#the delivery of “is... something burdening you”

[wildfairies]

devora wilde honestly deserves the same amount of praise and hype as neil for her portrayal of lae'zel

[1980shorrorfilm]

you’ve seen the butcher

hey guys whats up

pairing…shauna shipman x fem!reader

in which…you make a new life for yourself after being rescued, but that doesn’t stop your ex from finding you.

before you read…18+. nsfw. smut!!!! post-rescue shauna. shauna shipman being shauna shipman. did i mention gay sex. everything is morally grey. wc 3.8k.

no one came to visit you. not friends, not family, just an occasional deer and fox that leave their friendly marks on the dirt surrounding your home, always near the blooming june flowers. 

though, you couldn’t say they were the ones who left a beat-up cardboard box on your porch.

you had yet to touch it, because that had meant bringing it inside, opening it, and seeing whatever the fuck it was. 

and nothing about an anonymous delivery with no return address, at your cabin in the middle of the damn woods, screams good news. 

especially when you’ve done your best to remain off the grid, and away from everyone that once knew you. those girls most importantly. what happened out there, stayed out there; that’s what she told you. 

the words that left shauna shipman’s mouth after you were rambling in your hospital bed that you do like her—like like her—your heartbroken self trying to keep what you two had before they found you.

the long romantic nights in your shared hut, whether that meant physical or simply holding her after she was comfortable enough to cry to you. 

that wasn’t often, shauna feared vulnerability. 

you guess that’s why she couldn’t face her feelings for you when there was a such thing as being in the public eye. why she kept whatever she still felt for you, a secret.

you, her secret. 

drunken sleepovers that made her feel alive again. locking you in the bedroom of some rando’s party. parking at the beach at night when it was just you and her and the water and the moon.

that didn’t last. she had jeff, and you had no one, just the weight of feeling like a burden. 

you had moved away quietly just a year ago. not a word was said to anyone because they would just try to talk you out of it. thinking it was some fucked up response to your trauma, moving to a remote location, your only neighbors being the trees and passing animals. 

maybe it was, or maybe it was just a cheap buy and a desperate urge to get away from everything. 

although, that didn’t mean you could truly leave the past, in the past. 

you get up from your dining chair, no longer able to occupy yourself with the latest flashy magazine you picked up in town, forcing yourself to walk to your front door. 

you open it, and the wind chimes hung on your porch greet you, the metal echoing while the sun sets over the cabin. the package is still sitting at the top of the steps, taunting you.

before you step outside, your eyes scan the area, from the tall vibrant green trees around your home, to whoever could be stalking behind them. there’s no one and nothing, so you push the screen door, the warm breeze hugging you when you walk over and grab the box, not wasting time to get back inside.

you bring it to the table, using a dull knife to cut through the messy tape, a scowl on your face at the idea of something gross being inside. 

luckily, it’s not.

it’s a vhs tape, no note, no other random object in the box, just that alone. eerie, and oddly intriguing. you slowly walk to the room over, kneeling before the boxed tv that’s currently on a broadcast of an old game show. the laughter from the speakers cuts off when you switch the channel, inserting the tape into the player beside you.

you should be more hesitant, more worried, but you were now way too fucking curious. the screen is static at first, then plain darkness with muffled voices. 

that goes on for nearly a minute before the camera is seemingly tossed on a mattress, facing a wall.

shauna’s wall, her bedroom, and her voice in the background. then, she emerges in the frame, laying back on her bed with her elbows propping her up. 

she wears a toothy grin and eyes something off-camera like she’s looking at meat. then you hear yourself.

“why would you fucking invite him?”

you sound pissed, and shauna seems to take enjoyment in it, still smiling like an asshole. typical. 

“jeff literally passes out before the family guy theme song ends, chill.”

you turn the volume up, the approaching night causing the temperature to drop and the breeze to pick up, the wind chimes growing louder outside your windows. 

“yeah, okay,” you laugh dryly, “i should’ve just gone out with natalie instead of this bullshit.”

“you still can, you know? i mean you’re fucking dressed for it.”

the smile had dropped from shauna’s face the moment you mentioned the other yellowjacket, her dark eyes seemingly scanning your figure still away from the camera, while the angered words spewed from her pink lips. 

it goes silent. almost like the camera had broken, and didn’t pick up any audio.

you shift uncomfortably, noticing the way her pixelated face softens and she frowns with a pout. the switch; what she pulled in every argument that got you to shut up when you locked eyes with her doe ones. you predict the next words that leave her lips.

“i’m sorry, okay? c’mere…”

she was always sorry. always for a different reason, and you never once questioned her if she ever truly was; you liked to believe so. you feel pity for yourself, watching you emerge into frame, in that fucking dress she had gifted you.

it was a mint green with tiny white flowers—one that seemed familiar as if you’d seen it in her closet. though, shauna had never worn it. 

you stood before her, and shauna dramatically pouted, her palm on the back of your thigh, pulling you into her lap and slipping beneath the material of the dress.

shauna wanted you to see this. to see her hands traveling on the sacred parts of your body and her mouth on your neck; eyes locking momentarily with the camera lenses. you hate her. she’s not here, and you haven’t seen her in so fucking long, but you swear you hate her. 

you hit stop on the vhs player, the television screen now blue and reflecting off of your flustered face. 

you didn’t need to watch it to remember it. that sleepover took place once your therapy started working and your family stopped coddling you so damn much. things had gone back to a somewhat normal and you thought one night with shauna would be fine. good, even.

you hadn’t known that making out with her until jeff showed up with a pizza, would lead to an argument that would cause you both to stop talking to each other. 

you’d bring up her worst habits; like cheating when you could just fucking be together, and she’d say the meanest shit to you to get a reaction, and remove the burning spotlight from herself. 

how could she ever date someone as pathetic as you? as boring? you didn’t answer her when she asked that.

she had ended it her hot headed rant with ‘you aren’t special.’

the words that were drilled into your head until the weeks passed and you left her, and that town, behind.

and out of everyone, shauna fucking shipman was the first to find you.

it hits you at once, she came here and you didn’t even notice. 

the goosebumps rise on your skin, the metal of the wind chimes clinging with a force. your head turns immediately, eyes peering into the darkness that's outside your windows. 

you’re not as pathetic as she thinks. 

you get up, walking with hurried steps to your dimly lit room, though you don’t need the warm lamp beside your bed to see beneath it. you know exactly where it is, the shotgun you purchased not even a week of living out here. surely not the safest spot but easy access.

you bend down and grab it, not yet adjusting the safety as you follow your footsteps back to where the tv is still blue, turning and heading towards the door. you turn the porch light on, and exit the home, keeping the weapon pointed while you study your surroundings. 

you think you should shout something; especially when a branch snaps to the left of your porch, but you remain mute. you even take a few steps forward, and down the stairs, holding a hardened face and scanning the forest with the gun. 

a minute passes, and then two, and nothing greets you. not a scared deer or a protective mother bear or a terrorizing shauna shipman. 

the nerves in your system don’t settle, and you nervously turn back around and rush into your small home; where the television screen is no longer blue, and playing the fucking homemade movie.

you don’t let the scene play out, briefly catching a glimpse of her mouth attacking your neck before you unplug the television completely, leaving the screen foggy and dark, with the shadow of two figures reflecting in it.

“that’s lame—you were just getting to the good part.”

you hear her before you see her. part of you doesn’t even want to turn around and face her, to acknowledge shauna is here and not in your nightmares and dreams. you don’t lower your gun, if anything you keep it lined with her chest when you do force yourself to look at her.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“i missed you?” shauna says so casually, as if the tension in the cabin was one-sided, or nonexistent completely. she doesn’t even care that you’re pointing a weapon at her—she knows you wouldn’t use it—and she moves away from the door, taking a seat on the couch. legs spread and eyes locked on you.

shauna doesn’t look much different from the last day you saw her; maybe with less makeup and longer hair. she ditched her light clothes for a dark long sleeve and pants similar in shade, and heavy boots rather than the flats jeff likes seeing her wear. she notices the steady trail of your eyes, leaning back in the cushion.

“you don’t think it’s like…stockholm-y to be out here?” 

“i like it.”

her mouth opens, then shuts, a hummed laugh.

“yeah,” she mumbles, “i bet you do.”

you bite your tongue, and there’s a beat of silence.

“must be nice,” shauna speaks quietly, daring to remove her eyes from you to inspect your home, fingertips trailing the arm of the couch, “to just…leave.”

“didn’t really feel welcomed back at home,” you mutter, and it’s not rocket science to figure out you’re talking about her, not the occasional judgmental eyes or unwanted sympathy you received at the mall. 

she ignores the passive aggressive comment, narrowing her gaze, “you left me behind…so fucking easy for you, too.”

shauna earns a short chuckle from yourself; because you couldn’t help but find it hilarious that she’s somehow the victim here. the narrative that she’s your precious lover that you left in the dust with a smile—when you cried to yourself the first damn night you were miles away.

“that what you came out here for?” you ask, lowering your gun until it points to the scratched-up wood floor, “to throw a pity party?”

“i deserve it after what you did to me,” shauna mutters, making your jaw slightly drop at the sheer audacity shipman had. you couldn’t say you were the best girlfriend, but holy fuck.

sure, you’d blame the shit that happened out there, solely on her, like you weren’t stood firmly by her side when she insisted on staying in the woods. and yeah, she’d beg to see you because you were the only one that understood her, and you’d ignore her calls and keep your door locked when she showed up unexpectedly.

but, shauna was worse. that’s what you tell yourself.

you shake your head, and point your finger, “i did you a favor by fuckin’ leaving—a-and you have him.” 

“i never wanted him and you out of everyone know that.”

shauna gets up now, and her height doesn’t play a factor in how she seems to tower you. that’s just her when she got like this; pissed. 

“i needed you,” her voice raises, stepping around the coffee table before her, but not yet closer to you. she’s being smart about this—catching her emotions bleed through her tone and gulping, blinking fast. 

she pays no mind to the pain ripping through her chest, resisting the urge to scream how fucking badly losing you had hurt, and how selfish you are for not caring. you expect the switch, and her demeanor does indeed shift, but it’s not the kind eyes and light voice. 

she slowly walks over, a hint of a grin on her face, watching you dare to raise the shotgun at her. you can only shuffle in place nervously when she’s right in front of you, pressing herself into the barrel. 

“think you can do it?” she teases, testing you despite knowing the outcome.

“i just want you to leave, shauna—and not fucking come back,” you tell her, voice wavering and your stare trailing to the center of her chest, where your gun rests. you don’t even sound convincing to yourself.

“think you want a little more than that.”

her hand finds the top of the gun, gripping it at once, observing the way your pretty lips frown while the weapon sways. she truly did miss this. 

how not only was it the fear that coursed through you, it was excitement. a quick widening of your eyes as they begin to mirror her darkened ones, letting her take full control of the gun now. 

it’s why you connected with shauna shipman in the first place. you’re not that different.

the shotgun is now pointed at you, her head tilting to your kitchen. she demands, “walk.”

you obey. with soft steps, your feet carry you to the room over, barely making it in the archway before you felt the cool metal pressing into your backside, into the thin material of your lavender nightgown.

she pushes you to the small brown dining table in the middle of the room, though the weapon was more so encouragement than force. you bend over the surface without her having to ask, your face tilted sideways on the wood grain.

shauna is already high on euphoria at how easily you let go of any personal fucking ‘morals’ you claim to have, giving yourself up for her the way people do to their beloved gods. as if you never even parted ways. if only. she thinks she’d have somehow gotten you pregnant by now, had she continued to have access to you. 

you’re just so beautiful, she thinks, putting the gun beside your head, gently stroking the side of your temple with her thumb. she only sees you in photos now, or envisions the common scowl on your face mid argument. but you like this, waiting for her, yearning for her; fucking angelic.

shauna roughly pushes your nightgown up, pulling down your underwear, nearly drooling at the sight. the plus side about you being out here, meant you were alone—no one to feel you in the ways she pictures before bed. 

