking you like he only has five minutes to spare, so much so that you can barely breathe. You try to reach around to touch him somehow, in some way, but he swiftly grabs both your arms and keeps them locked together, snapping his hips faster into you. He’s mesmerized by the way his cock disappears in and out of you, the way your ass bounces against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, and the sounds you make… Jesus fucking Christ, this is the best sight he’s ever seen.

Your face buried in the mattress, hair falling down your face and your cunt at Javier’s mercy, no sounds other than some groans and moans leave your throat. It’s pretty impressive that for a man who ran on two hours of sleep, cigarettes and whiskey for the longest time, he snaps his hips into you so fast you’re nearly seeing stars. He can’t get enough of you, the way the lingerie is strapped to your body, it’s all giving him a fever.

“Fuck, you’re so—beautiful,” he grunts. “S-So good.”

“Javi, I n-need—“

“Hm? What was that?”

“I need to cum, please—“

“So do it.”

You’d reach around to play with your clit if you could, but Javier is taking everything from you, and you can’t help but give it to him. A few more thrusts and he’s done for: next thing he knows, he pulls out and comes all over your ass, jerking himself off to completion. He watches you squirm and, freed from his grip, you rub your clit speedily, and you come with a ragged moan, your orgasm messy and unusually wet, spurting everywhere.

It takes you a while to settle down. Then you feel Javier’s hands on your ass again, only now they’re gently cleaning your skin with what feels like a warm cloth. When you move to the edge of the bed, you see the mess over the sheets, slightly embarrassed.

“Wow,” you notice. “I don’t think I’ve ever… came this hard.”

Javier smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course you would, you cocky bastard.”

He leans down to kiss you, falling atop of you again. “So I take it you liked the lingerie?” you cheekily ask.

“We pretty much ruined your sheets. Take that as you will.”

It’s no longer embarrassment that you feel, but rather fondness, and a certain happiness. It’s bizarre—you’ve never felt happiness quite like this. It feels deserved, after all the hard work and hardships you’ve both endured.

You crawl into the bed, listening to the rain falling against the windows. Javier joins you, one arm wrapped around you.

“Starting tomorrow, we’re gonna go through hell again, you know?” Javier says, visibly contemplative.

“Nice pillowtalk.”

Javier chuckles softly, turning to look at you.

“I know though,” you reply. “We should enjoy this afternoon as much as we can.”

“Any other devilish plans on your mind?”

“Eh. Let’s see how you feel in half an hour, maybe we give it another go.”

You graze his cheek, weirdly thankful for all the moments that led you to this particular one, safely in his arms.

“You know I’d fuck you all the time if I could,” he tells you.

“You sure know how to flatter your women.”

“About the mission though… I’m thinking we should have some boundaries.”

“Like what? No making out in the break room or getting down and dirty in the evidence room?”

You smile at one another, smugly remembering the precise moments you broke all rules known to professionalism.

“Would help, yes,” Javier says. “It’s for our safety. We can’t let people know we’re together. Otherwise—“

You take his hand into yours, trying to reassure his pessimism. You can’t help but share it as well, although you know it consumes him more than you on occasion.

“I know,” you tell him sweetly. “We’ll be careful.”

Javier sees your wide smile, and it manages to make him flustered for what feels like a premiere in his life.

“What?” he asks.

“So… we’re together? A real couple?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

You shrug. “I like to hear it.”

Javier’s thumb grazes your cheek, cupping it as if he’s holding the most valuable possession in the world in his hand.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs.

“I know that too. We’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be fine.”

And for the first time since he’s been in Colombia, Javier means it, and feels it to be true. He knows Cali will be just as—if not more—murderous and bloody than Medellin and Bogota, but it doesn’t feel that difficult now that he’s not alone.

He was never alone when you were around him. And maybe, hopefully, he won’t ever be alone again.

previous | next ​

[sirfrogsworth]

I have two best friends.

Which is not an apt description.

Best friends is too small a term to describe what they are to me.

Chosen family. Ride or die. People I would drop everything for if they needed me. People I would protect with my last breath. People who know embarrassing details they will take to the grave.

Now that my mom and dad are gone, they are my lifelong companions. I trust them with my life.

I talk about Katrina all the time. But I tend to keep my friendship with Delling a little more private. I don't love either of them any more or less. There is no ranking system for my besties. But Katrina and I are basically like an old school comedy duo, so we have a lot more shenanigans to share. Shenanigans are easy content for a blog.

Delling is disabled like me. We have a lot of the same consequences from our health issues. Extreme fatigue most of all. Delling was unable to get disability benefits though, so they have to work a 9 to 5 job. And it exhausts them to the limit. They often will work and go straight to bed. If it were possible, I would talk to Delling every single day like I do with Katrina, but circumstances don't always allow for that.

So we have less shenanigans, but the same amount of love.

I'm also a little more protective of Delling at the moment. They are trans and for some reason a large portion of the "very online" people have decided to hate my best friend. And sometimes I worry about drawing attention towards Delling from the few trolls who still hate follow me.

Delling is almost always in my thoughts when I write about trans issues or argue with transphobes on Twitter. But I refuse to invoke "I HAVE A TRANS FRIEND" most of the time. For one, I don't advocate for trans people just because I have a trans friend. Though it does make the emotions I feel very intense sometimes. A lot of tears and anger. But I also don't want to sound like those conservatives who justify everything they say because they have a friend from a marginalized group.

There are certainly times people will be like, "Why would you mutilate someone and cut off healthy breasts??" and I wanna be like "Delling is much happier without boobies and I can see a huge difference since their surgery and you don't know what the fuck you are talking about with that mutilation nonsense. FIGHT ME!"

But I don't think I need to announce my bestie's private top surgery details just to win an argument on Twitter.

I'm just really happy for them and I am glad it helped. They struggled to get the surgery for so long and fought like hell to make it happen. People acting like it is this horrible thing make me so angry. When it finally happened it was... a relief. A weight lifted off their shoulders... err... chest.

After my dad died, Katrina was unable to get away from Florida to help me out. She was dealing with her disabled dog, Lucy, and her end-of-life care. That just isn't something you can ask someone else to look after for a few days. So Delling got permission to do remote work and drove down from the top of the country to help me. They came on the weekend of my dad's service and stayed a few days after to help me get the house sorted.

I'm honestly not sure I could have made it through that experience on my own. During the service, Delling just clung to my side as I tried to act normal when long-lost relatives offered similar grief platitudes over and over. And I kept introducing Delling and saying they were from the wrong state for some reason. I do actually know where Delling lives, but I guess my brain was not functioning in that situation.

Delling also helped me finish my eulogy literally hours before I gave it. And they helped me print out a bunch of photos of my dad that almost no one looked at. I'm so glad we spent all morning frantically doing that. *sigh* Though I'm hoping the photos will come in handy when I do an online memorial for my parents, so it was not all for naught.

There was a moment when a certain someone gave an impromptu speech at the end of the service about how she let my dad see his granddaughter for a couple of hours a year ago and how special that was, and Delling tightly squeezed my hand to help channel away my anger.

Ya know, those totally normal *yearly* visits all grandpas get to have.

Sometimes friends just know, ya know?

Delling and I also revamped the kitchen for my needs, which I have already turned into absolute chaos. And we had a fun shopping trip to Sam's where I bought tender beef jerky that was the toughest to chew jerky I've ever experienced. I guess the "tender" on the label was sarcastic.

All I know is that casually shopping with my friend was this beautiful bonding adventure where we just got to hang out and be together. It's weird the experiences that stick with you. Trying to pick out wholesale sushi with my bestie will be a treasured memory for the rest of my days. And I think that is kinda perfect in its simplicity.

There are not enough thank yous in the world for what Delling did for me. I wish they could have stayed a few months instead of a few days. I miss having them here in person. But they had a foster bunny to take care of and a job and a family. So I had to give Delling back to the top of the country.

I just wanted to write this in appreciation of my other best bestie. I love them more than anything. And I can't tell you all how special it feels to have someone who will drop everything, drive across the country (through tornado weather, no less), and keep you company during a very lonely time.

[soloorganaas]

I'm leaving you a nice ask about Remus because I'm such a good friend: okay, Remadora doesn't happen, and Sirius comes back from the Veil after DH with amnesia. How much amnesia, and how do Remus and Harry deal with it? How does Wolfstar get their happy ending?

i cannot believe how lovely this is 🥺 i think this is one of the nicest things you've ever said to me. I've been mulling over this all morning and i have MANY THOUGHTS

I really like the idea of selective amnesia, but in a really haphazard way, as if part of Sirius is still behind the veil. so maybe he just has a sense of things, but can't remember specifics. someone brings up a name or a place and he knows how he feels, but not what happened. so he knows he loved James in some amorphous sense, but feels agonisingly grief-stricken and guilty when he thinks about him without knowing why.

obviously the most heartbreaking part is having to relive all of this as people explain it to him or he remembers, but especially with Remus. they spent all that time working through the betrayal and trying to understand it and come to terms with it, and they've got to go all through that again - except it's worse, because Sirius doesn't have any context and he's so confused by the mess in his mind. Remus talks through Azkaban with him and Sirius is furious in a way he never was before, because now he's not on the run or trying to save Harry or trapped in Grimmauld Place, all of which I think made him push past the anger because he needed to focus on other things and he needed Remus.

so I think at the start Remus takes him back to his cottage. I reckon Harry would be staying with the Weasleys immediately after the war, but he'd move in with Remus to take care of Sirius. they're obviously just overjoyed and in shock that Sirius is back, and also worried about his health. they're both probably a bit overbearing (mama bear Harry) which starts to get on Sirius's nerves pretty quickly. then I think there would be lots of little moments of grief as they realise these incredibly important things Sirius doesn't remember - maybe the two of them reference something and Sirius has no idea what they're talking about, or maybe it's bigger things like Sirius not understanding the trauma and burden Remus carries from being a werewolf. Sirius picks up on this and starts to feel really guilty, which makes him even crabbier, and things start to get really difficult.

Sirius and Harry would definitely have an easier time together because Sirius isn't personally angry at him the way he is at Remus, and because he still has the instinct to protect Harry so he really tries to hold back his general frustration and volatility. I reckon after he really gets mad at Remus for Azkaban he moves out and Harry comes with him to live in a new place somewhere. Sirius starts to get better after that, because his life becomes about building something new rather than trying to reclaim the past. especially as Harry is also kinda lost post-DH, so they're just muddling along together, trying new things.

Harry talks about Remus all the time - everything he taught him at school, what he and Sirius did during the war. Sirius starts to ask more questions and remembers more things. and Harry is so forgiving, despite the horrors that he's gone through and the people that failed him, and it starts to rub off on Sirius. so slowly he starts spending time with Remus again - maybe with Harry at the beginning, and then just the two of them talking a lot out. Sirius starts spending the full moons with him and they build up their trust again. and then they just start hanging out, small things like walking around the countryside together or watching a Quidditch match. but also bigger things where they work as a team - maybe supporting Harry in something, or throwing a birthday party for him, or Sirius yelling at the Ministry for harassing Remus, or Remus being there for Sirius when he still has really bad days. and then they start to fall in love again, and even though Sirius can't remember everything from the past it's okay because they love each other and they love Harry and they have a beautiful life together now, so that's enough.

[formerly-wraith-caller]

Rogier is a character that we meet early on in game, and probably one many of us think on fondly as he is perhaps the first NPC to help us out with one of our toughest battles. His pleasant and friendly demeanor left many players with the impression of a cheerful ray of sunshine in an otherwise melancholic, dreary, duplicitous, or outright hostile cast of characters.

This post seeks to disabuse you of that notion. "Wraith, you dumb bitch," I hear the doubters and the critics say, "not everything needs to be miserable and secretly tragic." And to you I say, welcome to FromSoftware, where yes, everyone dies and it hurts the whole time they're doing it.

🚨Spoilers Ahead🚨

I. A quick recap

The first place you can encounter Rogier is at a summons sign just outside Margit's boss fight. From there, you will meet him again in Stormveil at a church where he is one of a few NPCs that can't be killed. There is cut dialog of him reacting to a player attack, but in game, he's untouchable for some reason. I can only guess at why - perhaps since he is part of two different major storylines, the devs wanted you to be sure to hear what he has to say. After this meeting, you'll see him again at the Roundtable Hold. If you interact with him, he'll urge you to seek out Ranni, he'll tell you a bit about himself and why he's seeking her cursemark, a bit about D, and expound on some history of the Lands Between's most fateful night. Additionally, interacting with a specific bloodstain near the corpse will show you Rogier being deathblighted. Soon after entering Ranni's service, he will die.

II. Detachment and its implications Throughout his questline, Rogier maintains a mostly approachable demeanor. I say mostly, because the initial meeting is a little more standoffish and cautious, which is to be expected when infiltrating the castle of a Tarnished-butchering madman. In fact, Rogier takes a pretty sarcastic tone with us when he says

This place is bristling with Tarnished hunters, you know. They sacrifice our kind, for grafting. Not exactly a place I'd stroll into without a purpose in mind...

and a bit pessimistic/negative when he says

You can see it then, I take it? The guidance of grace. Well, enjoy it while you can.

This is primarily relevant as a counter to the assumption that he is a perfectly cheerful and perpetually friendly guy. Now, all this is not to say Rogier isn't friendly. He is, very much so. But I am of the mind that this isn’t due to any genuine, innate warmth. I do think Rogier is kind-hearted and compassionate, that he does want for friendship, that he is not secretly scheming against us. Instead I think that he is something of a people-pleaser, a liar, a bit of a manipulator, and that this is not done maliciously but as a sort of trauma response to his past.

"Dear god wraith," I hear you say, "not everyone is secretly traumatized." And I agree! But Rogier almost certainly is, and here's why. From his set:

Rogier spent his entire life behaving with utter detachment. No one noticed the anger, grief, regret, or fear that existed along with it.

Get very familiar with that description, because it's gonna be doing a lot of the heavy lifting in this post. So let's figure this out first: what is detachment and what does that have to do with trauma?

Emotional detachment refers to being disconnected or disengaged from the feelings of other people.

This can involve an inability or an unwillingness to get involved in the emotional lives of other people.

Emotional detachment can sometimes occur as a coping mechanism when people are faced with stressful or difficult situations. In other cases, it can be a symptom of a mental health condition.

Some things which may cause emotional detachment are abuse, neglect, trauma, mental illness, or certain medications. We can probably scratch out that last one, but the rest are all potential explanations. Given that Rogier's set specifies he has lived with this detachment “his entire life", I am inclined to believe that whatever adverse situation he was faced with, it began/occurred in childhood. It could have been abusive/neglectful parenting, some sort of violent/traumatic event he witnessed or was involved in as a kid, or the death of a close loved one such as a sibling or parent. Whatever it was, it was something formative that shaped who he is. How does this "utter detachment" manifest in Rogier's behavior throughout the game? After all, he seems perfectly friendly, and stays upbeat even as he's inching his way towards death! But that's just further evidence of his issues. At no point does he express any of this “anger, grief, regret, or fear” mentioned in his set, even as he’s dying in front of us. If anything, he brushes it off. You'd think someone who is slowly watching their body succumb to what the game itself refers to as a “gruesome fate” would have a bit of a stronger reaction. But no, in fact, he apologizes to us, a person he barely knows, about not being able to stand to greet us, saying:

I apologize for any offence given by my bearing, but I'm quite unable to move, you see. So. What do you need?

There’s also cut content which seems to be part of an encounter at Godwyn’s corpse wherein we meet a freshly injured Rogier. And here he has the same apologetic behavior in spite of his injuries, saying:

Well, this is a bit embarrassing, but things did not go quite as expected.

Not only does he give this astounding underreaction to having been impaled and blighted by deathroot, he doesn’t ask for any help, and is sooner moved to shame than terror over his deadly predicament. He deflects immediately to talk of his research, and informs us of how he’ll be returning to the Roundtable Hold. This is where we begin to see not just his lack of an emotional response to his own problems, but also a degree of people-pleasing behavior. It isn't enough for him to apologize for this imagined offense he's committed, he quickly turns the conversation away from himself. He doesn't doesn't seek out help, or even a little companionship in spite of the absolute horror he's been afflicted with. No, he instead asks after our needs, and continues to offer us lessons in sorcery and history.

The lack of reaction to whatever miseries befall him is seen throughout the rest of our interactions with him. The closest he gets to lamenting his fate is to warn us of Godwyn's corpse:

And...that thing is to blame for the shape I'm in now... I urge the utmost caution. Don't disturb the corpse more than necessary...

And that’s not what he starts off with when we ask him about the corpse, which you would think someone would do when having been injected with death by it. No, he delves into a history lecture instead, once again redirecting from the personal/emotional to the abstract/intellectual. His dialog is almost entirely comprised of his scholarly endeavors, which he has no issues discussing with us. We learn precious, precious little about Rogier himself, but those little bits which slip through paint a less than happy picture.

Take for instance the line, “I once wished to become a scholar.” He mentions spending hours in the archives doing research. What makes him think he isn’t one already? What made him give up on that goal, or stood between him and achieving it when he has shown such tenacity in the pursuit of answers? Remember the cut dialog mentioned in the recap, which would have played if he were slain by the Tarnished? He says on his death:

This is unfortunate. Couldn’t change a thing…

A bit of a reserved response to being murdered if you ask me! Instead of threats or rage, he laments his own inability to change anything, betraying a sense of dissatisfaction with himself. Then of course there is his split with D, who refers to him as “piteous”, and Fia’s mentioning of Rogier weeping when in bed with her. I wish I could say more on this, but essentially everything else Rogier says is about his research, not himself.

These things come together to form a picture of a person who may think very little of themselves. I’d even go so far as to call it self-loathing. We have the anger, grief, regret, and fear mentioned by his set, his disinterest in his own emotional state, his readiness to be of service to others, his desire to be pleasing rather than himself(he’d rather lie to D than upset him). We have his detachment, a coping mechanism indicative of some early trauma. And we have one of a few instances of naked emotion from him in his reaction to being killed by the player. It is not of anger at being betrayed by one of his own kind, it’s not fear or sadness for his own end. It’s frustration, it’s agitation, it’s disappointment, and it is directed entirely at himself for being unable to make a difference. Even if we don’t want to call it self-loathing, these are hardly the signs of a well-adjusted person. Those are hard to come by in The Lands Between, after all.