“you know,” she begins, holding back a laugh at the way you huff to yourself, already so damn eager for her, “i told you i missed you…you didn’t say shit back.” 

you don’t respond, nearly twitching the moment her fingers find their way between your thighs, trailing up the skin, and to the most sensitive part.

you sigh, two fingers rubbing precisely in a circular motion with ease; your underwear had grown damp moments ago. another thing so easy for shauna. 

“and that’s weird—because…” she leans over you, her hips pressing against your own while her weight is on your back.

her fingers suddenly leave your clit, swiping against your pussy, and she holds her hand up, just inches from your face. she’s forcing you to watch it glisten. 

she tries to humiliate you, snickering, “seems like you do.”

shauna doesn’t expect you to grab her wrist, pull her closer, and wrap your lips around her fingertips, pushing your head down upon them. she gulps, a raspy ‘fuck,’ muttered near your ear—before she suddenly bites it, and reconnects her hand to your cunt.

you gasp when she wastes no more time, entering two fingers still coated with your spit inside of you, moving them as if she’s trying to remember what you felt like. you’re squeezing her, groaning her name, and shauna can confirm this is what heaven is. 

not fucking pure white clouds and a golden gate like jeff’s parents insist to her—it’s your warmth. in every way that had meant. 

she slowly pulls out, both of you exhaling, before she starts to pump them into you.

her wrist is angled in the most perfect way, that her index finger is prodding at that soft and special spot inside you; the lonely cabin filled with the lewd sounds of her fucking you and ragged breaths. 

your heavy eyelids are focused on the gun in front of your face, shauna’s hand still on it while her other one is roughly working below your waist. you have to stretch your arms over to the edge of the table, attempting to stop sliding with each thrust—not from her fingers, but rather her pelvis pushing into your ass. 

“say it,” she breathes, “tell me you missed me.”

again, you ignore her, only paying attention to the way she was fucking you with no mercy.

her hand frees from the weapon to the base of your neck; a delicate hold with a careful squeeze.

you groan, “i did—i did, shauna.”

she smiles with cocky satisfaction, before occupying her lips on the backside of your shoulder, sinking her teeth into you in sync with her fingers.

you’re clenching around her now; shauna moaning into your flesh at the sensation, slowing down her movements to really feel you. 

you’re so close, you weakly try to hump her hand, to increase the speed she’s suddenly lacking. shauna laughs at you this time because you’re too intoxicated on her to care. 

“missed you real fuckin’ bad.”

the words leave your mouth like a hushed sin, raw and honest, and probably something you’ll regret once you come down from this high. shauna is fucking thriving. 

“should’ve come sooner,” she says, picking up her pace, earning the most heavenly cry from you when she pushes her fingers deep and presses hard. “you just looked so peaceful out here…all alone.”

your blurry vision, somewhat steadies, back onto the gun, replaying what she had just told you again in your head. but it’s too late, your mind goes fuzzy and your legs go limp, whimpering her name when she brings you to that sweet edge. 

“c’mon,” she whispers from behind you, “fucking give it to me.”

you feel her fingers slide out of you, focusing once again on your clit, rubbing harsh and sloppy circles that make you see stars. shauna could never forget your body, or how to treat it, it’s her favorite place.

her hips continue to grind into you, teeth nipping at the back of your neck, tickling a sweet spot while you tremble head to toe.

“ssshauna.”

it comes out a very bleak warning, shauna humming but not letting up between your legs. you swear the table she has you bent over will have your nail marks in it, scratching down the surface, shutting your eyes while her hand tightly clutches your throat. 

she pulls you up—you can hardly even stand—her grip from nearly choking you is keeping you from collapsing. you’re leaning your weight on her body, still trapped between her and the table, the woman now silent as she brought you to another orgasm.

and it happens fast…for the both of you. shauna couldn’t help it, you felt too perfect squirming against her, and you use her name like your only prayer—she missed this way too damn much.

she has to taste you. she earned it, after all.

with a long trailed stroke on your pussy, she brings her fingers to her salivating mouth, sucking on them and not wasting a single drop of you. her eyes shut in bliss, wishing this could last forever. 

then, she snuggles her head into the crook of your neck, an innocent kiss compared to what she had just done.

for a few minutes, the cabin is still, and shauna holds you while you both come down from your high. that is, until you slip from her arms, tugging your underwear back up and fixing your nightgown. her fixated stare doesn’t leave you, and you turn around to meet it.

“…you knew i was here.”

shauna blinks at you, walking away, opening one of the cabinets in the kitchen. she grabs a glass cup, conveniently knowing where they were located, and fills it at the sink.

“i mean, i’m here, aren’t i?”

you bite your tongue, your eyes not leaving hers while she gulps the water down. the faulty wiring in the old cabin makes itself known, the lights flickering once more, a heavy gust of the night breeze flowing through the windows. 

“shau—” “how about i run you a bath? with those bubbles you like, hm?”

you don’t get the chance to reply, subtly flinching when she hits the glass on the counter to set it down. with a soft smile, she walks toward you, halting her steps to kiss the apple of your cheek. you start to turn your head, and she grips your chin, tilting your jaw to her.

you’re upset, she knows this, you get stubborn.

deep down, you won’t admit why, but shauna doesn’t need a verbal confirmation from you. she hears you, crying out her name in the darkness of your bedroom, windows open like it was a fucking beckoning.

keeping old polaroids of you together on your nightstand to hold when you needed her. because no matter how many times you scream and shout that you hate shauna shipman—you love her so much more—so deeply and there’s simply no way you could ever stop.

you know what she’s capable of, the sick shit that happened in those woods that she fucking loved. you’ve seen her at her worst and her cruelest and you don’t care.

you’re upset shauna hadn’t made her presence known sooner.

you close your eyes when shauna kisses you, your fists balling around the fabric of her black shirt. it’s not rushed, not at all messy, shauna’s mouth is practically eating yours with a slow hungry passion.

it transports you to the past, and for a moment, there is no bad. not even the kind that you accepted and tolerated and took depraved amusement in. it’s just two people that love each other for who they are, no matter what.

the world unpauses when her tongue stops moving with yours.

shauna pulls away, and continues to the bathroom, walking down the hall and glancing back at you, waiting for you to follow. 

and you do, without hesistation.

[littlelamy]

Rafe taking care of Reader who goes through a depressive episode. She’s feeling like she is a burden and feels like everyone would be happier with her gone. Maybe things are pretty new between them, only gone on a few dates so she obviously (like most) isn’t going to tell him anything and doesn’t think she matters to a guy she has gone on a few dates with anyway, so she just stops responding to his texts

a/n: thank you for requesting!⭐️ i hope i wrote it appropriately to what you requested 🙂💗part 2 is up!

the first time rafe noticed something was off, it was subtle—just a missed text here and there. maybe a delayed reply. nothing unusual at first. he probably told himself you were busy. everyone has those days where life gets hectic.

but when hours stretched into days and your replies went from short to nonexistent, he started to feel that quiet pull of worry.

“hey, you okay?” he texted the day before, after his third unanswered message.

you saw it pop up on your screen. his name glowed against the darkness of your room, and for a moment, your heart ached with the idea of answering. but then the thought crept in.

he’s just being polite.he barely knows you.he’s probably relieved you stopped answering anyway.

so you let the screen go dark.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. it wasn’t like you two were serious. you’d only gone on a handful of dates, and even though every moment with rafe had been sweet and effortless, there was no way someone like him could actually care.

you’d been wrong about people before.

the weight in your chest had only grown heavier over the past few weeks. even getting out of bed felt impossible some days, let alone pretending to be okay for someone like rafe cameron. so, you didn’t bother. you shut your phone off, buried it under a pillow, and let the world fade into static.

the knock at your door startled you.

at first, you thought it might’ve been a neighbor or a delivery driver, someone just passing through. but then it came again, louder this time, more deliberate.

“y/n?”

you froze, your breath catching as his voice carried through the door.

“it’s rafe.”

you stared at the door like it might open on its own. the last thing you wanted was to face him, especially like this. but hearing his voice made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“i, uh…” he hesitated, the sound of him shifting his weight audible through the thin walls. “i just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

you stayed silent, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. but deep down, you knew rafe wasn’t the kind of guy to just walk away.

“you don’t have to let me in,” he added, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “just… let me know you’re alright.”

you clenched your fists, trying to will the lump in your throat away. how were you supposed to explain that you weren’t alright? that you hadn’t been alright in weeks?

the knock came again, gentler this time.

“i’m not leaving until i know you’re okay,” he said firmly, though there was no anger in his voice. only concern.

you sat frozen for what felt like forever, listening to the silence on the other side of the door. maybe he’d given up. maybe he was walking away right now, realizing this wasn’t worth his time.

but then your phone buzzed from where it lay buried under the pillow.

you hesitated before reaching for it, your hands trembling as you unlocked the screen.

rafe <3: hey, i’m outside your place. not trying to bother you, i just wanted to check in. if you need space, i get it. just let me know you’re alright, okay?

your chest ached as you read the words. there was nothing demanding about them, nothing that made you feel guilty or trapped. he wasn’t asking for anything except to know you were safe.

and that made it worse somehow.

because you weren’t.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[mandalhoerian]

(1) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Ferrying passengers and cargo between the mainland and the outlying islands is your family's livelihood. Life at sea holds its surprises, yet the routines remain reassuring — docking and departing, tourist antics, more docking and departing...

And there's the seal of course — the local celebrity trailing the ferry each day as though he's on the payroll. You think it might have been brought about by giving into his every whim and accidentally becoming his favorite person to be around in the process. But who would’ve guessed the truth, that he's actually a selkie who's spent years shadowing you, believing himself to be escorting his chosen bride all along?

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

next >

note: this is inspired by the giggly leg-kick inducing selkie raf fanart here by @/beechu-beechu!!!! i adore this raf to the moon and back, and all the seal videos i've watched (crybaby learns to swim) has prepared me for this moment. i hope you'll stick around for this very un-edited mini-series!

Your chest tightens pleasantly as you breathe in deep draughts of briny air, mist clinging to your tongue and lips, sharp and salty, anticipation of yet another day with your marine friend nudging your footsteps faster over slick cobblestones that echo softly against the buildings that line the street. Dawn hasn’t quite shaken off the night, draping everything in gauzy shadows, stretching slender fingers of soft gold across the rooftops, making you feel the gentle bite of the morning chill grazing your skin in a tingle of needles against your cheeks.

Ahead, the harbor emerges from the last traces of darkness, boats bobbing lazily against moorings that creak and groan like old friends in conversation as dockworkers shuffle around, silhouettes bent under cargo, and in comfortable and hushed chatting somehow overtaken by the screams of seagulls. Among them, your family's ferry waits patiently at its berth, outline illuminated by the muted brilliance of the rising sun — a scene so delicately composed you think it might’ve been painted by Edward Hopper himself each and every time you witness it.

“Hey hey, Elias!” you call, raising a hand to greet the old fisherman, his weather-creased face somehow aging a couple more years while he picks through a tangle of nets with focus.

He lifts his head, eyes crinkling fondly beneath his salt-stained cap. “Ah, mornin’, lass!"

"Brought something with me today. I want to see if it helps with the bait bucket problem."

"Boy is addicted to easy pickings, I doubt that. Wee nyaff owes me half a season’s catch by now.” Elias's rumbling chuckles have warmth rumbling through your chest. “Can’t fault him for his good taste in company when he has treats delivered to his doorstep, though.”

“Nice try,” you say, your tone mock-stern, a smile tugging insistently at the corner of your mouth. “But flattery’s not buying you extra coffee today.”

His laughter echoes briefly before it’s swallowed by the soft slosh of water beneath the docks, and he peers out across the idly rolling tide, affection blending with mild irritation as his fingers start working faster.

"That's fine," he says. "Having you back is enough. My poor boat needed a break from all that terrorizing."

You laugh at that with an embarrassed, heavy heart.

Six months have melted away since you traded your graduation cap for the familiar sight of gulls wheeling above the docks. You’d returned home carrying equal parts eagerness and obligation, drawn back into your father’s orbit, hoping, perhaps, to ease some of the burdens he’d never openly admit were weighing him down.

Leaving for university felt like stepping aboard a departing train, thrilling and dizzying as it rattled toward a glittering unknown named the future. City life was a constant hum you were ill-prepared for — nights brimming with noise, friendships blazing bright but fleeting as sparks — but somewhere along the way, that excitement quietly dimmed, and in its absence grew a tender longing, whisper-soft, for a simpler past, back when your world was defined by the comforting cadence of the ferry schedule and the friendly bustle of seasonal visitors.

So, under the spotlight of shame, coming home felt oddly disjointed at first, as though stepping back into a photograph that had stubbornly refused to fade, preserved, untouched by time — the docks still busy at dawn, fishermen hauling in their catches, schoolkids racing, backpacks swinging wildly, the scent of fresh bread spilling from the bakery door at exactly eight sharp every morning. Life moved here in steady, predictable rhythms, each beat familiar enough to lull you into comfort, yet somehow magnifying a subtle, restless niggling deep within your chest.

Because beneath the comforting yet burdensome familiarity that's a bed of nails at night, you can't shake the quiet sensation that returning was more retreat than progress.

You feel it most keenly when whispers trail in your wake, pointed glances exchanged between curious neighbors whose mouths curve around your name like a secret. They wonder aloud — in voices just low enough to feign politeness — about how university might have shaped you, or perhaps, more poignantly, left you unchanged.

You can feel their quiet amusement, the delight in the idea of the girl who once dreamed beyond the island now anchored firmly back in place, tethered once more to the ferry ropes and her father’s stubborn pride.

Not that Dad would ever breathe a word of needing assistance. Pride is his quiet strength and silent curse, a barrier more solid than the island's rocky coastline. You'd notice him sometimes, catching fleeting moments when he believes no one was watching — rubbing the weariness from his shoulders after hefting crates heavier than he’d admit, wincing just a little as his knees protest bending to secure the moorings, lips pressing into a thin, shaky line. It makes your heart twist like a wet rag, knowing his stubbornness masked vulnerability, and you'd resolved, quietly yet firmly, that your presence would stay constant until further notice.

Besides, the arrangement came with undeniable perks — a roof overhead without rent’s shadow hanging over your head, meals rich with nostalgia’s comforting flavor, and the cradle-like sway and creak of deck boards beneath your feet. It's more than enough compensation, more than fair payment, for the small surrender of uncertain ambitions to the nonjudgmental embrace of home.

By nonjudgmental you mean the weight of being allowed to take time in figuring your stuff out inbetween all the nausea-inducing sessions of admitting to yourself you're absolutely lost and don't have the slightest idea what you're going to do next.

So, yeah. Things are going great.

Still, despite everything, there’s at least one soul whose very presence smooths away any lingering doubts you had about returning home.

Well — perhaps not exactly a person.

There he is, your seal companion of years, lounging right there on the loading ramp as though he's claimed ownership of the whole harbor, proudly blocking Dad’s path as usual.

Today, Raf’s gray coat catches the clementine of the morning sun like liquid bronze, sleek fur glistening wetly, shimmering with subtle gold beneath droplets of seawater, and tiny flecks of fish scales cling stubbornly to his whiskers, the glittering remnants of his breakfast. You try your hardest to summon a stern mask of reprimand to your face — someone needs to teach this cheeky little shit some manners before either you or Dad dive headfirst into the sea because of Raf's sunbathing spot choices — but one glance into his wide, guileless eyes instantly dissolves your resolve into warm-hearted resignation.

With a mock-exasperated sigh, you lean down, scratching softly beneath his chin and tracing scratching circles in the thick fur around his neck, and Raf immediately responds, rolling onto his side and enthusiastically clapping his flippers together like an actor performing a rehearsed trick. You feel like he's Pavlov-ed you into yielding to his desires by rewarding you with cuteness, and burst into laughter, the sound rippling sweetly across the bay.

"Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie," you coo softly in a sing-song voice that's the usual ritualistic greeting you have for him, smile brightening as you reveal a small stash of dried salmon you'd slipped into your bag. "I didn't forget my promise."

Raf perks up immediately, twisting himself with a delighted wriggle that ends with his tail thumping happily against the ramp, peering upward, eyes large and pleading, more expressive than any puppy’s. A heartbeat later, he's flopped dramatically onto his side, one flipper thrust skyward in hopeful invitation, and your cheeks ache from the persistent grin stretching across your face, but that hardly matters.

For a few joyful minutes, you're lost in a game of enthusiastic 'handshakes,' finishing with good, thorough tummy scritches before starting to feed him.

"Keep spoiling the damn thing, and he'll forget how to fish altogether," Dad grumbles affectionately as he passes by, hoisting another heavy crate bound for one of the smaller islands. You resist the urge to tease him about who’s really spoiling whom around here — considering how easily he gives in to your own puppy eyes — and instead settle for an innocent shrug, shaking the salmon bag, unaware of Raf following the notion with his neck elongating impossibly due to his unbelievable flexibility.

"Aww, come on. Look at that irresistible face! You can't help but want to give him whatever he wants!"

"Mm'begh, egg, ggeaaaghh," snorts Raf, wiggling under your pets, and even Dad is amused enough to pause and raise his eyebrows at the silly seal before moving along.

After a minute of playful petting, you pull yourself upright and stretch, wondering how many fish in the ocean smell this fresh and clean. The scent alone reminds you of childhood summer vacations splashing around, blissfully ignorant of any underlying responsibilities or cares.

"Get your fat cat off the ramp before he trips one of us up."

On cue, Raf slaps a fin theatrically against his rounded belly, releasing a snuffling grunt that sounds suspiciously like a tiny piglet rather than a seal: "Mmpppshh."

"Don't listen to him," you reassure Raf solemnly, as though comforting a wounded toddler. "You’re not fat. You're just… well-built. Big bones."

Your half-serious tone earns you several enthusiastic thwaps of Raf’s wet flippers against your calves, making you laugh despite your best efforts to feign sternness. "UUUUAAAAAAGH!!!"

With an exaggerated sigh, you give in, bending down for another pat. "Alright, easy there, handsome. Time to get to work."

Yet Raf, predictably, sees this only as an invitation for more attention, rolling onto his back once again, flippers splayed wide, belly fully exposed in expectation of being cradled like a newborn. Maybe he just wants another belly rub. Or maybe he senses how much you cherish these little interactions, savoring the warmth of mutual affection like it's as essential as breathing. It certainly seems to keep him lively and robust — after all, you’re with him far more than anyone else. There are countless days spent sharing scraps from lunch, swimming side-by-side from island to island, or teaching him new tricks as thinly-veiled excuses for play. Even Dad has remarked (with a teasing grin that you pointedly ignore) that Raf seems more like your best friend than anyone else in town.

And really, what's the harm? Spoiling a seal who clearly enjoys your company hardly counts as indulgent. It's simply mutual happiness, a comforting addiction you've willingly embraced: the velvety smoothness of dark-gray fur beneath your fingers, the hidden strength of his sleek body, the endearing little huff he gives when your windbreaker tickles his sensitive whiskers. All of it — absolutely addictive.

"You know exactly how unfair this is," you finally giggle softly, deciding to have mercy on your heart (and Raf’s belly) for now. "Come on, buddy."

"Ppppfffrrrshh."

With a playful little bounce, Raf balances briefly on his foreflippers, wobbling theatrically before launching himself gracefully off the ramp into the calm water below, sending a silvery plume everywhere, and he surfaces once, twice, three times — each pretty leap arching through the dawn-tinted waves, always teasing, never coming nearer than a safe distance of about ten feet from where you stand as he glides easily in lazy circles around the ferry’s bow, waiting patiently for you to climb aboard.

Slowly, the bleary-eyed commuters begin filing onto the ferry, faces etched with lingering dreams and shoulders hunched beneath the invisible weight of daily responsibilities, and you greet each with energetic warmth to start off the day, offering an amiable nod and a reassuring smile as they pass.

"Coffee’s fresh if you need it, other beverage options and food are available as well in the passenger cabin's buffet," you inform, trying to be a comforting balm to their early-morning weariness. Relief flashes briefly across some tired eyes as you watch people go in and out with hands that tighten gratefully around steaming cups, savoring the warmth like precious embers that ward off the chill.

The tourists follow closely behind after your usuals, pouring aboard in a cheerful wave of bright-eyed excitement as they clutch tightly to their guidebooks, maps, and expensive cameras, animated chatter in various foreign languages floods the deck and shoos away the remnants of the sleepy calm, their infectious enthusiasm cascading over you, a vibrant hum that makes even the most mundane tasks feel fresh and lively.

A woman leans eagerly across the railing, eyes searching for something in the water, but doesn't break any safety rules. She must be a seasoned traveler. "Will we see the famous seal today?"

You cast her a self-satisfied glance, nodding knowingly toward the shimmering expanse of the harbor. "I'd say the odds are pretty high, given he's basically imprinted on this ferry," you promise, and as though summoned by your certainty, Raf’s sleek form breaches the gentle swell, fur catching the sunlight in an iridescent cascade. "Right on cue — there's our local star."

A wave of delighted murmurs and gasps ripples across the deck, the enthusiastic click of cameras rising like an orchestra chef's signal as Raf begins his performance, slicing effortlessly between waves and drawing dramatic curves through the water, slowing his movements deliberately to let the ferry glide past before starting his 'warm-up laps' again. Tourists are absolutely losing it over getting to see something like this up close, every splash and proud bob of his glossy head eliciting cheers and applause that would scare every single sea animal around the perimeter. But not Raf. He's used to it by now.

"So, everyone — meet Raf!" you call out above the enthusiastic chatter, pointing with a flourish toward the glossy head bobbing in the waves. "He's friendly enough, so don't panic if he hops aboard for a visit. But keep your distance — not because he'll bite, mind you, but because he'll bruise your ego when he pretends you don't exist. He enjoys your admiration strictly from afar. He's a star like that."

A cheerful chorus of laughter, aww-ing and agreement rings out in response.

Taking advantage of the good mood, you repeat the safery regulations and warnings before you busy yourself assisting passengers, guiding them to their seats and helping stow bags in the compartments tucked beneath. You have to announce the route the ferry will take and how long the stops will be, and then, the ferry is pulling smoothly away from the docks, leaving the harbor behind and setting course over waters shimmering brilliantly beneath the sun.

Several adventurous tourists stake out prime spots along the ferry's edge, though many soon retreat inward, driven away by sharp gusts whipping their hair into tangles and peppering their faces with chilly, sharp salt spray. You stroll leisurely between the seats, pausing here and there for pleasant banter about the scenery, local delicacies, or family holidays gone awry, keeping the conversations is easy and light, and you're met with appreciative nods and smiles.

Out across the waves, sunlight dances like scattered jewels, creating diamond-dust illusions whenever a gust scatters spray towards the sky. Every now and then, Raf's sleek form slices effortlessly through the glittering waves, drawing joyful gasps and delighted pointing from your captivated audience.

To anyone coming aboard for the first time, Raf gives every impression of being charming, approachable — even sociable. A casual observer might assume he’s perfectly at ease with human company, considering how effortlessly he weaves himself into the daily bustle around the ferry, acting every bit the seasoned local soaking up attention. At first, you’d happily fallen for the same illusion, even rejoicing a bit at the idea that he was genuinely warming up to people when he started making regular appearances.

Reality, however, quickly proved less rosy. That endearing exterior was, and still is, hiding a nasty streak you could swear was deliberate, because Raf seems to delight in luring people in, coaxing them into thinking they've made a furry new friend — only to abruptly turn aloof, snubbing them with the ease of a ghoster. It’s as if he takes twisted pleasure in watching visitors wilt in disappointment, and so you've learned to offer friendly yet firm warnings upfront: admire him, laugh at his antics, but don't get too cozy or you’re bound to wind up nursing a heartbreak.

Suddenly, there are gasps among the crowd.

Well, mostly screams at first, before turning into delighted giggles.

"Look, over there!" A child shrieks with uncontainable excitement, sprinting eagerly toward the railing at the ferry’s side deck.

Your head snaps up immediately, and a laugh escapes you before you can suppress it. You didn't think your overly confident companion could still manage to surprise you after so many months spent sharing the sea.