III. Speculation on the past

So what made Rogier this way? We’re unlikely to ever know, but I’ll throw out my two cents. Let’s look at Rogier’s gear. It’s described as being “graced with an intricate, aristocratic decoration”. His rapier bears a similar description, stating it is “of superior quality, featuring intricate ornamentation”. Taken together, we can reasonably assume that Rogier doesn’t come from an impoverished background. He wears fine clothes, wields a fancy sword, and does not appear to have the backing of any particular faction to finance or supply this. It’s likely Rogier comes from either an aristocratic, or even noble, background. The desire to pursue scholarship, rather than any mention of a life of menial labor, also points in this direction, as does his well-spoken and polite behavior, and his decorum even in the face of his own death.

Which group in the game is comprised of aristocratic sorcerers? The Carians. How does the game commonly indicate associations with certain clans among characters? By use of the first initial in a character’s name. All of Marika’s and Godfrey’s descendants begin with the letters ‘M’ or ‘G’. And Rennala’s with the letter ‘R’. We see this with other NPCs we meet, like Gostoc, Millicent, and Rya, who are related to Godrick, Malenia, and Rykard. This is not to say I think Rogier is directly related to Rennala or her children, considering he's Tarnished and these other 3 NPCs aren't. More that, it is not wholly unfounded to think he is in some way connected with Carians. There are further connections of note, such as his use of Carian sorcery. The only NPCs to employ this class of sorceries are all affiliated with the group somehow – Seluvis and Miriel can both sell us Carian spells by default, while Thops and Sellen only sell glintstone sorceries(thanks to elden_things for pointing this out to me!!). And the most mysterious connection is that of the timing of his slumber and subsequent death, which align closely with Ranni’s own slumber and the defeat of Radahn. The fate of Carians is linked to the stars, and with Radahn’s hold over them surrendered, their fates can no longer be forestalled.

Of course, he makes no mention of any such affiliations, but he mentions very little about himself at all. What we know is that he holds regrets and anger about something, that he is likely of an aristocratic background from a people who practice sorcery, and that he wields a thrusting sword requiring dexterity to wield. Why’s that last thing suddenly relevant? Because all of these together sound similar to the description of the prisoner starting class.

A prisoner bound in an iron mask. Studied in glintstone sorcery, having lived among the elite prior to sentencing.

Some things very suddenly begin to make more sense to me. Maybe Rogier holds regrets over a crime he’s committed, or even one he did not commit but was accused and sentenced for all the same, the consequences of some powerplay among the elite looking to eliminate him from the playing field for whatever reason. Maybe he’s angry over this humiliation, maybe he grieves this loss of his freedom. And if it is a Carian society that did this to him, maybe he’d hold a resentment towards them, a resentment shared by a sect of Raya Lucarian knights symbolized in the form of a feather. Sort of like the one Rogier wears in his hat. Beyond this, he uses the Scholar’s Armament ash of war, an art taught to Cuckoo Knights. “Our enemy is none other than Caria itself,” says the Cuckoo Greatshield item description. Maybe there is room for the argument that Rogier would agree with them. But again, this is all admittedly speculation on my part.

Let’s take a further look at Rogier’s design while we’re on the subject, because it too relates back to the prisoner association in some ways.

(thanks again to elden_things for these images)

On first glance, we’re bedazzled with glintstone and golden hues, the colors so bright and vibrant, especially in comparison with so many other more sedate color palettes seen on many NPCs. But taken as a whole, both color and form, I can’t help but think of the phrase “bird in a gilded cage”. The thing that jumps out to me about his design is the theme of restraint. His costume is full of straps, ropes, chains, items which evoke notions of bondage and imprisonment. He is wrapped from head to toe in clothing, not even his hair left free, cuffed by gold at the ankles, cuffed by frills at the wrist, neck tangled in chains(the long end of the necklace down his back is even reminiscent of a leash), arms lined with glintstone-studded straps, the opulence of nobility becoming symbolic of confinement. It’s noteworthy to me that Rogier aligns so very well with the prisoner class while also sporting clothing that easily reminds us of all the ways a person can be bound.

The color gold in game is very much tied in with the Order, with Marika and the Greater Will. While Rogier is often characterized as someone who opposes the Golden Order due to his split with Darian, his dialog would betray otherwise, something I delve into in this post. In short, he recognizes the flaws and defects of the Order, but actually expresses admiration for its ability to adapt to resolve them. This ability to adapt is in direct contrast to Rennala’s inability to do so – when met with abrupt and devastating change, she breaks, and doesn’t recover. This is another point in favor of Rogier possibly holding some frustrations with Carians. The Order is changeable, can alter itself to meet the needs of the times they live in. Caria simply wilts.

Seeing a glintstone sorcerer, one wearing the hat of a heretic no less, bear the colors of the Order is more than a little interesting in a game where people’s allegiances are generally pretty clear cut. The delightfully detailed Elden Ring colory theory video by hawkshaw speaks of blue as the color of intellect and mind, gold as faith and order. Rogier sports both, reminding me again of Caria, specifically the joining of the Moon and the Erdtree, Rennala and Radagon’s union. Of course, if we hold to the belief that Rogier is related to Carians, there’s another way in which he may remind us of this union between the Order and the Moon, and that is in his time spent with D, Hunter of the Dead.

IV. D and Rogier – “Opposites attract.”

Aside from his history lessons on Ranni and Godwyn, Rogier doesn’t really have a lot to say about anyone else, even himself. In spite of his interactions and shared interests with Fia, the only other person we hear him talk about is D. An old friend, Rogier says with a sort of fondness or melancholy. As with Fia, Rogier bonded with D over an interest in death, and for some unspecified length of time in the past, the two traveled the lands together. Eventually, Rogier’s desire to save Those Who Live in Death became too much of an issue for D, and the pair split.

Theirs is an interesting relationship, whether you want it platonic or otherwise. They’re opposites in a lot of ways. Impulse vs control, pity vs scorn, heretic vs devotee, warm vs cool, elegance vs brutality, mind vs faith, the list kind of goes on, but you see the point. Even after their falling out, the two can get along without acrimony. D tells Rogier about seeing the sign of the centipede in Summonwater. He helps us defeat the Black Knife Assassin in the Death-touched Catacombs, thus making it possible for Rogier to study the knifeprint. Rogier doesn’t speak of D with resentment, or anger, or even much distaste (his tone strays towards sarcasm again when mentioning D’s opinions on TWLID, “these defiled fiends”, but that’s about it). Rogier’s lines about D are generally his most emotional and most personal, and given how very little we get to know about Rogier otherwise, we can assume that the friendship meant a great deal to him.

Between the pair, he’s clearly the more composed about the split. While D freely expresses his disappointments in Rogier, Rogier is more wistful and collected, and does a lot less mudslinging than D. He is the less emotional of the two, however, that’s just par for the course for him. He’s used to keeping things close to the chest, as this is basically what emotional detachment does to you. Emotions aren’t easily expressed or handled, and it becomes simpler to separate oneself from them rather than experience them. And any falling out, whether between friends or lovers, is bound to be emotionally challenging even for someone without such issues.

V. Fia and Rogier – “Birds of a feather...”

There is someone Rogier eventually became comfortable expressing emotions around, even if it’s curious he never mentions her. Fia and Rogier may have a lot in common. Most obvious being their interest in Those Who Live in Death and the history of the night that gave rise to them. But there could be other things, too. Fia's room is full of books, and we know Rogier is a scholar at heart. The two could both be avid readers. If we accept the notion of Rogier as prisoner, he and Fia could bond over what it means to be without freedom and choice. Fia is hounded from her home, and it would seem she may have at some point resented the fact that she would not be allowed to decide which noble she’d be reviving.

Whatever the case, it’s clear Fia and Rogier became close at some point before his death as she tells us how he speaks of the Night of Black Knives while in bed with her, and that this discussion even moved him to tears. This strong reaction from him is especially noteworthy given his lack of emotional response in other, more appropriate areas, such as the knowledge of his own impending death. Is it sadness for Godwyn that has him in tears? Grief for how the Shattering ruined so much for so many? Could it be that in discussing these things with Fia he is also thinking of everything he won’t be able to achieve? Or could it be that he is in some sense overwhelmed not by his grim fate but by her affection, her friendship and care? People with emotional detachment issues can often have immense difficulties making or keeping friends, but here is Fia, whose entire schtick is to offer the utmost selfless care and comfort for others. Wouldn’t that be a little overwhelming to someone unused to that, someone whose life was apparently full of anger and regret, marked by some lasting trauma that’s followed him his whole life and caused him to hold others at arms' length?

Or it could be that he knows all too well another way in which Fia’s just like him, and the misery of knowing her warmth might be false just cut a little deeper than he could handle in a moment so vulnerable as this.

VI. Deceit as defense

It’s odd to me that this is a point of contention among Elden Ring fans, but Fia is, well, kind of a liar by omission. Manipulative, even. And I think Rogier is too. Well, I don’t think, I know. I’ve referenced it multiple times, but his exact words are

I can tell a good lie when I need to.

The context is him desiring to avoid angering D. I’ve mentioned before Rogier coming off as a people-pleaser, this being one of the reasons, as well as the apologetic tone he often takes when speaking with us. Others involve the assumption that he is of aristocratic origins. Politics are a game of rhetoric, and Rogier would’ve been taught to play it. That means being comfortable with lies and knowing how to tell them, or being able to spin the truth to sell your own desires to people who may not share in them. Beyond this, there is his detachment, in which he does his utmost to keep his emotional state to himself. This requires lying, or rather, concealing. Something I’d like to clarify about lies and liars is that we have a tendency to assume this is a malicious trait. I don’t think Rogier acts with malicious intentions at all. I think it is habit, a survival mechanism necessitated by whatever traumatic past he has experienced and/or required for navigating the aristocracy. For the latter especially, the ability to lie and manipulate others would be an endlessly useful tool.

Again, I want to stress that when I speak of Rogier as liar and manipulator, I don’t think it’s something he does to be cruel. He wants something of us, but given his personal issues, he may realize he’s not the best at making friends with others. He may also be hesitant to be indebted to another. Some of his cut dreambrew quest dialog hints at some intense pride on his part. If we were to offer him the dreambrew after he was blighted, he responds with:

No thank you, I don’t need your pity. ...Sorry. You were only trying to be nice. It would be my pleasure to take it.

The immediate adjustment of his tone is an interesting one. From resentful and irritated to perfectly gracious and friendly at the drop of a hat. For someone who can show compassion to some of the most wretched creatures in the Lands Between, who is happy to befriend someone seen as reviled and accursed, to lay with a woman some think of as vulgar, he sure isn’t comfortable with the idea of someone showing that compassion to him. If he gets this irritated by being offered a drink after a (near?)death experience, how would he really handle someone offering to put their life on the line for him?

So he manipulates, because this is far easier for someone(who may be) coming from a background where this is par for the course in how you connect with others. Now we aren’t simply doing him a favor, we’ve been convinced his goal is ours, too. He starts by asking for our help. But notice how each time we go back to Rogier with a little more info, he couches each new and more dangerous request in praise and compliments? We’re superb fighters, we’re trustworthy, we're capable, we’re the only ones who can do this. Rogier knows what he’s asking us to do is risky, and says as much. But he also knows how to flatter, how to shape the conversation to his needs. This isn’t just his quest anymore, it’s ours. This isn’t some favor done out of pity for a dying man, no. He’s convinced you that you want to do this too! Maybe it’s not just us he’s manipulating, but himself, too.

This isn’t to say that Rogier doesn’t care about us, that he’s callous or heartless or doesn’t want to be our friend. I think, at this point, above all else his sights are on his goal. He knows his time is running out, and he may realize he won’t be able to see this through to the end no matter how badly he wishes it were otherwise. I think Fia speaks truly when she says Rogier seemed elated by us helping him. But he also knows how near his death is, and that no matter what he or the player do, there is no future for him.

I know the manipulation angle is a hard sell. “An NPC asking you to help him isn’t manipulation,” I’ve seen people say, and I get it. But in the greater context of Rogier’s character, I think there is plenty of reason to believe he could be inclined towards such behavior, that he is someone far more focused on his goal than building friendships in a life reaching its end, and, knowing well how near he is to death, is desperate to see it through. Plenty of NPCs ask things of me, and I wouldn’t consider them manipulative. But none of them tell me point blank they’re fine with lying to others, either. :)

VII. Conclusion

We don’t get a lot of backstory on the NPCs of Elden Ring. There are breadcrumbs and tiny clues, but so often these little tidbits are implications rather than direct statements. They are open-ended, preserving a sense of intrigue and mystery that invites us to look deeper and do a little puzzle solving. That being said, it’s hard to make any definitive statements about who any of these characters are and what they’re really like. Characters like Rogier make our investigations all the more challenging when they give us reason to believe that they’re practiced in concealment and lies. When do we know what to take what they say at face value? When do we know to take it with a grain of salt? But that’s also part of what makes him so interesting to me. There’s so much potential in his story, and such a variety of possible interpretations. Mine is only one of them, and if you’ve gotten to the end of this, I’d be thrilled to hear yours too!

[bunnakit]

last twilight ep 5 thoughts feelings etc.

eyy actually watched this earlier and rewatching it, so things should be a little less feral and unhinged. actually took notes my first watch through as well (wtf am i doing)

once again i love how stories are our constant companions in this show. i love how they keep playing with the parallels between worlds, it's one of my absolute favorite things in storytelling.

i love the fact that day is now 'invisible' in the world of badminton but he can still experience all of the joy of the game by supporting his friends. badminton was such a big part of his life and he doesn't have to leave it all behind, he just experiences it a little differently now.

film is so fucking pretty even covered in 'sweat.' i do love the show let her be 'sweaty' and disheveled instead of having perfect hair and make up after what was clearly a hard game. GIVE ME SWEATY WOMEN. (god im so gay)

so i said it last week but the only time we've ever seen mhok be violent is when he's been protecting the people close to him. (his garage bro, porjai x 2, etc) and we see him ready to do it again when august confronts day. there is no doubt in my mind that mhok was fully prepared to bury that bitch for even daring to make day the slightest bit afraid.

and god how scary does that have to be? you can't see, you're already nervous to be here, and suddenly someone is shouting at you - and maybe you don't recognize them at first because you haven't heard their voice in over a year but all you know is they're coming closer and they're so angry. i can't imagine anything scarier than that.

ahh, a broken picture frame representing a broken bond, an absolute classic metaphor. an oldie but a goodie.

once again i love that we see day's rage. anger really is such a big part of coming to terms with being disabled. i got some bad news a few weeks ago about my own disease and i've spent the last few weeks so angry and frustrated and then just sad. it's such a complex journey and the show is doing an absolutely brilliant job of showing that.

i do owe day's family a small smidgen of an apology since day is the one that asked it to be kept a secret, HOWEVER, i do think that conversation should have been revisited after a fucking year. how long were they just going to let him live in isolation? like cool for respecting his agency, not cool for letting him waste away in a tomb of his own making.

FINALLY WE GET MHOK OPENING UP.

so here's the thing with mhok. i love him. no - the real thing is i see so much of myself in him. my friends and family constantly get frustrated with me because i will never tell them when something is wrong or when i'm shouldering a lot of emotions about something. when i got the bad news about my disease i hid in my office and cried at my desk and then cleaned myself up and pretended nothing happened. fuck, i feel like i understand mhok on such a deep level.

not to get too into it but my own habits stem from neglect in my formative years, and i have to wonder if mhok's behavior maybe stems from his isolation in prison? oftentimes people with these behavior patterns will self isolate, either deal with or bury their emotions, and then emerge back into their friend group as if nothing happened. (am i talking about myself again? shhh.) mhok didn't really have a choice - sure you can write letters, have visitors, but a large part of his day was probably handling his grief in solitude. he's probably gotten so good at "handling it" and pushing everything down and dealing with everything in silence that he doesn't know how to handle it any other way now.

to make things worse, it happened over a year ago. he probably feels like he should be "over it" and not make it a big deal. maybe i'm projecting just a smidge (just a lot) but i do think it's something interesting to keep in mind. either way, him finally talking about rung to day is fucking MASSIVE, both for their relationship and mhok's emotional wellbeing.

august is fucking king of mixed signals and i don't super like that he looked for mhok's permission to lead day through the court. why the fuck are you looking at mhok when you could just ask day? if you look closely, as mhok is letting go day curls his fingers around the hand that mhok uses to remove his hand from his arm.

i do love we see mhok pushing day a little more out of his comfort zone as he did in earlier episodes.

porjai is so fucking pretty. is there anything more attractive than a woman in shorts and an oversized band tee? no. no there is not.

and again we see how much time and effort mhok has put into being day's caretaker - and his friend. he did research and learned methods that would make dining out easier for day. i love him so much! i don't know how day could still be thinking about august after that adorable little date.

UGH OKAY SO. HERE'S WHERE WE GET INTO MY BIG FEELINGS.

in my opinion, the theme of this episode has been "being late." here's why.

the boys were very nearly, or were, late to gee's badminton game

you could consider mhok 'late' to tell day about rung

day thinks he's too late to confess to august

mhok realizes he's come into day's life too late to receive his affection

and then we have august's literal late arrival (i still dont know what fucking game this jackass is playing)

this also ties in to a little trend i've been noticing in regards to mhok that oftentimes he's too late in life.

he was too late to save rung, and learned of her death late

he was too late to receive the mechanic job as it had 'already been given to someone else'

he was a late arrival to the interview to become day's caretaker

and again, he's entered day's life too late to receive his affection (or so he thinks)

i genuinely don't know if this is intentional, but i think it's something interesting to draw connections to.

anyway, again, i dont know what the fuck august's deal is but i can tell you if i was day i'd be getting over my feelings for him real fucking quick. i don't super like that august shows up, hears about day's feelings, and asks mhok to keep his being there a secret - but i do understand it and i do understand mhok's side of things. i don't think he does it out of his own selfishness, i think rather he realizes august likely doesn't return day's affection and letting him think august didn't show up is possibly the kinder of the two scenarios. (my only hope is we don't see august return and try to woo day or something later with this knowledge)

i do love that mhok stayed. he was concerned and it might seem a little overbearing but day was clearly nervous for this outing and all in all it's good that he stayed. and then he made sure to salvage the evening for day and take him out on a proper date. maybe it's not the date day wanted but it looks like he had a great time (perhaps even a better time) spending a day with someone he could relax and be himself around.

flowers have so many different meanings across cultures and tbh i'm far to tired to dig into the thai meaning of hydrangeas (if there are any) but i do think hydrangeas are neat. this is prob common knowledge but the color of hydrangea petals is determined by the ph balance in the soil they're grown in. (blue hydrangeas grow in soil with a ph balance of 5.2-5.5, far more in the base range than red hydrangeas that grow in a ph balance of 6.0-6.2, and once the soil reaches acidic levels it tends to produce pink flowers) i guess maybe if you wanted you could draw a connection to how malleable mhok is becoming and how his environment is changing him.

scientifically, sunflowers are also an interesting flower because they are often used to heal damaged and irradiated soil. they're so fucking resilient and help heal the world around them. i think there's a lot of connections we can make there with both mhok and day, regardless of flower symbolism and going purely on science.

anyway sorry to be a science nerd.

that's all ive really got for this episode, i say, as if i have not written you all a novel. this show continues to make me feel so much and tickle my brain in such a delightful way. between this and moonlight chicken p'aof has definitely made me a fan for life.

tag loves: @benkaaoi | @callipigio | @lookwhatihave (once again pls always feel free to lmk if you want to be added or removed)

[greybackpack]

I’m still thinking about Tilda and her relations to my version of Elisabet. Like, you don’t get a lot about how Lis felt other than disappointment and anger about Tilda’s possible involvement in stealing a copy of GAIA. I mean she said she didn’t… but she’s also a spy. And like that voice explaining Zero Dawn in the old Zenith base of operations sounded like a modulated version of Tilda’s voice- the way it pauses and drawls out the vowels is the same, I think. Just deeper? Modulated, perhaps?