Raf has flopped his way onto the ferry once again. Like he belongs, the cocky little shit. Raf glides gracelessly across the deck, flippers waving with dramatic flair — almost comically bird-like — until gravity decisively interrupts his attempted elegance. His slick body careens straight into a pole, skidding downward with a recoiling thud and ending the journey facedown right beside your boots.

"Oh, so gracious of you to rejoin us, Your Majesty," you tease affectionately, nudging him with your toe. "Seems like you get lazier with every trip. Keep hitching rides like this and we'll have to start charging you."

A squeaky little noise slips from Raf's throat, quickly followed by a sneeze-snort that's frankly too adorable to handle. You can't help yourself — you adore every silly, ridiculous part of this creature with those impossibly round, innocent eyes.

A couple kids swarm over as soon as they gather confidence to approach him. "Can we pet him?"

Look at that. Like clockwork.

With a gentle hand, you stroke his back, fingers gliding down his sleek, slippery fur from head to tail, quietly rewarding him for tolerating the children's excitement. "Alright, Raf is a little jumpy sometimes, so we can only pet him one at a time, okay guys? Remember, slow and gentle. Don't spook him."

One boy bravely kneels, gingerly scratching beneath Raf’s chin, giggling when Raf playfully nudges him with an almost haughty flick of his nose. Another child, more timid, holds out her palm for Raf to sniff and squeals when Raf leans forward to bump her inconspicuously enough to topple her onto her backside. The first wave of curious kids gets the others clustering around when they see there's nothing to be afraid of, and soon enough, squeals are louder than the ferry itself as parents linger close by, protective yet smiling fondly at the playful interactions between their children and the beloved seal.

You know Raf better than anyone, how he's around people — the cautious way he approaches, simultaneously wary and irresistibly curious, how those large, ink-dark eyes study every new movement with intent fascination, watchful yet hesitant as hands reach toward his glossy fur. It speaks volumes about his trust in you that he tolerates curious bombardments of attention every day, only flinching or skittering backward when a visitor's gesture becomes too swift or unpredictable for comfort, just as he's doing right now with these children (whom he's generally more tolerating towards.)

Occasionally though, someone ends up with an accidental nip — never serious enough to break skin, usually just leaving behind a faint pinkish mark and perhaps a startled expression. But thankfully, these incidents are rare, mostly limited to times when you're not around to ease his nerves and mediate with the person who just wants to pet him and most likely (always) in the wrong about boundaries of a wild animal.

And right now, some time after with the fawning of children and parents taking photos in an unofficial queue, you recognize his signals immediately — the way he blows raspberries and starts shifting restlessly — clear indications he's becoming overwhelmed. As soon as you see him squirming to indicate he'll start galumphing away from the eager crowd any second now, you swiftly intervene, encouraging nearby parents to corral their energetic kids and give him some breathing room.

"Alright, that's enough excitement for this morning!" you call cheerfully, ushering everyone back to their seats. "We'll be reaching our destination soon — please find your places and settle in."

As the passengers reluctantly scatter back to their seats and Raf bounces away to get back into the safety and comfort of the sea without even a glance back at you like he's blaming you for his peril, one woman remains beside you, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Raf as he glides effortlessly back into the waves. "You’ve trained him remarkably well."

That comment leaves an acidic residue in your stomach. You've never thought of Raf as an animal you had to tame into shape, or that he needed to be disciplined like a dog. It isn't about interfering with wildlife and never treating him as a pet either (though you also were very well aware). He simply is a companion you were grateful to have in your life that terms like training have always been demeaning to hear pertaining to him.

"Honestly, Raf is the cleverest sea critter I've ever known," you reply with genuine affection, quickly adding, "Though I wouldn't exactly call it 'training.'"

Her eyebrows lift with mild intrigue. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, nothing formal or complicated. Mostly just treats and encouragement, getting him comfortable around us, making sure human attention is positive for him. Simple stuff," you explain, resting casually against the railing. "He took to accepting snacks from my hand on his own — didn't even have to teach him. He just picked it up naturally, even posing nicely when tourists want photos. Mind you, he used to drive fishermen mad. My friend Elias still swears Raf sabotaged his fishing line out of spite."

Her grin broadens, matching yours, and a strong gust ruffles her blonde pixie cut like fluff from a dandelion caught in the wind. "He sounds ready for the big top. You might just have yourself a circus performer," she jokes lightly. "He seems to put on a real show whenever you're around."

Your smile dims a bit — remembering those early days weren't always so playful. The faint scars on your arm still ache whenever it rains. "I wish," you admit, wrists flexing. "But Raf gets nervous fast and ultimately does his own thing. If he listens to me at all, it’s only because he's comfortable. We grew up together, more or less. Maybe he sees this place as a secondary rookery, I don't know."

She tilts her head in subtle amazement before nodding. "You must really care for him. I’ve never seen someone handle a wild animal so naturally."

"Having his trust is special," you reply earnestly, gaze drifting toward Raf as he circles alongside the ferry, rolling with the waves as though he were just another seabird drifting with the wind. "It's rare to earn that kind of bond with a creature as smart and free-spirited as him. I’m incredibly lucky."

"He really does make one want to believe in selkies," she adds, leaning back against the rail as though preparing for a lengthy conversation.

"Selkies?"

An amused little chuckle answers before words do. "Surely you've heard of them — magical beings said to be able to shapeshift between a seal and human form." Her mouth curves into an odd smile. "It's very sad actually, the stories of the female selkies. They can shed their sealskins at will and take on a human form, but if they lose their coats, they have no choice but to stay ashore forever." She lowers her eyelashes, softening her features. "And even worse — according to lore, some men claim the skins and force the poor women who already have their mates into marriage."

"That's horrible," you reply, swallowing hard. Just thinking of Raf being bound to anyone in such a violent way makes your fists clench instinctively. You may not believe in supernatural fairy tales, but the thought of him being trapped sickens you, even for pretend. "Those men ought to be taken out to sea and keelhauled till their flesh is bloody fish bait."

The image that phrase conjures definitely has her smiling ear-to-ear.

"What about the male selkies? Is the tale genderbent in their case?"

"Well... Selkie men are seducers."

"What?" you almost scream. "That's radically different than—"

"I know," she cuts you off with a reassuring tone. "True to how the society was like back then, they had a lot more freedom. Nothing about coat-stealing or anything. Just women who are unsatisfied in their lives and relationships, also lonely fishermen wives, who summon a selkie lover by shedding seven tears into the sea at high tide on a full moon. And interestingly, those selkie men truly love their human lovers and their offspring. If their genre is romance, the stories of female selkies getting forcefully married are just horror."

"Realism, I guess," you say, trying to wrap your mind around the details.

You briefly picture Raf as one of those legendary beings. Knowing he wouldn't touch any human being with a five foot pole, you imagine it would be nothing short of wishing for a genie in a bottle but summoning a trickster spirit instead.

[saidrabbles]

vulnerable

pairing: g-dragon x reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k

.

— this is for anyone that feels like a burden to others if they dare open up about their feelings —

.

jiyong slides in his chair, letting out an exasperated sigh. music production has been so stressful, trying to meet the high expectations put on his name. g-dragon. sometimes, he wishes he can run away from this name, from his genius producer reputation. but he loves music, his fans and...he wouldn't have met you.

he met his girlfriend of three months now through mutual friends, and he couldn't be more thankful. you're everything to him, which is why your reply made him sulk.

jy: hi baby, are you free tonight? ;) y/n: hii my beloved, im sorryy :( work has piled up and i see no escape. i'll be busy for the next few days :(

several days is way too long of a time without seeing you. "i don't blame her, i'm struggling the same with my work. but i would love to see her for an hour or two." he was ranting to his bestfriend, taeyang, on the phone with a visible sulk in his voice. "i think you should tell her that jiyong, maybe she was too stressed to think of meeting for a few hours."

he was staring at the demo he produced a few hours ago, his mind thinking of ways to make the song sound better. he forgot taeyang, still on the other side of the call, but a feminine voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "did she say she's busy with work for a few days?" "yeah, why?" he cleared his voice, "uhm guys, what are you on about?"

hyorin, taeyang's wife, sounded worried. "i think you should go check up on her, jiyong-ssi." he sat straight in his seat "why? what does it mean when she says she's busy?" hyorin sighed on the other end, "i can't talk in detail about it because it's not my place but, (y/n) has struggled with being vulnerable because of a previous relationship." he stood up fully now, rushing to save his work. "i coincidentally went to visit her with a meal when she said she was busy, and she was having a breakdown...she thinks she will be a burden if she made people rush to her side everytime she's going through something." his heart felt like it stopped working, like it malfunctioned. why would she...she's not comfortable with me?...

.

.

you heard a knock on your apartment door and you started wiping your tears, the delivery man doesn't need to be seeing dried tears and puffy eyes, you tried to joke. "you can leave it just on the inside-" you were super-glued to your place. it wasn't the delivery man. "ji-jiyong?" your voice came out thick from all the crying you did. "can i please come in?" his voice was almost a whisper, like he is afraid to raise it any higher in case you run the other way.

you silently opened the door wider to allow him in, not knowing what to do with yourself. run, hide, don't show him your weakness. your traumatised mind was screaming at you, but you were still glued in-front of the gentlest man you've ever met. his eyes had an expression you couldn't read; pain? guilt? sadness..?

your body starts forcing you to walk into the living room, but before you turned around he leaped and wrapped his arms around your waist, his head leaning into your shoulder, engulfing you whole. you stayed in your place, you didn't understand what was happening. "(y/n)" he breathed again. "(y/n)" he breathed out, "why are you crying, alone, when i'm here?" you felt your body shaking, so you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your head into the crook of his neck in an attempt to hide from the confession he was asking of you.

you held him tighter, and he returned it by pulling you closer to him. "it's not about you" your voice was more of a whisper than anything. "i know baby" you shifted in his arms, "you know?" he slowly started drawing circles on the small of your back. "hyorin told me a bit about it, but" he placed a kiss on the top of your head as he rested his chin on the top of your head, "who in their right mind would not want to hold you in their arms, like this, and smell your floral shampoo?" he tried to lighten the mood.

"a whiny, clingy person" you started "that's what he told me when i called him, needing reassurance." at which point did your tears started pooling around your eyes again, you don't know, but you notice how jiyong starts swaying the both of you gently right and left, like he's telling you he's listening. he knew you still had more to say. "i'm the type of person that holds it in, i don't complain unless i've suppressed my emotions for too long. at some point in my relationship, he started sighing anytime i tried to express how i'm feeling.." you started crying, but wanted to continue,

"so, i stopped telling anyone how i feel. every time i tried to speak, my mind would start to attack me, scream at me, and it shut me up." you hid your face in his chest as you cried your heart out. you let out all of your pent-up feelings to another human being after all this time. it wasn't just anyone, it was to the person that mattered the most to you. his arms melted away your sadness, stress, frustration. after what felt like hours, your cries were now sniffles, slowly settling into this newly cleansed heart.

you felt jiyong pull away, and pull you with him over to the couch in the living room. he sat you down, held your tear-stained face ever so gently, wiping any escaping tear from your (e/c) eyes. "your vulnerability" he kissed the space between your brows "is what you makes you human" he kissed your left cheek "becoming someone you can lean on," he kissed your right cheek "is a great honour for me." he kisses your nose "i want to know your everything, i want you to cry only in my arms, and to complain when life feels unfair." he grazed his thumb over your lower lip.

he slowly leaned in, placing a feather-like kiss. you smiled as he kissed you again, deepening the kiss, like he's sealing the promise he made to you with his warm, soft lips. you melted, feeling your mind settle into an unheard whisper. he rested his forehead on yours, sighing happily.