Like there’s no way Lis actually believed she didn’t. She knows better than anyone what how cunning Tilda is and how intelligent and savvy she is with manipulating people. It makes her a great spy, but perhaps not a great person. And she’s had time to cook.

Like, how did they break up? Why? Was it amicable?

Tilda spent a thousand years regretting it and regretting that she left Lis behind… but what did Lis feel? Does she still hold some affection for Tilda? When she realizes Tilda’s fucked up (BETA, I’M STILL PISSED ABOUT HOW BADLY THE ZENITHS FUCKED BETA UP) and the extent of the damage, what would happen?

Did she also regret it? Did she think that Tilda helped with the betrayal? Anyways, here’s a possible snippet for the far (heh) future of the fic:

Elisabet stood there, facing her past in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Hadn’t thought will ever be possible again.

She had thought this chapter- this relationship- of her life was closed. When Aloy had recounted her experience in the facility, Elisabet hadn’t truly thought about the implications outside the mind numbing fact that she has another clone-daughter. But then she had met Beta, and it was okay, better than okay, that she had another daughter.

And then there’s this. This- her- there she is, floating in the air and looking as stunned as Lis herself feels. Tilda van de Meer.

“Elisabet?”

God, even the sound of her voice back bittersweet memories. All of those coffee dates and the art galleries and science expos… and the moment Tilda broke her heart. Elisabet swallows, remembering the way Tilda had looked her in the eyes and told her that it couldn’t work out- that it won’t ever work- because of the nature of Tilda’s job. The lie in her eyes and that tremor in her steady hands, Elisabet saw them.

“How is this possible?” Tilda whispers, white clad and shimmery arms armored with the Far Zenith shields reaching out to Elisabet. She stops halfway, as if she’s afraid that Elisabet will disappear the moment Tilda touches her.

“Cryo.” Elisabet says, still staring at Tilda. For the Old One, if she can even claim that title anymore, it has only been two, three years, since they broke things off. Lis hadn’t had time to grieve that relationship properly, having avoided the grief by throwing herself into work and fending off Ted’s lawsuits. Then, the Faro Plague happened… and she barely had time to grieve what she thought was Tilda’s death when it was reported that the ship had blown up on the way to Sirius.

Why are all of her exes so damn beautiful?

The Voice croons in restrained amusement, presence warming Elisabet’s back as the Old One straightens and draws herself up for a long over due conversation.

“That’s- That’s wonderful. I-” Tilda hesitantly, reverently, took Lis’ hands in hers. Elisabet let her, knowing she shouldn’t but all the same wanting the familiar touch. “Elisabet, I spent- I spent the last thousand years regretting how we ended. I regretted leaving you here to die with the rest of them and how we left things back then. But now… now, I get to have a second chance.”

Elisabet wants- she-

Elisabet rips her hands out of Tilda’s grasp.

“I don’t want to hear it. I- I thought you died.”

“The… the transmission.” Tilda’s voice gains a modicum of hope. “That wasn’t my idea, but they had thought it necessary. I thought you died, too. You should have come with us, then, then you wouldn’t have had to be frozen for a millennia.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. What was it, Tilda? The thing that you said when we broke things off? Oh, right, that “the nature of my work will make this difficult.” Well, the nature of my work made it difficult.” Her tone is bitter, twisted in hurt and heartbreak. It makes Tilda flinch.

A part of Elisabet, that unkind part she finds in herself in her darkest moments, purrs in satisfaction.

“Lis, you know that I hadn’t meant it like that-”

“No?” Elisabet shoots back, mouth pulling down. Aloy inches away from the two, the rest of the group watching the exchange like a riveting match of machine strike. Sylens rolls his eyes and wanders off into the lab. Elisabet sees all of this, but it doesn’t matter to her. All she saw was the woman that had broken her heart over and over again. “Even if it wasn’t what you meant, you still chose to leave, Tilda. To preserve yourself, if nothing else. You were scared, of how serious we were getting.”

Tilda laces her unfairly elegant fingers together, voice quiet as she agrees. “Yes… I suppose I was.”

“Didn’t you think, for one second, that I was afraid too?”

“… No. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You betrayed me. You tried to steal GAIA. You lied to me about it. I saw the recording of the reception at the Far Zenith headquarters. I know what your voice sounds like, even if it was modulated.”

The words spill out, faster and more hurt than Aloy had ever heard.

“Lis-” Tilda floats closer, but Elisabet takes a step back. “I- won’t do it this time. I know… I know I disappointed you. I know I broke your heart.”

The Zenith swallows as Elisabet’s heavy gaze landed once more on her face, hurt and disappointment hitting Tilda like a hammer on cold metal. Elisabet’s quiet voice slides in between her ribs, stabbing at Tilda’s slow beating heart and splintering it.

“You chose yourself. Above the world… above me.”

“Please, Elisabet, allow me another chance.”

Elisabet laughs a short, mirthless exhale.

“Even now, you still haven’t even thought to apologize.”

“I’m sorry.” Tilda immediately says. “What can I do? What can I do to apologize? To make it up to you? Anything, Lis. Name it, and it’s yours.”

Elisabet grits her teeth, Tilda’s words reminding her unpleasantly of Ted. But if her relationship with Tilda had taught her anything, it’s that she can use this. Elisabet hates herself for thinking it, but her worry for Beta overrides any moral obligations she might have had.

“Get my daughter back,” she says. “And I’ll think about it.”

“Okay. Alright. Just- I will.”

Elisabet stares at Tilda, at the determined, desperate set of her old flame’s shoulders.

Because she’s not hurt enough, because Lis had hurt more, Elisabet couldn’t help but throw her words into Tilda’s face.

“If the Odyssey actually blew up, I think you would have been worth the tears I shed.”

With that, Elisabet hardens her heart once more and turns away. She doesn’t see the devastation that crosses Tilda’s face, nor does she see the way it crumples from the normally impassive face Tilda sports.

—-

Aloy leans against the table, watching Elisabet absently sifting through data.

“You alright?”

Even though Aloy gentled her voice, Elisabet still startles like a rabbit.

“Ah. Sorry you had to see that, kiddo.” Her mother sends a rueful smile her way. Aloy shrugs, all but silently shaking Elisabet and asking if she’s okay with her eyes alone.

“I’m okay.” Elisabet smiles again, a little more genuine this time. “I’m just worried.”

“About Beta and GAIA?” Aloy asks, nodding. “Don’t worry, I’ll get them back.”

“And about you too, silly.” Elisabet rounds the table and pulls Aloy into a hug.

“Make sure you come back,” she orders her daughter, chin resting on Aloy’s armored shoulders. Not the best for hugs, but Elisabet could give less of a fuck right now. “I want both of you to come back safe and sound, understand?”

“Yeah.” Aloy hugs her back. Elisabet squeezes her daughter tighter, and lets go. “I’ll be okay.”

“You’d better be. If you scare me like that ever again,” - the image of Aloy, pale and injured after the explosion flashes through Lis’ head. “Just- don’t, okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Aloy guiltily apologizes, remembering the exhausted state Elisabet was in, looking after her with little sleep. The drawn face coupled with the dark smudges underneath her mother’s eyes had Aloy making sure she was a little more careful on the field.

Elisabet presses a kiss on her forehead, patting the Nora huntress on the shoulder.

“And be careful around Tilda. She’s still- she’s good, at fooling people into thinking she’s on their side.”

“Speaking from experience, mom?”

“Yes,” she sighs, smiling at Aloy’s blatant curiosity. “I’ll tell you later. But, if we’re being honest, I think you have a better eye for figuring out those kinds of deception than I ever was.”

[3mcwriting]

Fading, Part 2

Warnings: language, grief, mentions of death

Note: I won't be making another part to this, this is the final bit.

"I'm your what?" you asked, clearly confused.

The medical professionals quickly left the room, not wanting to disturb the grieving woman and the super soldier.

"You're my soulmate-" Steve almost cursed at how the situation. "God, I'm so sorry. This is terrible timing," Steve took off his shirt, showing the new tattoo over his heart. The name (y/n)(l/n) scrawled on his chest in loopy cursive writing.

"You..." your voice faded as you realized the only worlds scrawled across his skin were your name. "Why are there no other tattoos? Shouldn't all the things I love be there too?"

He put his shirt back on, "Well," Steve thought about it, sadness flooding his voice, "I suppose it's because when your sister got sick, you stopped having time to appreciate all the things you loved. A couple of weeks ago I was completely covered in tattoos. But over time they just faded."

"I guess that makes sense. When my sister got diagnosed I slowly stopped caring about anything else—I didn't have the luxury to care about anything else," you muttered softly. "This absolutely sucks." The (e/c) eyed woman said, louder. "Why of all times would I meet my soulmate when my sister fucking dies?!"

"I'm sorry," Steve moved to place a hand on your arm.

You recoiled from his touch. "Look. it's not your fault, but I need time, okay? This is a lot to deal with at once."

Steve nodded, backing up. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

"No, no, stop apologizing. Look-" you looked so empty, "-can you just go?" 

Everything in Steve was telling him to stay—after all, he spent years thinking he didn't have a soulmate and then weeks worrying about them—and now that he'd finally found you, you were asking him to go. But he remembered the pain he felt when Bucky died, the anger, the sadness, he knew grief.

Sometimes people just needed time.

"Yeah, I'll go. But please, talk to me. I know what it's like when you lose everything you love, so here." He scribbled his number down on the notepad by the bedside. "You can talk to me whenever, about whatever. Just—don't feel alone, because you're not." 

You nodded and sat down next to the bed, holding your sister's hand. Your eyes caught on the word written on the inside of your left wrist, 'Brooklyn'. ​​

 Steve sighed and left, throwing a look back at his distraught soulmate. You met his gaze and stood up, hurrying to him and throwing your arms around him. He was stunned at first, but quickly responded. Winding his strong arms around you, he rubbed your back.

They stood there like that, you sobbing into his shirt while he held you. "I'm sorry," you said, pulling away. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, no, it's ok. I told you, I'm here." Steve said genuinely, blue eyes full of nothing but sincerity. 

"Thank you," you said. You returned to your seat next to your sister. "I'll text you when it's a better time," you managed, "but right now I think I'd appreciate some time with my sister."

He nodded, eyes sad at what you were going though. "Yes, of course." Steve actually leaving the room this time.

You looked at your sister, eyes red from the tears you had shed. "Why now? Why...why?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. (l/n) but you have to say your goodbyes." The doctor said, appearing in the doorway.

"Can I have a little longer please?" Your (e/c) eyes still on the body in front of you. 

The doctor hesitated, "I guess for a couple more minutes. Only 5 though."

You nodded your head. "I wish you were here," your voice cracking as if the sound of your heart breaking could be transferred through your vocals.. "Why aren't you here? I'm sorry, so sorry. I was supposed to protect you—you're my little sister and I failed you." You squeezed your sister's hand one last time and placed one last soft kiss on her forehead. "I'm going to miss you so much." You stepped back from the bed, wiping your tears as the doctor came back in.

Memories flashed through your head of moments with your younger sister.

That night, when (y/n) got home she immediately went to her room.

And cried.

All night long.

•••••

"You met your soulmate?! And you just let her walk away?!" Natasha was incredulous after watching how Steve had become hyper fixated on finding his soulmate and now he just let her go.

"Her sister had just died. She deserves time to come to terms with that without having to worry about a soulmate." Steve explained.

"Ok," Natasha conceded. "Did you at least get her phone number?" Steve winced, telling her everything she needed to know. "Really Steve? You didn't even ask for her phone number?"

"I-," Steve said, "I gave her my phone number."

•••••

Your eyes rested their gaze on a dark screen, a sigh escaping you. 

What exactly were you supposed to say? 

Hey, this is your soulmate that you met two months ago and haven't talked to since. 

Or

Oh, remember me? Yeah, we met while my sister was dying in her hospital bed, yeah good times.

You sighed. "Fuck it."

Turning on the phone, you went to the number and quickly typed in a message then sent it before you could stop herself again.

Hi, this is (y/n) (l/n). We met two months ago, sorry for not contacting you sooner. It's been hectic, if you get a chance text me.

You bit your lip, anticipation already building. When nothing popped up for a couple minutes you turned off the screen and sighed. He's probably busy or something, you reasoned with yourself. After all, he's Captain fucking America. He probably hasn't even noticed my lack of communication. The thought hurt, but it was probably true.

He looked down at the object in his hand, almost like it was a wondrous trinket from some far off land. 

But no, it was just a simple cell phone. 

There was nothing remarkable about it, other than the fact that it was ridiculously outdated. To the eyes of Steven Grant Rogers though, it could've displayed the secret to salvation across its dim screen and he wouldn't look at it like he was looking at it now. 

"Hi, this is (y/n) (l/n). We met two months ago, sorry for not contacting you sooner. It's been hectic, if you get a chance text me."

"She texted me..." He was ecstatic to the point where he could barely comprehend the situation. After all, the first( and last) time he saw you was when your sister was in her hospital bed. Then, he'd spent two months worrying about you, hoping a text message would light up his screen and tell him that you were okay, that even though you were grieving, you were still healthy and your mental health was good. The last time he worried about someone like this was when he found out Bucky was captured behind enemy lines. 

Then he looked at the time he had gotten the message, 8:32 AM. His fingers went across the flip phones buttons as fast as they could. Typing a message out quickly and clumsily before sending it off to her. 

"Hello, I'm so hapoy to hear from you. Dom't apologise, you needed time and that's perfectly fine. How are you? I hope yoi're doing ok, thanks for reaching out." 

He winced at the typos, his clumsy fingers weren't exactly the most efficient way to send text messages. His attention was quickly diverted when he saw the speech bubbles, showing that you were typing back.

You felt a small smile grace your features as you read the text. The moment you had stepped out of the shower, the phone had lit up with a notification. 

What stood out to you was that he was asking how you were doing. Not a question for the two month silence, but a hope that she was alright and an acceptance of her situation.

"Yeah, I'm alright. How are you?" 

A couple weeks passed, you and Steve texting whenever you had the time.

You were scared.

Not because of Steve, Steve was a sweetheart.

But because of how easy it was to talk to him, how easy it was to smile because of him. 

How easy it was to care about him.

It had only been about 3 months since her sisters death and yet, you were already happier. An underlying sense of guilt plagued your mind whenever you texted him, whenever you smiled.

Barely a month of only texting and you were already worried that you were falling in love with him.

Granted, he was your soulmate, so it's to be expected that you felt so strongly about him.

You just didn't expect it.

The whole experience was like diving from atop a cliff, the exhilarating feeling, excitement, the falling. 

Because you were falling, and falling fast.

You could only hope that the water at the bottom wasn't hiding jagged rocks beneath the surface.

"We're closed," you said, hearing the bell above the doorway ring, announcing someone's entrance. You stopped wiping down the counter, looking up and freezing. The cleaning rag lying limp on the shiny counter, having been dropped by the incredulous woman.

(E/c) eyes met blue eyes.

The unmistakable face of your soulmate.

"(Y/n)?" he asked, a surprised expression coming across his face. 

"Hi, Steve," you said casually, the tone not at all matching the way your heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

A bright smile grew on his face. "Wow, I was just getting away from the paparazzi and I found you." Disbelief and happiness both clearly present in his voice. "How are you?" he asked, finally moving away from the door.

The (e/c) eyed woman stood frozen behind the counter, "I'm good." You said back, then reality sunk in. How the fuck did this happen? "Why are you here?" you asked, then mentally facepalmed. He just said he was escaping the paparazzi.

His smile didn't falter though. "I was exploring the city and some paparazzi found me. I thought I could hide here." His expression changed to one of guilt. "Can I hide here for now?"

Here he was, Captain America, your literal soulmate, asking if he could stay in the small cafe with you. 

"Yeah. Yes, of course", you said, snapping out of her thoughts. You grabbed the rag, continuing to wipe down the counter. It was already spotless, but you needed to do something with her hands.

Your eyes met his and you almost gasped at the way he was looking at you.

Like you'd hung the moon, and every star in the sky. Eyes full of wonder. Almost as if he couldn't believe you were standing in front of him, your very existence bringing an unimaginable sense of belonging and adoration.

For Steve, he fell in love with her within the first few days when they were texting. He had always thought that texting was a lazy thing people today now did instead of actually talking to people. But messaging the you brought him such an easy sense of belonging that he'd been sorely lacking since waking up in the twenty-first century. 

You were funny and intelligent and could always make him smile. Normally, he was Captain America, the super soldier, American golden boy, but with you, he was just the skinny guy from Brooklyn.

The one who always stood up for what's right, had no clue how to talk to women.

The real him, not the show pony America paraded around.

He loved it.

But most importantly, he loved you.

From then on, they started seeing each other more often. Once a month, to twice, to once a week, to almost every day.

Steve was busy with Avengers work, and you were busy getting your PhD while working at the cafe they unexpectedly saw each other.

Everything was perfect.

At least, that's what it appeared like.

Both Steve and you had had a dull throbbing sensation where their soulmate tattoos were, since about two months after they had met at the coffee shop.

You became almost frantic when you saw that a smudged name had appeared beneath Steve's. 

What does it mean to have a smudged name underneath your soulmate tattoo?

1,300,672 google search results

To have a faded, or smeared name beneath your original soulmate tattoo, means that you have a third soulmate. One who used to have a soulmate, but their soulmate died, passing their soulmate bond onto you.

(E/c) eyes stared at the new tattoo,

It almost looked like someone had written a name on your skin in Sharpie, but then had rubbed it, smearing the ink but leaving the letters readable.