"i love you, kwon jiyong." he giggled at the mention of his full name, "i love you too, (y/n) (l/n)." you were both giggling at this point. you settled on his lap, as he held you close to his chest. feeling his heartbeat, you felt yourself come home. "thank you, my dearest." he reassuringly squeezed your upper arm. "always, my most beloved."

a/n: im working on a gdragon x reader slow burn friends to lovers reuqested by anon, but enjoy this scenario written by yours truly :)

[sillysiluriforme]

That one post, about how everyone has an akuma mark- that wouldn't be the case, and if anything that makes it worse. An akuma (or two) a day for several years is 1,000 people, maybe 2,000. Paris has a population of 10 million. So not that many people. But consider the suffering. Being a non-akuma'd person knowing your life is forever changed, possibly in quarantine forever, all because a small handful of people couldn't keep calm. (we know it's not their fault, but blame must land somewhere and hawkmoth is distant and unseen...). To watch as your future, or your children's future crumbles, because no one in or out means limited opportunities. There'd be riots (and more akuma possibilities). But to be one of the targeted? To have the suspicion (because akumas do strike twice, thrice, or more...) and the blame (if you'd just stay calm, if you just said no...). To lose an entire day of your life, watching as everyone you loved looks fearfully or angrily towards you (what did you do? what did you say?), to lose your job (what if it happens again? or was it because of your job?). To watch everything get worse, because of course: Any disruption to Paris would be Catastrophic. The paris region produces a GDP of 1 TRILLION dollars. 1/3rd of France's GDP. A day's disruption could cost billions of dollars. Even if property gets repaired, time still moves forward- a day not worked is a day where things dont get done. Things like road maintenance, court dates, repairs to water pipes, electrical generation, surgeries, and so on. Critical workers would need to get a suicidal level apathy towards akumas, because if they stopped work everytime one appeared then lives would be lost to power shortages, lack of medical care, and water. All the traffic supplying goods every day- even if they don't get inspected going in or out, any changes to that would raise prices in a heartbeat. Refrigeration becomes unreliable, as powerlines could be cut whenever. Education goes rock bottom, as who can focus when something's happening every day? Desperation rises, as there's nowhere to go, goods are more expensive or unavailable, jobs are in short supply because so many places go out of business, or outright leave.

God, forget the holders, forget the akumas, forget the reality warping little-g gods, the sheer decay of Paris would be enough to make this AU nightmarish. If Paris remains under akuma quarantine for long enough, the effects would become exponential. As businesses leave, the money disappears. Goods become critical, as a city that big needs an entire nation to feed it (but without the money, who would bother selling to Paris?). Infrastructure becomes abandoned, as cost cutting and triage prioritizes only critical locations. The government moves elsewhere (how could they function otherwise?) taking jobs, money, and focus away from the city. Homelessness, joblessness, poverty become the norm, as with inconsistent power and deliveries, how can businesses operate? Hawkmoth is murdering the city of love, over his own doomed love.

Paris becomes a colossal burden on the french economy, a nightmarish battleground and a looming threat to the world. The country is left with a hellish choice: Let the city sink on it's own, or be dragged down with it?

[YOU FUCKING GET IT ANON. YOU EXACTLY GET IT.]

[dewdropsonparchment]

SDV Headcanons: Sam 2/?

I promise I sometimes think about the other characters (keyword: sometimes) but Sam's pull is just too strong, what's a girl to do, I've got to gravitate.

Sam having a crush headcanons:

Long, insisting stares. Nothing weird or uncomfortable, he'd just kind of get lost in thought looking at you, a faint smile plastered on his face and his eyes drinking in your every change in expression. If you caught him and called him out on it, he'd probably sheepishly apologize, grinning like a dummy and laughing about it. He might try to flirt if he felt comfortable enough, "sorry you kinda took my breath away just now". He's a bit of a goofy flirt.

Always scanning the area for a glimpse of you. Not to spy on you or anything, you'd just kind of be like his daily dose of sunshine and he'd just literally function on that energy he gets when he sees you. Not only that but he'd want to make sure you look ok. If you seemed tired or down, he'd try to help out and make you feel better. Sam really does care, and he'd want that smile of yours to be showing always.

He'd want to learn about whatever it is that you like and about your hobbies. Even if you were interested in something he wouldn't really have cared about prior to knowing you, he would research it and try to learn about it so he can bring it up when you're hanging out. He'd even go as far as trying it out with you if that was a possibility. The same way he loves for you to take an interest in his hobbies, he wants you to feel appreciated and comforted in the idea that he is genuinely interested in what makes you happy.

He would slowly yet surely try to use pet names when addressing you. At first he would maybe drop one jokingly, saying it in an overly exaggerated tone, and then it'd become some sort of habit. He'd call for your attention using it and enjoy the fact it was something special between the two of you.

Regardless of whether or not you felt the same way about him as he did you, Sam wouldn't want to lose your friendship. He would have fallen for you because of who you are and even if he had to let his crush go or keep it to himself, he wouldn't sacrifice any bit of the bond you share together no matter your feelings. If anything, he'd probably keep on admiring you and cherishing you, but he would try to make it so that he's not burdening you with it.

Sam is definitely big on PDA. He would want to be close to you. His arm brushing against yours, his head centimeters away from yours while you're showing him something on your phone or in a magazine, his hand gently resting on the small of your back, even touching your hands while he's daydreaming or talking about something he's especially passionate about... this man craves for your touch and he'll take as much as you give him as long as you're comfortable giving it. He'll respect your boundaries, no justification needed.

Sam wants to hug everyone. But especially you. Oh you're saying hello? Here's one as a morning treat. You've done something you're embarrassed or shy about? No worries, he's got you... he'll hide you in a strong warm bear hug. Feeling like the world is beating down on you? He'd hold you so tight you would feel like nothing else exists outside of him and his reassuring smell. There is nothing better than a hug for him to show you he's there and will be there for you no matter what.

He will bring you whatever reminds him of you. A flower on the way home that wore your favorite colors? It's yours now. That little keychain that looked cute and had your vibe? Hey, better have some spare space on that key ring clip. A new yummy pastry made of your favorite flavors his eyes stopped on while ordering his go-to pizza? It's free food delivery time o'clock baby. You might need some sort of box to store all of these if we're being honest because he just won't stop.

Sam would become very protective of you. He is very protective of the people he cares about in general, but with those feelings for you, he would want to make sure everyone knows that if they crossed you the wrong way he'd make them eat their audacity. Not that he believes that you can't handle yourself, he's actually quite proud to boast about how strong and cool and amazing you are at any given opportunity, but there's just that little itch in him that pushes him to want to make sure no harm is every in the way of getting done to you. If he had to take a punch for you, he'd do it and not bat an eye.

He will be your hype man. If you ever feel like shit or you can't make peace with yourself on a particular day, he'll throw those compliments at you as fast as Pierre would run after that 1 gold coin. And nothing disingenuous, it's all heartfelt and he means all of it. He won't let you beat yourself up, he'll make sure that his voice is louder than any other that might try to put you down, even your own. You are precious to him, and he will make it a point to have you know in excruciating details exactly why you are.

Another tell tale sign of his falling for you would be the changes in lyrics regarding the songs he usually hums to himself. While he'd usually go for empowering songs, falling for you he'd catch himself listening to slower, more romantic songs with all those sappy lyrics he kinda made fun of before. And he'd listen to them on repeat, lying down on his bed, looking at the ceiling and just picturing your face as the melody goes. He'd have them stuck in his head so much he'd mindlessly sing them around you or others. Seb wouldn't let him live it down.

[gloomwitchwrites]

The Vampire King

Vampire King Thranduil x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Vampire AU, horror / suspense, blood drinking, Sauron’s influence, non-consensual biting

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Vampire AU)

Sent by your Lord as the final courier, you venture through Mirkwood toward Thranduil's halls, only to find the place haunted by evil.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

"We have not heard from the King of the Woodland Realm for some time. I fear the worst."

Your Lord fiddles with the sealed letter in his palm. There is a weariness to his brow that concerns you. For several seasons, the Greenwood has grown ever darker. Mirkwood is its name now, and has been for years, but its shadow has never reached your doorstep.

This is a last attempt. A final outreach of contact with the hope for answers.

"Take this correspondence,” he continues, offering you the sealed letter. “Make sure you hand it to King Thranduil himself. And if that is not possible, try to witness the transfer into his hands. All my others have gone unanswered. But I have no notion of whether or not my earlier attempts went undelivered."

Undelivered is an understatement. Every courier that your Lord sent forth into the Greenwood never returned. There has been no communication from them. Not a breath. While your Lord will not admit it, you suspect that their disappearances might have to do with King Thranduil.

“Of course,” you bow, taking the letter with the knowledge that you might be heading to your death.

Your Lord inclines his head, a sad smile on his face. “You cannot travel by horse. They do not like the trees. But there is a path. One created by the Elves. Follow that road and you will arrive at Thranduil’s doors.”

Within your traveling tunic, you tuck the correspondence away in a small pocket. It will be well hidden even if you are felled and searched. The contents are unimportant. It is the delivery that is paramount. Your Lord needs to know if the Woodland Realm has fallen completely into shadow. If you do not return, it is likely he will reach out to others.

Forming a fist, you place it over your heart, bowing your head. “It shall be done.”

The journey to the Greenwood is uneventful, but when you arrive to its borders, a sudden sense of foreboding greets you, as if the trees themselves are warning you away.

The Greenwood oozes darkness though the tree line appears healthy like any other forest. It is the strangest sensation. Everything looks fine, but from it, all you feel is dread. A sickness.

As you approach the marked path, a swelling sensation emerges as if a gigantic beast is opening its maw to swallow you whole. The Elven path is overgrown yet you can still see the read beneath. It is clear that the Elves of the Woodland Realm have not tended to it in some time. It’ll just be harder to navigate, but not impossible.

Every step and stone are laden with leaves and twisting twigs. You spend much of your walk pushing it all aside with your boot, clearing the path as you go along. The road, at least for a time, is easy to find. Yet, as you follow it further, the path begins to erode. The stones are either completely missing, broken, or blend into the ground as if the magic that protests it has also faltered and decayed.

A dreariness settles over everything. Your movement forward is slow going, and with the canopy, it is unclear as the time of day. It is all the same, like there is no day or night, like you’ve stepped into an entirely different world.

You continue on until the path is broken and shattered. Backtracking becomes a necessary burden. The path will disappear from view only to reappear when you least expect it. Many have complimented you on your tracking skills, but this goes beyond what you’ve learned and honed over the years.

Doubt creeps in.

This is more than simple decay. Perhaps there is another at work in these woods. Something wants you to doubt and venture off the path. Something wants you to get lost—to be befuddled by the changing landscape.

Remaining strong—remaining confident in yourself—is the best option.

It is the only option.

Your Lord is relying on you to deliver his letter and return. And you must rely on yourself to return to the place you call home.

When a large bridge and two massive doors appear, a great relief rushes through you. This is where you’ve been heading. This is where you’re supposed to be.

With a lightness in your step, you approach the bridge and immediately pause. There are no guards. No sounds other than the rushing water. You sniff the air but scent nothing foul. Orcs and other such creatures have a stink about them.

The air is calm. The leaves in the trees stir but not from unnatural disturbance. You detect no ambush and yet the very lack of guards set your senses into overdrive. You are alert as you tentatively take a step forward. Then another.

Vines curl over and around the sides of the bridge. Cracks cobweb across portions of the stone allowing in browning grass. Even here there are signs of decay. It’s a perfect place for an ambush.

But perhaps there is no one lurking in anticipation to attack. Maybe you’ll find a hall of dead Elves. Maybe you’ll find no one at all. Or you might find something far more sinister skulking about. Whatever you find, you intend on returning to your Lord with word of your discovery.

You only hope that you’ll survive.

"I have come on behalf of my Lord and Master. I have word from him to deliver to the King of the Woodland Realm!" Your raised voice carries across the bridge but is met with silence.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves.

You've come all this way and yet the need to turn back is more present than ever.

Above you, a whoosh of air kicks up a brief gust of wind. You glance up, expecting to see a large bird flying overhead, but there is nothing. A deep dread swells in your stomach, the muscles in your legs tensing for a retreat.

Just as you prepare to return to the forest, the large, ornate gates groan and screech, opening enough for a singular guard to emerge. They are in full armor, and the helmet they wear completely hides their face.

They stand next to the open gate, a silent sentinel.

You call out again. "I seek an audience with King Thranduil."

The guard remains silent, observing without comment. Slowly, you approach, aware that you might need to go on the defensive. With every step, the helmet turns with, tracking your approach and entrance into Thranduil's halls.