It wasn't just any name though.

It was your soulmate.

Your other soulmate.

James Buchanan Barnes

[mowiwow]

come spring (godheim ayn)

Colourful flowers bloom throughout the lands of Godheim. The residents of the world cheer and celebrate as they welcome the first day of spring— though it’s not their first spring, everybody gathers for festivities to celebrate the day Godheim was released from the clutches of eternal suffering.

As others celebrate, however, one mourns.

There is a little corner within Ayn’s mind that will forever be stuck in that eternal winter. It never stops snowing there as it consumes everything under the sun.

Wordlessly, he kneels in front of a well-maintained headstone.

Though the world moves on, and he must move on for the sake of his people, Ayn will never forget. He will keep the memory of his beloved mother close to him. 

His mother is no longer here.

But she lives on with him and will live as long as he practices her swordsmanship. She will continue to live, through the teachings he provides for the next generation of Godheim.

…It doesn’t make the pain disappear, however.

Ayn lowers his head in a moment of silence.

A gentle voice. Calloused hands pinching at his cheeks full of baby fat, roughly messing up his hair. Lively laughter filling the air as his mother taunts the little Ayn with the wooden sword, encouraging the fallen Ayn to stand up and keep fighting.

His mother was a brilliantly burning flame.

Even when the flame had shrunk, stifled by the frigidity of the world, she had continued quietly burning and crackling stubbornly.

He doesn’t say anything and quietly ruminates in front of his mother’s grave.

Though it has been years since that bloody day, the numbing sensation in his chest that appears whenever he thinks of his mother remains. He takes this feeling and takes care to remember it.

The feeling of grief, of guilt. The memory of those that Ayn has lost.

Once upon a time, he would bang his fists tirelessly against cold, unfeeling metal bars. He would cry and scream and seethe with all-consuming anger as he curses out the cheerless gray walls of the underground prison.

He would spend nights curled up against the corner of the wall alone, wishing that he could see his parents. That he could reunite with them.

Now, he just quietly lowers his head as he remembers the warm memories of the past. The first time he picked up a sword. The first piece he played for his mother with the lyre. His mother’s eager voice as she reads to him passages from her book on swordsmanship. He looks upon the past.

“Ayn?”

…And when he looks up, he sees the future.

He watches as your gaze trails over to the headstone that Ayn is kneeling in front of. Recognition flickers over your expression as you read the name carefully carved into the stone and you bow your head silently for a few moments.

The two of you let the song of spring play out. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of swallows as they arrive to signify the beginning of spring, the pleasantly cool spring breeze that whistles by.

And once it is over, Ayn speaks.

“So, how has the festival been?”

Your lips curve into a small smile that he goes crazy for, stepping forward to casually link your fingers together with his.

“The festival has been wonderful,” you answer, peeking over at him quietly. “But I was starting to miss a certain someone…” you trail off, looking at Ayn meaningfully. “There’s still a lot of stalls I haven’t visited.”

Ayn grins, wanting to tease you.

“Is that so? You should go check them out before it’s too late.”

Your eyes narrow a little. The hand holding Ayn loosens— to which Ayn responds by holding onto you even tighter.

“That’s a good idea,” you say casually, trying to pull away. “I’ll go look through the stalls and report back to you at the end of the day.”

“Wait.”

Played like a fiddle— he always is, when it comes to you.

And you know it, too, as you look at him with a sly grin.

“Let’s go together,” Ayn says, trying to make eye contact with you but failing as he settles on staring at the tree behind you instead. “We haven’t spent much time together since you came back to this world, so…”

“Of course,” you laugh lightly, squeezing his hand. “Maybe you’ll find something to buy for the young palace musicians.”

He squeezes your hand back. “You should help me. It would be helpful to have the artist’s keen eye in selecting gifts.”

“Sure thing!” you beam, the warmth of spring standing behind you. You tug him along gently. “Let’s get going before there’s nothing left to look at.”

And as he follows you out of the forest, he glances back to the headstone peacefully resting amid nature’s embrace.

I’ll make you proud, mother.

[celticcrossanon]

Hello Celta, thank you for your reading today, on Harry and the slaying dragon reference. If there is blame to go around for this I blame all the adults in his life in 1997. Particularly his father. Was he too busy celebrating the end of his ex wife, and plotting how to put the mistress on the throne? Where were the parental figures in his life to insist this child dealt with his trauma? Was he too much hard work? Well compared to the pain and suffering he brought to them 25 years later, it would have been time well spent. And it would have helped heal the cracks in his psych so that no greedy grifter could get through, and use his anger to manipulate him against his family. It would have been been time well spent, Charles, rather than chasing after your mistress. Woulda,coulda, shoulda, there are no more sadder words in the English language. I hope that the Queen she is today makes you, Charles, very, very happy, and it’s worth every single second you spent away from Harry and his grief over his dead mothers twenty six years ago. Hindsight’s a bitch, eh?

Hi AnonymousRetired,

You are welcome for the reading. :)

I don't want to defend anyone who does not deserve it, least of all Charles, but in fairness, for all we know there were responsible adults around Harry at this time (e.g. the house master/mistress at school) who tried to get him to face his grief and/or help him through it, and Harry simply refused to do the work. He made it quite clear in Spare that all he was interested in was numbing the pain (instead of walking through it), and you can't help someone who refuses to do the work on themselves.

It could very well have been a failure of the adults in his life, but it could equally well be Harry refusing to feel even a tiny bit of the pain of his loss and therefore refusing to do anything to heal it.

The natural impulse of us humans is to cry and mourn and heal, so Harry must have put a lot of work into running away from his grief - far more work than it would take to actually process the pain.

In the final tally of things, the fault lies with Harry. He may or may not have had adults around him to help as a child, but he is a grown man now, and the responsibility for dealing with his emotions lies with him and no one else (just like it does for anyone who has had neglectful parents or childhood trauma - there comes a pint where you can't blame other people any more and it is all down to you).

Edited: because I forgot to put in some words!

[suzyq31]

A note to fellow Harmony readers/writers

Hello everyone,

I feel the need to say something about recent events. A post on the Harmony subreddit has given a platform for people to air their grievances about a particular story. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this happen and have been on the receiving end. And it really sucked. I’ve let myself believe that is part of being in this fandom, having your work ripped apart publicly and regularly.

I would like to ask the moderators of these spaces to please consider changing their stance on this. Adding in a rule that prevents posts like the one mentioned, among others. Again, this really isn’t meant to cast blame on any particular person. There was a comment about how writers need to stop acting like their god's gift to writing or the fandom, and to simply get over negative criticism. I want to clarify I don’t think that I’m special, or that my voice matters because I happen to write fanfic.

I’m no god, but I am a human. One who is dealing with their own pain as best they can. There are real problems that are much larger than fandom. Which makes it all the more difficult when I do choose to escape the horrors, only to find more negativity. I don’t expect the internet to always be a ‘safe space', but I do think fandom spaces can be more focused on positivity.

All of this has made me reevaluate my own role within fandom. I’m giving myself time and grace to make a final decision on how I want to move forward. In the meantime I would encourage anyone who cares about the fandom community to please reach out to the team at HMS Harmony (with kindness, they are also humans with feelings and lives.) If you feel inclined you could ask them to consider adding some caveats on how fics are discussed on public spaces such as Reddit and discord.

On another note, I myself haven’t always been as kind as I would have liked. If I’ve ever said something that’s upset anyone, I’m sorry. I regret some of the ways I’ve shown up in fandom over the years. I’m personally working on my own anger that I wrestle with, in real life and on the internet. Overall I would love to see if we could all think more carefully in how we discuss things, especially people’s creative work.

If you are a reader, there are so many positive ways you can contribute. The number one way is to reach out to those authors whose work you adore, especially those who don’t receive many comments. Tell them what you love about how they write Harry and Hermione, let them know their work matters to you. I promise it will make their day and encourage them to keep going. When you participate in fandom, focus on discussing the stories that make you go hell yes! Make fandom friends, who you can privately talk more in depth about works or what doesn’t work for you in a fanfic. Discord can feel private! But when you have over 5k members it isn’t and discussions that veer into complaining about an author’s choices it can start to come across as a pile up. I know hearing about how my own stories are discussed has left me discouraged.

To quote Albus Dumbledore-"Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” There is collective power in how we engage. I’ve personally adored this pairing since I was a young child. To this day I still remember some of the storylines that I would play over and over in my head. I took solace in the magical world when I was bullied and I spent my lunch hours hiding in the library with my copy of PoA. As an adult I’ve turned to writing fanfic while trying to manage grief and the overwhelm of figuring out this next stage of my life. What has stayed consistent is my love of these characters.

It took me 22 years to start writing down my ideas, and I’ve found a lot of joy in doing so. I know many other writers have to. There really is nothing like getting a story out of your head and onto the page, even better? Getting to share it with others who love those characters too. We should think of ourselves as lucky that there are so many different stories out there to choose from. And that so many people choose to share their creativity with the world. I truly think we have more in common than we may realize, readers/writers/moderators etc.

I’ll leave you with this poem, because I find poetry always expresses things better than I can.

All the best,

Suzy.

[furiousgoldfish]

I've talked about the 'burnout' and the 'collapse' traumatized people can experience as an adult, as a consequence of an abusive childhood. I realize I've made it seem like a very scary, painful and debilitating thing to happen, and I want to make clarifications about why it happens, and what can you do to mitigate the effects if you're worried it might happen to you.