There is nothing about the guard's body language to indicate hostility, but you're not comforted. You walk past the guard and through the cracked gates, entering into illuminated darkness. The silent sentinel follows, the gates closing, a sense of entrapment coming with it.

This place is a cage. You realize that now. Your freedom has just been ripped away from you. Stolen.

The guard moves right past you, an invitation to follow. You keep a polite distance, observing your surroundings. Not a single living thing crosses your path. It is utterly silent in these halls. Quiet.

In the throne room, the guard brings you to a winding flight of stairs. Upon the throne is a pale but fair figure with golden hair boarding on white. His robes are a deep scarlet while his crown is a twisting nest of black thorns and dried berries.

King Thranduil. Lord the Woodland Realm.

As you near, his gaze falls upon you, and you're met by pale red eyes that bite into your very soul.

"Welcome, messenger." His voice is soothing. Eerily calm.

You bow deeply. "Thank you for receiving me."

"And where do you hail from?" You tell him, keeping your head bowed. "I see," he replies softly. "He has been persistent."

You glance up, a bit of hope in your tone. "Then you have received his other correspondence."

"I have. Not that I wanted to answer them."

You frown at the revelation. If he has received all the other missives, where are the missing couriers? Did they return to the forest and eventually lose their way?

"He grows worried," you say cautiously. "Without word, he fears the worst. I am the last before he sends for aid."

A soft smirk tugs at the corner of Thranduil's mouth. It's just enough to show a glimpse of sharpened teeth. "How...quaint. As if the Lord of the Woodland Realm needs aid. We are perfectly fine here."

Swallowing down the bit of fear lodged in your throat, you reach into your tunic and withdraw the letter. "I am tasked with bringing this to you."

"And I will take it." You step forward and Thranduil holds up a hand. As if running into a wall, your limbs suddenly freeze, the control of your muscles zapped from you. "Tomorrow," he says. "You should rest. The Greenwood has become treacherous of late."

King Thranduil's demeanor is casual yet you sense a lingering power beneath it. There is no room for discussion. This is not a request but a command.

"Of course," you reply.

Thranduil snaps his fingers and the guard from earlier approaches. Control is returned to you. You've been dismissed and you exit the throne room without further instruction. Again, the halls are empty. Not a soul passes. It is only you, the guard, and the odd quiet.

Brought to a private room, you are left alone until another guard brings you a meal. There is something off about it. Everything appears fresh but there is a sourness beneath the taste that doesn't sit right with you.

You don't remember drifting off. You don't remember falling into bed. You awaken in a cold sweat, a dull ache tugging at your neck. Sitting up, you press your palm to the side of your throat. The room spins.

You drop your hand.

Notice red.

"You should be asleep, courier." Thranduil's voice is like a distant song. It lulls you back toward an endless abyss.

"Why are you here?" Your voice cracks slightly, dipping toward a strangled garble.

Other than a few lit candles on the table in front of him, the room is dark. Thranduil brings a glass goblet to his lips. In it is a dark liquid. Thranduil turns his head, and you're met with glowing eyes. They are piercing, like a blade to the gut. A sharpness seizes you, twisting to the point of pain. You cry out and grab your stomach.

"I like your memories. They are sweet. Flower-kissed. The ones from childhood are always the most...delicious." He sighs as if in serene pleasure. "Shall I keep you? Would you like that?"

It's rhetorical. Thranduil does not seek an answer. You feel it in your gut.

You will stay whether your heart wishes it or not.

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @glitterypirateduck @foxxy-126

@km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei

@cherryofdeath @ninman82 @waves-against-a-cliff @eternallyvenus @beebeechaos

@smileykiddie08 @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41 @thewulf @firelightinferno

@protosslady @thetaekwondofeline

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Do we know why Aylin is/was known as the Nightsong? Shar is the Nightsinger, of course, but Aylin is Selune’s kid, not hers. Is it just a middle finger to Selune or is there some other reason?

Out-of-universe answer: originally, way, way back at the start of early access, the Nightsong was a Sharran, unwillingly participating in Ketheric's ritual, apparently also occasionally going through some sort of possession by Shar, and insisting to you, the player, that she wanted "to sing her own song, not Shar's, not Ketheric's".

Eventually, through a bunch of iterations of the story, this character became the Aylin we know today, but the Nightsong moniker remained - I assume since the whole Nightsong questline and mystery were well-known and established - even as its context and implications changed.

In-universe answer: the name is absolutely a cruel and derogatory thing, one that I think both Shar and Aylin's more mundane would-be captors get a kick out of. Shar stealing something as dear to her sister as her very daughter, and staking a claim on her like that, to the extent of doing away with her very name? What bigger middle finger could there possibly be?

Then, Ketheric, Balthazar, all of them - Lorroakan as well - do it very deliberately, effacing Aylin's identity and using this as another part of the dehumanisation and objectification, calling Aylin everything from a relic to a masterpiece to claiming her as their "creation" (this also serves to very conveniently and effectively obfuscate the truth of their whole operation). Ketheric, in one of his rooftop dialogues, makes it fairy clear, too:

Player: What of the Nightsong? Ketheric Thorm: I’ll keep her close. Aylin was her name - an angel of Selûne’s own brood, sent to guide and guard my line. Until she failed me. Ketheric Thorm: Now she is Nightsong. Balthazar’s greatest creation, and the source of my greatest strength. Ketheric Thorm: How often our burdens can be made into boons, with the right encouragement.

Lorroakan, when you get him flustered, keeps angrily but deliberately correcting himself to referring to "the Nightsong" as "it" whenever a "she" slips through. It's revolting! I simply adore Aylin's delivery of this taunting line related to all of that:

Dame Aylin: What are you so scared of, magus? Not the Nightsong, surely - why, she's nothing but a relic to be purchased and pursued.

And after all, it is not for nothing that Aylin refers to herself as "the so-called Nightsong" in her much lauded iconic chain-breaking release scene and exclaims that "the Nightsong is no more".

She even includes it as part of her long signature in her epilogue letter:

So yeah, "don't call her that" sounds like excellent advice.

[frostedsugarcookiehearts]

₁ the year you died

teenagers with burdens too heavy to utter, a pack of marlboros, a beat up old red '66 chevrolet el camino, a sweltering new york summer the year before college and too many hours to waste.

in the summer of 2015, the door to schlatt's room was white.

in the summer of 2016, the door to schlatt's room was bright pink with spots of turquoise and yellow, a huge rainbow on it and two pairs of handprints― yours and his, your names etched under it in the wood of the door with your pocketknife.

in the summer of 2017, the door to schlatt's room was white again. but the color under was still just faded enough where you could see there used to be something there― something important.

the door, a messy amalgamation of color that looked like a cross between an LSD trip and someone had tripped over piles of paint, swung open. schlatt shot up from his bed, taking one of his headphones out. "what the fuck, ma―"

but it wasn't his mom, it was his best friend. "hey loser, get your lazy ass off your bed, and let's go do something! it's the summer of junior year," reminding him as if he didn't know that already, he was pulled to his feet and shoved into his own garage. he blinked, and then suddenly the two of you were out biking the hectic streets of a new york summer. delivery boys swerved their mopeds to inch away from you, middle aged mothers muttered curses under their breaths at you they hoped their children couldn't hear, and grumpy old men on the street shook their fists at you like you were heathens.

drenched in sweat, breaths heavy like aging smokers', you two clamored into schlatt's tiny new york apartment. his mother made chicken pot pie as she gently asked you about college, and boldly you proclaimed you were going to harvard. an absurd notion for your shoddy new york streets, scruffed vans, jagged hands self, but then schlatt's dad let out a gruff laugh― eerily the exact one schlatt himself had a few beers deep. the four of you sat at the dinner table together, a flickering lamp illuminating the room.

laughter filled up the halls in schlatt's apartment, and whenever you two got the chance you'd sneak out back to the woods behind his place, which you affectionately called "farfignugenville", because the tongue twister always made you and schlatt laugh. grabbing the switchblade you always kept in the pocket of your blue jeans, you'd carve both your intials into the trees. said, "it wasn't morally wrong if you two were meant to be in history forever." schlatt believed you. he believed everything you ever said― your voice was his bible.

breaking down bedroom doors with his worn highschool varsity baseball bat, smoking cigarettes even though his lips were virgin in partial to it was how schlatt was after his mother had told him. her words had sort of all blurred together, kind of sounded fake― he'd taken it like one of her lectures, tuned her out. but this time it was real. something important. you were gone. if he was three years old, she would've used a dumb euphemism like "up in the farm" or "in a nice place far, far away". but he wasn't. he was seventeen. a man now.

nothing was the same after that.

schlatt had the same bike since he was seven years old, when he still believed in santa claus and his favorite power ranger was the red one. he'd gotten that damn bike when he'd played his first game of minecraft, as well. but now he stood in front of his apartment after hearing the news, frozen as he saw the pole outside his house bare. normally your bicycle and his were in tandem together, tied up on the same black pole for years. but they were both gone.

and schlatt snapped. he asked around the neighborhood until a bunch of eighth graders whispered gossip to him that it was a troublemaker in the neighborhood named corduroy, that he'd done it to mess with schlatt, but mainly you. hearing your name coming from someone else lips after knowing you were gone filled him with a sense of white-hot rage that he was only sure he felt. promptly, he beat the shit out of the snotty little eighth grader, spit on him while he was down, and stole his shitty fake id that looked like it was made at a toys-r-us out of crayon.

lipstick and hair astray, schlatt rolled over on top of a blissed-out girl with her black hair spread out on the ground just as her legs were, her red lipstick painted all over his body as if he were a mural and not a douchey teenage boy. the grass under her tickled his thighs and he could almost ignore the glimpse out of the corner of his eyes of the two of you's initials etched into the oak he had the girl pressed up against. he'd taken her out to the woods you'd dumbly referred to as "farfignugenville" and simply called it, his voice deep and more like his fathers' now, "the path." his breath was heavy and his heart didn't speed up as he tossed the used condom to the side, it seeping into the dirt of the oak tree. a crude slapping noise came as it collilded with the spot you'd etched your initials onto the tree. you'd have hated him for it― for littering, for sleeping with her, for beating the shit out of that kid, for everything. he hated himself for it too.

he drank until he gave the word "alcoholic" a new definition, still using the crumpled up shitty one he'd gotten from the eighth grader. the path had become a new place for him to hangout with his new pothead stoner douchebag friends, the popular crowd, kids who hated you. who hated him. they didn't hate the fun he brung, though, or the booze. and so they drank and drank until their livers gave and their parents called the police on them. one night after the red-and-blue lights stained the windows of schlatt's apartment again, his father slapped him and his mother told them they were getting a divorce.

there was a permanent stain where you'd once been when at fourteen you tried to wash your clothes and dropped the bleach on the carpet. there were new stains surrounding it now, especially from barf after one of schlatt's parties that he pretended weren't only thrown because his friends used him for his house, and he mopped up that stain like it was his damn future career― which it probably would be if he kept acting like a damn fool― to cover it up from his parents. the barf stain went away. the bleach one didn't.

he, after a drunken bender, woke up naked and wrapped in paper towels next to his friends in their old neighbors' backyard, a grumpy old man with a rifle. his friends laughed, their breaths reeking of alcohol as the familiar sing of sirens filled their ears. the neighbors son, a boy in schlatt's class, came outside and screamed at the lot as they shimmied into their clothes. schlatt, ears ringing and fists clenched tight, decked him in the face and broke his nose. as the boy lay, his nose in hand, tears prickling his eyes, schlatt scoffed distastefully. "fuckin' faggot." he grumbled, much to his friends delight, as they burst into annoying laughter that sounded like shrill grating.

taken a bat to his mailbox and bent it out of shape, he'd gotten his college acceptance letter in the mail three weeks late. it was aged and yellow, the page crinkled with the emblem of the local state school on the front. accepted for once in his life, schlatt celebrated by going to the grocery store and buying himself a six-pack. his brown steely eyes had instilled fear in so many youth and adults alike eyes, but the minute he saw the auburn hair in a ponytail that was your mothers, those eyes were anywhere but on her. he couldn't bare to look at her. you looked eerily like her.

so that day he drove the '66 chevy to a rock, all brandished with your name and surrounded by flowers from people who hated you when you were alive, but now out of courtesy pretended to be your friend. he planted his feet in front of it, trying to find duds in the lining of his blue jeans pockets to offer you. only things he could muster were rolling papers and condom wrappers, so he'd sprinkled those on the mulch. they'd gotten thrown out promptly by the graveyard security, deemed as an act of "vandalism" and brandished on his permanent record.

and as he walked home alone that night, he'd turned on radiohead.

-> for anyone who couldn't tell (it wasn't that publicized dw) the title is the name of this poem of the same name and is the inspiration for this fic. please read it helps you understand !! :3

divider credits: @issysh3ll

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— i’ve never needed anything more ; you just discovered that you missed his birthday

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

It’s a peaceful Sunday morning, around 10 a.m., and after having a quiet breakfast, you pick up your phone to talk to your mom. The conversation begins with updates on your morning until you seize the moment to express something that’s been bothering you.

“I don’t know, Mom. I think I can manage my own meals. I already know the eating schedule, and sometimes I want to cook something for myself too,” you explain, trying to break away from the food deliveries your mom insists on sending three times a day.

“Honey, I just don’t want to bother you with all that. You should focus on your grades,” she replies with her usual reasoning.

You let out a soft huff, dropping onto your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your mom’s words fade into the background as your mind wanders. You feel a small ache in your chest—frustration mixed with guilt.

“I don’t want to burden you either, Mom,” you whisper softly, almost unaware the words slipped out.

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence is weighty, making you regret saying anything at all.

“Alright, honey. Next week, we’ll go visit the nutritionist,” your mom says, breaking the silence with a more thoughtful tone. “If she says you’ve reached your ideal weight and everything looks good, I’ll let you manage your meals. But I’m supervising your groceries.” Her voice softens, showing a small concession.

Relief washes over you, a smile tugging at your lips. “Okay, thanks, Mom.”

After a bit more conversation, your mom finally ends the call, leaving you in a quieter state. You sit up, eyes focused on nothing in particular, thinking about the nutritionist visit. You’ve been working to balance your diet, and you know you’ve been struggling with vitamin deficiencies recently—an issue your mom constantly worries about. The promise of having more control over your meals feels like a small victory.

As you walk to the bathroom, ready to shower and shake off the heaviness of the conversation, your phone buzzes again in your hand. Tsukishima’s name lights up on the screen. You feel a small surge of surprise.

“Hello?” you answer.

“What are you doing right now?” His voice is calm, but there's something playful underneath it.

You smile to yourself. “I was about to take a shower before you called. Why?”

A soft hum comes from his end. “I’m picking you up after. We’re having a movie marathon at my place tonight.”

You blink, slightly taken aback by his straightforwardness. “We are?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light. “That sounds... fun, I guess?”

“Yeah?” He sounds suspicious. “You have other plans?”

“Well, I usually spend Sundays reviewing my notes and preparing for the week,” you admit, feeling awkward about turning him down.

“You’re gonna reject me for studying?” His voice is half-teasing, half-accusing, and you can almost picture him raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, you can’t guilt trip me for prioritizing academic works,” you reply with a whine, though there’s a grin on your face.

He chuckles, the sound low and brief. “Alright, then. I’ll come over, help you with your notes and assignments, and then we’re doing the movie marathon.”

“Why are you so eager for this movie marathon?” you tease. “you’re not busy anymore?”

He sighs at your teasing, his tone turning dry. “Just get in the shower. I’ll be there in ten.”

Before you can say anything else, the line goes dead. You frown, staring at your phone for a second, feeling the familiar mix of confusion and amusement whenever Tsukishima decides things on his own.

Shaking your head, you quickly hop into the shower, the warm water soothing your thoughts. As you step out, towel wrapped around your damp hair, you catch a message from Tsukishima:

I’m here, in front of the gate.

Your heart skips a beat. You quickly towel your hair dry, feeling self-conscious about your appearance. Grabbing your access card, you rush to the gate, still fussing over your damp, messy hair. When you spot Tsukishima, he’s casually scrolling through his phone, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Without thinking, you grab his hand, dragging him toward the dorm. His eyes widen slightly at the sudden motion, but he follows without protest, his long strides keeping up with your rushed pace.

“What’s wrong with you?” he mumbles as you reach the entrance, his tone a mix of amusement and confusion.

You let out a dramatic sigh, pulling off the towel from your head. “Don’t you see? My hair is a mess. It’s still wet,” you complain, your cheeks warming under his steady gaze.

He glances at your hair and then shrugs, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “No one cares, though.”

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms in mock annoyance as he casually moves to sit on your bed. There’s a softness in his expression—a faint smile that lingers longer than usual—and something about the way he watches you makes your heart flutter in a way you can’t quite explain.

You sit at the edge of your bed, the early afternoon light filtering through the curtains and casting a soft glow on the room. It feels cozy—quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the space seem intimate and peaceful.

As you dry your hair, your motions are automatic, distracted by the thoughts of the work awaiting you, but Tsukishima, with his typical nonchalant air, interrupts this routine. He catches your hand mid-motion, and for a moment, your eyes meet. His gaze, though masked in his usual cool demeanor, has a playful spark to it. The brief eye contact sends a flutter of confusion through you—why is he playing around like this? Your heart skips slightly as he wraps the towel around your head with a teasing smile, and you groan, twisting away, your cheeks flushing at the sudden closeness.

“What is wrong with you?” you huff, more from embarrassment than frustration. Tsukishima chuckles, and the light sound is warm, like a break in the tension you’ve been carrying. His amusement feels infectious, though you try not to show it, eyes narrowing as you try to hold your ground.

He shifts, changing the atmosphere back to focus. “So, where do we start?” he asks, his tone returning to his usual calm.

You glance toward the desk, still messy from your study sessions. The sight of the scattered papers and open textbooks feels overwhelming, but Tsukishima—always annoyingly unphased—just sighs, opening the first book and flipping through it like it’s second nature to him. You sit down, the chair creaking under your weight, and hand him the list of the week’s syllabus with a soft breath, almost dreading the process.

His fingers graze yours as he takes the list, his touch brief but enough to make you hyper-aware of his presence in this small, cluttered room. You glance at him through the corner of your eye, noting how focused he becomes, eyes narrowing slightly as he begins checking your notes against the topics. The sunlight catches his glasses, making him seem somehow even more distant and aloof. Yet there’s something oddly comforting about it—the way he’s silently helping, the quiet rhythm of the two of you working side by side.

You dive into your own assignment, the tapping of your keyboard filling the air. The room grows warmer as time passes, the afternoon heat creeping in. Despite this, Tsukishima stays focused, the steady flipping of your notes the only indication he’s still there. Occasionally, your eyes dart toward him, wondering how he manages to make even studying seem effortless. His calm presence fills the room, and the usual weight of stress starts to lighten.

“Why do you need to study like this?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking through the silence. His tone isn’t accusing but genuinely curious.

You glance up at him, blinking in surprise. “Well, since you haven’t realized yet,” you say with a small laugh, trying to ease the vulnerability creeping into your chest, “I’m not naturally smart at this. I have to catch up with everyone else.”

He doesn't respond immediately, but you can feel his gaze on you, thoughtful, like he's contemplating more than just your answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer. “No one’s naturally smart at any major. You just have to keep learning.”

It’s a simple statement, but it feels like more than just advice—it’s Tsukishima’s quiet way of telling you that he sees your effort, even if he doesn’t say it outright. His words settle into your chest, making your heart feel just a little lighter. You smile, turning back to your work, but not before catching the way his eyes linger on you for just a second longer, a rare glint of something softer behind his usual aloofness.

You continue typing, the sound filling the room again. The sun has shifted now, the light becoming dimmer, casting longer shadows across the desk. You both sit in comfortable silence, the world outside your window still and quiet. It’s peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected—a shared moment of focus that makes the pressures of your academic struggles feel manageable, even fleeting.

After two hours, Tsukishima closes the notebook and hands you the paper with the syllabus, each point checked off. You murmur a quiet thanks, placing it beside your laptop. But his question hangs in the air, and something about the stillness in the room makes you feel like you need to explain more.

“Well, I didn’t even know this kind of thing existed,” you start, keeping your tone light, though the words feel heavy. “I was never good at math or chemistry in high school. But my mom decided that since I wasn’t good at it, I needed to work harder. She probably wants me to excel at everything,” you laugh, though it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Tsukishima leans back against the headboard, watching you carefully. His eyes, usually so cold and distant, seem softer now, as if he’s seeing through your cheerful front. “And because I’m not naturally good at it, I have to work twice as hard if I want to be decent.”

“Such an academic achiever,” he mumbles, though there’s no bite to his words.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or...?”

He shrugs, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Take it however you want.”

Despite yourself, you smile, shaking your head at him. The two of you fall back into silence, but it’s different now—warmer, like the shared weight of your words lingers in the air between you.

Tsukishima glances at your digital clock, noticing it’s midday. He drops your notebook onto the desk, groaning as he stretches behind you. You're so absorbed in your task that you don’t notice him until he wraps his arms playfully around your neck, pulling you out of your chair.

“Hey, stop!” you laugh, squirming, but he drags you up and pushes you onto the bed. Your laugh turns to confusion when you land, sprawled across the mattress.

Before you can get up, Tsukishima jumps onto the bed beside you, ruffling your hair. “You’re so annoying sometimes,” you groan, but the smile on your face betrays your words.

“It’s lunch time, take a break,” he says, shifting comfortably beside you. His arm pulls you closer, and though your heart pounds, the scent of his cologne relaxes you. You look up at him, your fingers unconsciously brushing through his blonde hair. His deep gaze meets yours, soft and unguarded. Your touch is gentle, and Tsukishima closes his eyes, leaning into the sensation.

But the moment is interrupted by the buzz of your phone. You glance at the screen, reading the message from your mom. “I need to get the delivery,” you say, standing up.

“Your mom sent lunch again?” Tsukishima asks, sitting up as you slip on your slippers.

“Yup, and you’re helping me eat it,” you tease before heading out.

When you return with the paper bag, you see Tsukishima organizing your desk, stacking your notes neatly and shutting down your laptop.

“Hey—”

“I saved your work,” he says, glancing over. “Relax.”

You sigh, placing the food on the table. “This is my favorite,” you announce excitedly, opening the containers of chicken popcorn and wings.

The two of you wash your hands at the sink, standing close but quiet, and then sit side by side at the table. Small talk flows easily between bites, the room filling with the warmth of shared conversation and delicious food.

Tsukishima nudges you gently as you finish tying your shoes, his touch more playful than forceful, before pulling you outside your dorm in one swift motion. Before you can react, he’s already grabbing your hand, pulling you toward his car parked nearby.

The ride begins in silence. After a few minutes, you decide to break it, your curiosity getting the best of you. "So… what were you up to yesterday? You said you were busy."

Tsukishima spares a glance at you before answering in his typical nonchalant tone, "Just visiting my family." His answer is short, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to follow up.

You nod, thoughtful. You realize that although you’ve been together for a month, you haven’t really talked about family. The topic feels heavy, almost foreign in the context of your still-growing relationship. For you, discussing your own family is a delicate subject, one you usually avoid. Maybe Tsukishima feels the same?

The car finally comes to a stop, and Tsukishima is quick to unbuckle his seatbelt, getting out and circling to your side. He opens your door, an unexpected gesture that makes your cheeks warm, but you pretend not to notice the effect it has on you.

Inside his apartment, he hands you a pair of slippers, far too big but comfortable nonetheless. You slip them on and can’t help but notice the massive window spanning the wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city, the night sky filled with twinkling lights.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, gesturing to the couch. "Pick something to watch on Netflix. I’ll make the popcorn."

As you sit down, scrolling aimlessly through titles, you call out to him in the kitchen, “So, do you visit your family often?” You ask, testing the waters.

Tsukishima hums from the kitchen, “Not really. Only when I have time or when they need something.”

You bite your lip, unsure if you should dig deeper. “Are you… close with them?”