One part of it, is that living a life while being traumatized, is much more exhausting than living a life as an emotionally healthy person. A big part of our life energy was spent surviving the childhood, and now, a big part of our energy is being spent pushing the trauma down; this is essential for our survival. A part of our mind is always struggling just to keep bad memories suppressed, to keep all of the fear, anger and grief where it can't actively reach us every second of our life, because we couldn't survive if we kept feeling all of our emotions at all times. It enables us to go thru our day-to-day life, and to keep our life ‘looking’ normal, but it does take a lot of energy, it's like suppressing a volcano from erupting, and our energy is exhausted by it.

This, however, means that actively processing trauma, bringing it up and feeling it, however awful and painful it might feel, will eventually free some of your energy up. I remember getting some of my energy back, bit by bit, as I managed to process my experiences and save them as a long-term memories, instead of the repressed ones.

Another part of it is the amount of tension and stress we go thru in our usual day. Being traumatized, a lot of things will act like triggers, and not all of them have to be the huge, dramatic triggers. Sometimes it's just, seeing a stranger on the street looking dangerous, and tensing up. Someone stands too close or asks you an uncomfortable question, and you're anxious, scared, and you spend the night upset and stressed. Being extra worried you won't be able to do something perfectly, and freezing up. Putting large amounts of energy and time into a project because your worth is now depending on it being perfect, you're always bending backwards to get your redemption. Not allowing yourself to take breaks, feeling stressed and guilty when you rest, not being able to find emotional support during hardships, taking on more than you can handle. Stress-worrying about every event where you have to be in contact with the abusers, or anyone else extorting power over you.

These are things that commonly happen to us, and they all result in stress and tension. This causes all of our muscles to tense up, our fight-flight-freeze-fawn response is always on high alert, we spend hours in the anxious state, not knowing how to calm down state, and during all these times, our body is using every bit of available energy for survival, because we're in a survival fright. That is, extremely draining, like fighting for our lives every second of our day. It's no wonder that afterwards all we want is to curl up in the bed, and forget about everything, just trying to find a place where we could get our body to relax a bit, to let us breathe. Constant tension in our muscles will result in chronic pain, which is another draining thing to go thru.

And trying to live a normal life will expose us to more of these, we are unlikely to be able to avoid the triggers while reaching for success in every area of life. We get exposed to people, to situations, to deadlines, stress, expectations, pressure, public image, authoritative figures, criticism, competition, imposter syndrome, fright that we're not as good as everyone else thinks we are. The stress of all this can be too much, even for a normal person. But for us, it's not only the regular amount of stress; the triggers turn stress into pure state of panic and survival fright. We don't only fear we will lose everything we've ever worked for, we fear that we'll be tortured and psychologically destroyed if we don't deliver expectations. We fear we'll be abandoned and left for dead, and that we deserved it.

This is why we need the collapse. Constantly putting ourselves thru all of this, is debilitating for us. Burning out, and isolating ourselves in our room in order to grieve, fear, panic, and cry, it's one of the best things we can do for ourselves. Crying is a powerful way to release stress, and it will release the pressure on our bodies and minds. Experiencing all of the emotions we're pushing down constantly, will hurt a lot, but it will give these feelings a way to exit our body, so we have less to carry around constantly. Isolating will grant us a protection from triggers. No longer exposing ourselves to triggers opens up the possibility of feeling safe, comfortable and self-protected, and that is a foundation we need in order to start building our lives. We cannot build our lives on anxiety-driven situations that make us filled with dread and panic, it has to be a place of comfort and safety.

The collapse isn't something that is absolutely inevitable, it happens because of the way our life is constructed via abuse. Growing up abused, you're programmed very intensely to live your life for others and to respond to the expectations of you. You're expected to reach success on your own time, without any help or support, while being extremely convenient to everyone else, and while being everyone's outlet for their anger, stress, and pain. You're taught to consider this normal, and to tough it out. You're conditioned to consider every single person in your life, but yourself. You know what everyone around you wants from you, how to adjust to their needs, but you are shut down immediately if you have a want or a need of your own. This inevitably leads to a life built on other person's needs. You're building your life based on what you know, and other people's expectations of you, is all you know about yourself.

So your life ends up in overworking yourself insanely in order to reach everyone's expectations, while never being able to examine what would make your life easy to live, comfortable to exist in, or even pleasurable for you yourself. You end up racing for goals that are not yours, that don't even progress your life in any direction that would be good or useful to you. You end up tangled in the obstacles of capitalism, stressing alone about why this isn't easy for you anymore, trying to reach success that would redeem you in the eyes in your abusers, or in your own eyes. You believe you need this redemption, that things would get better, or even just bearable, if you managed to succeed. You being traumatized doesn't even make it to the equation, you do not hold space for your emotions, you do not see yourself as a human being, worth of support and comfort. Anyone would get broken by this. Everyone, no matter how strong, needs comfort and reassurance in the times of stress. Even when things are going well, everyone needs support. Everyone needs acknowledgment and warmth and confirmation that they're doing well.

Living a life that isn’t set up for your well being, and does not provide you with satisfaction and pleasure, is exhausting. You have to keep it up in order not to offend or disappoint anyone (which is your biggest fear), but you're living your life in desperation, trying your best to complete tasks that are not here by your own will. You end up procrastinating and feeling dreadful, because now it feels like you're wasting your life, missing opportunities and ruining the ones you have. You feel empty because there's no support, nobody cares if you do well, but you'll be tortured if you fail. In those circumstances, not one thing you do is by your own will, it's coerced. This entire life is coerced. Every movement you make to appease, to convenience, is a move against your own will. And doing things against your own will, is traumatizing, and exhausting. Your instincts will eventually act up against it. Your willpower to do things will drain. You'll become paralyzed by the executive dysfunction because your body won't want to go thru with it anymore. Even though you're screaming at yourself that you have to, you have to, you have no choice. Your body will fight you. It will seek a collapse.

Collapse means that you're finally, finally taking your own traumatization into consideration. You're forced to acknowledge you own needs and your own limits; you can no longer tear yourself apart for a life that wasn't your choice. What you needed the entire time, was a life that was built on your own terms. A life that took your desires, needs and mental health status into consideration. Because you can build a life, regardless of how traumatized, torn down or terrified you are.

The collapse will slowly teach you that not being able to do things is not the end of the world. It will slowly show you that rest is something you can no longer reject, and it's not making you lazy, or a bad person. It will create a space for you where you do not answer to anyone's expectations. The shame of disappointment and resting will hurt at first, but it will fade as you learn to develop compassion for yourself, because now you have to. You have to see yourself as someone who's been fighting alone all this time, who is now broken but still alive, and so desperately wants to rest and be comforted, and be free of everything that has broken them.  

And the life you build from it, it will not tolerate stress or pain. You will build it based on your own satisfaction. You will make it as safe and protected as possible, because you do not want to risk another collapse. You will abandon all of the activities that broke you in the past; some of these you will no longer be able to do anyway. Even if it's something you liked, but got linked with stress and abuse, it will become a taboo. You'll find things that bring you peace, and do those. You'll discover what eases your anxiety, and do that. You'll find people who find you worthy of support, and choose them. Your life will become yours, built on your own choices, using the knowledge you have about yourself. It will no longer be a never-ending cycle of stress and tension. And you'll be allowed to be tired, and take breaks, and have days where you're just resting in bed. Your body won't have it otherwise.

Now, I promised to tell you how to mitigate the collapse, and by now it must be obvious. It will be easy for me to write it down, but extremely difficult to do it in real life. Start abandoning the activities that bring you an immense amount of stress. Take anything that stresses you as a real-life danger to your mental health, and steer away from it. Decide that your health precedes anyone's expectations, and treat those expectations as destructive. Abandon all societal goalposts that don't bring you joy, dismiss everything they told you that you should be, or have achieved, by a certain age, these are toxic. Abandon the societal definition of success.

Find a place where you're safe to learn about yourself, what you enjoy, what calms you, what brings you peace. Seek out support even if you don't feel you're worthy, even if it doesn't feel like you have it bad enough yet. The only way to mitigate the collapse is to build a life that doesn't lead up to it. Abusive childhood very strongly sets us up for it, and makes sure we don't build self-compassion that is necessary in order to stop living a life that others have decided for us.

Also, don't feel bad if you don't have a choice but to live like that until you collapse. I couldn't stop it. A lot of us aren't at freedom to decide to stop, and we're not even convinced that things are going bad until our bodies decide it for us. I wasn't able to build my life for myself until I ran away from home, that's where I experienced the most severe collapse, when it was finally safe to do so. I don't regret it. The collapse was natural. It made me self-protective where my parents never did. It forced me to acknowledge my limitations where nobody would ever accept that they're real. It's also not an ideal thing to happen, because you can learn to be self-protective in a kind way, you can acknowledge your limitations with the help of support and self-compassion. This is more of an extreme you-don't-have-a-choice kind of way, which isn't pleasant, and happens only when there is no other way.

Don't be afraid of the collapse. If it happens, it's not your fault. You have not built a life that would lead you to a collapse, and you're not 'actively working towards it'. All of us are just trying our best to survive, to go thru as little pain as possible, and you're doing it too. If you happen to collapse, be gentle to yourself, and reject anyone who isn't gentle towards you. You deserve the rest, and you deserve the safety.