He’s quiet for a moment, the sounds of popcorn popping filling the silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured. “Close enough.”

Sensing that it might not be the easiest topic for him either, you shift the conversation. “Well, any movie preferences? Or should I surprise you?”

“Surprise me,” he replies, the faint sound of a smile in his voice.

Now, you found yourself flipping through Netflix with a remote in hand, your eyes scanning titles you weren’t even familiar with. Growing up, your mom had strictly limited your screen time, organizing your schedule down to the minute. That habit had stuck with you through high school and into university. So, now that you lived away from home, movies had never really been a priority, and you hadn’t exactly binge-watched anything since. But Tsukishima—he looked like the type to have a curated list of films he enjoyed, and you were sure whatever he picked, you’d end up liking it just because you were watching it with him.

As you scrolled through the selection, you heard a notification ping from Tsukishima’s phone on the table in front of you. “I think someone messaged you,” you said, glancing at the screen.

“Can you read it for me?” came his voice from the kitchen. He was waiting for the popcorn to finish, the sounds of popping kernels filling the background.

You hesitated for a moment, unused to the idea of going through someone else’s phone, but eventually, you picked it up, unlocking the screen. “It’s from… Akiteru? ‘Kei, did you get my present for you? It’s supposed to be delivered this morning to your place,’” you read aloud, frowning slightly.

You didn’t know who this Akiteru person was, but the way they casually called him by his first name made it obvious they were close. Was it a friend? A cousin? Before you could process it further, Tsukishima’s footsteps echoed from behind you.

“Say it again,” he said as he walked into the room, popcorn in hand.

“Huh?” You glanced up at him, confused, and looked back down at his phone. “It’s from Aki—”

“No, my name,” he interrupted, his eyes locked on yours. “Say my name again.”

Your heart skipped a beat, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realized what he was asking. You hadn’t called him by his first name since the two of you started dating. It felt too intimate, too personal—especially when he insisted on keeping things low-key.

You swallowed nervously. “Why?”

“Just say it,” his voice was patient, though you could hear the faint edge of impatience creeping in.

You felt your face grow warmer. Clearing your throat, you finally whispered, “Kei.”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, smug smirk. “You can call me that from now on,” he said, sitting beside you, the bowl of popcorn landing on the table. You hastily handed him his phone, still avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, it’s my brother,” he remarked casually, glancing at the screen.

“Your brother?” you asked, feeling a bit more at ease now. “He sent you a present?”

Tsukishima nodded as he typed a reply. “Yeah, apparently.”

You glanced over as he stood up, walking to the front door. When he returned, he carried a small package. Opening it in front of you, he revealed a sleek, personalized pen from an exclusive stationery brand.

Your eyes widened in awe. “That’s so beautiful. My dad has one of these—it’s expensive for a pen,” you said, admiring the elegant engraving of Tsukishima’s name.

“Yeah, my brother works for this company,” he replied nonchalantly, though there was a hint of pride in his voice.

You picked up the small card nestled inside the box and read it aloud. “‘To my salty brother; you’re getting old like a grumpy grandpa. Happy 23rd birthday.’” You paused, blinking in surprise. “Wait, it was your birthday?”

Tsukishima chuckled at your shocked expression. “Two days ago, actually.”

Your mouth fell open. “So your birthday was on the 27th?” He nodded, still amused by your reaction.

“That’s why I couldn’t see you on Friday and Saturday. I had to celebrate with my family.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday!” you exclaimed, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie. “I would’ve prepared something for you—a gift or a cake, at least!”

He shrugged. “I knew your birthday by accident, so it’s only fair you found out about mine the same way.”

“But still,” you muttered, pouting a little. “You celebrated mine, but I didn’t even get you anything…”

“That’s why I wanted to have a movie night tonight,” he said coolly, leaning back against the couch. “Spending time with you is enough for me. Plus,” he added with a teasing smirk, “I got you as my girlfriend now—that counts as a gift, right?”

Your cheeks flushed a deep red at his words, heart fluttering. Without thinking, you scooted closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso in a tight hug. You had never initiated physical affection before; it had always been Tsukishima who made the first move.

His body stiffened slightly in surprise before relaxing into your embrace. “Happy birthday, Kei,” you whispered softly into his chest.

Tsukishima couldn’t help the warm smile that spread across his face, his heart swelling at the sound of your voice. It was a simple moment, but to him, it was perfect—the quiet intimacy of your touch, the way you whispered his name, all of it felt right. As he rested his chin atop your head, his fingers gently combed through your hair, and he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head, savoring the sweetness of the moment.

i’m sorry i write this so late for tsukishima’s birthday but please enjoy 🥹🫶🏻☺️

tagslist (free to mention) ; @theweirdfloatything @snowthatareblack @ilovemymomscooking @nayiiryun @knightofmidnight @kozumesphone @scxrcherr @thechaosoflonging @monya-febrjack

[fyxestroll]

Early Mornings

pairing: roboute guilliman x reader (gn.)

note: potential ooc. this was supposed to be about roboute's uncanny valley smile based on @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond's post but I got distracted so have some fluff ig

“Robuuuu,”  You croon, pressing yourself closer to his side and gently stroking his hair. 

It’s rare for Roboute to take rest in your shared bed and even rarer for you to be awake during these times. Usually, you’d watch silently, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as you press soft kisses on his eyelids. 

Throne knows running the Imperium takes its toll on him. You’ve heard of his pleas for five more minutes of rest and seen how the bags under his eyes seem to grow deeper and deeper but more importantly, you’ve witnessed how he’d pick himself up every time the weight of this empire threatened to break him. 

As much as you seek to ease his burdens there is little you a mere mortal could do and being there for Roboute was one of those things.

Now, disturbing him from his respite would oppose that but…

You poke him on the cheek, a grin on your face. Almost immediately he opens one of his eyes, a pool of soul as blue as Mcragge’s seas.

…you’ve been by him long enough to know when he was pretending to be asleep.

“Awake so early, my dear,” he spoke, barely above a whisper and with a rasp. The hand draped over you pulls you closer and you rest your forehead against his, “Is something the matter?”

Ah, your husband, ever the worrywart.

Shaking your head you answer, “Nothing. Just woke up s’all.”

“Then go back to sleep.” A large hand comes to guide your head to the crook of his neck. “We both need rest and it’s best one of us gets it.”

“Noo,” you whine, “You’d be gone when I wake up.” 

“No matter,” he responds, “I’ll let you cling to me like you did before.”

“Huh?” Bewildered, you lift your head to look at him and in response, the Primarch gives you a look.

…

Oh. 

You realise.

He’s joking.

It takes a moment to settle. Roboute’s jokes while becoming less rare as of late were hard to detect due to his dry delivery. Usually, you’d let out a late laugh, a giggle because his jokes were funny. This time, however, you pinched his cheek as your ears burned at the memory of last time. 

You’re pretty sure the two of you have scarred Cato and some of the Victrix Guard for life.

There’s a lull in conversation as you settle to rest your head on his collarbone and place a hand on his cheek. Roboute leans into your touch, eyes closed and at peace. The air is still cold but the Primarch-sized blanket has long been forgotten, half of it already on the floor. The low temperature is just a flimsy excuse for the both of you to hold each other tighter.

Time is lost as the two of you bask in each other’s presence knowing soon Roboute would have to rise and later you. These moments are few and far between but are nonetheless held dear.

After a moment you break the comfortable silence 

“I love you, Roboute.”

And he smiles, content.

[himasgod]

Gaming x Reader

Where you are a craftswoman, and he always make sure that your orders arrive correctly

You work as a craftswoman in Yilong Port, creating small sculptures that merchants sell in other regions. Although you've seen Gaming many times helping merchants, you've never had the chance to talk to him. Everything changes when a problematic delivery leads you to cross paths with this energetic and lively escort.

(HAPPY BIRTHDAY GAMING I LOVE YOU SO MUCH <3)

At Yilong Port, work never stopped.

Every day was a dance of activity: merchants haggled, fishermen unloaded their loot, and you immersed yourself in the workshop, delicately carving small sculptures. The pieces you created, from animal figures to ornaments inspired by local legends, were in high demand in other regions. Although you loved your craft, there were days when exhaustion caught up with you, and this was one of those days.

“This order is a mess!” you muttered to yourself, looking at the pile of sculptures that still needed to be packed.

You had worked tirelessly to complete an urgent order, but the merchant who was supposed to pick it up never arrived. Now, you were at the port, carrying the box yourself and looking for the delivery man.

That was when you saw him: Gaming, with his unmistakable red amd brown hair and his smile that seemed to light up the place. He was helping a group of merchants load their ships, moving with an energy that seemed inexhaustible.

“Do you need help with that?” he suddenly asked, coming closer as he saw you struggling with the box.

“I don’t want to bother you…” you replied, but he had already taken the box with ease, as if it weighed nothing.

“It would be bothersome to let you continue carrying this alone. Come on, where are you going?”

His tone was carefree, but there was something in his eyes that made you feel like he really wanted to help.

From that moment on, Gaming began to appear frequently in your path.

He always had an excuse to stop by the workshop, whether it was to “make sure the merchants weren’t late again” or just to see how your projects were going.

At first, you found him a little annoying; his energy contrasted with your calm environment. But over time, you realized that his company made the days less lonely.

“Your sculptures are amazing,” he said one day, as he watched you work on a dragon figure.

“Thank you. I always try to make each piece tell a story,” you replied, without taking your eyes off your work.

“And what is the story of this dragon?”

You paused for a moment, surprised by his genuine interest. “It’s about a guardian who protected his people, even when no one believed in him.”

Gaming smiled, but this time his expression had something else, something melancholic. “I like it. The dragon looks like the Wushou dance's one. I also dance."

His words intrigued you, but you didn’t want to push him. It was during another conversation, while sharing an improvised Honey Char Siu, that Gaming began to open up.

“Before I got here, I traveled a lot. I’ve always wanted to see the world, meet people, help them fulfill their dreams. But…” He paused, his gaze lost on the horizon. “Sometimes I feel like, while I do that, I forget my own.”

“And what are your dreams?” you asked softly.

He laughed, though his laugh didn’t have the same energy as usual. “I guess I’m still trying to figure it out.”

It was at that moment that you realized that behind his energetic attitude, Gaming carried a burden that he didn’t always share.

Over time, your relationship became closer. He began helping you in the workshop, though his attempts at woodcarving often ended in disaster. In return, you taught him to appreciate the tranquility of the creative process, something he admitted he needed in his life.

One afternoon, as the sun set over the harbor, Gaming appeared with a surprise: a small wooden box, clumsily carved, but clearly made with effort.

“It’s not as good as your sculptures, but I wanted to make something for you,” he said, handing it to you with a nervous smile.

Opening it, you found a tiny figurine of a bird in flight. It wasn’t perfect, but that made it all the more special.

“Gaming, I... it's beautiful...” you said sincerely, feeling a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Gaming scratched the back of his neck, clearly relieved. “I wanted you to know that even when I’m busy with merchants or travel, I always think of you!”

That confession, simple but full of meaning, marked the beginning of something new between you.

From then on, every day at Yilong Port was a little brighter. You were no longer just a craftswoman working in solitude, and Gaming was no longer just an escort carrying other people’s burdens. Together, you found a balance: he showed you how to find joy in chaos, and you taught him to appreciate peace in the small moments.

Under the warm lights of the port, the two of you began to build something more lasting than any sculpture or journey: a connection that made every day worthwhile.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[ladybugmania]

DUTTON, PALMER, WRIGHTSON

The Trumpet of PARASITES

Peter Dutton and his so-called policies are little more than hollow noise, rhetoric without resolve, robotic in delivery and deeply disconnected from the reality everyday Australians face. His team of yes-men and sycophants follow him like programmed drones, pretending to care for the people while parroting ideas that are either recycled, unrealistic, or downright dangerous.

Take his absurd power plant proposal, reviving nuclear energy as if it's the saviour of our nation. It’s laughable. What happens if something goes wrong? Where will the toxic waste go? Who manages the risk when the inevitable happens? This is not a solution, this is a future catastrophe waiting to happen, burdening the next generations with fallout, both literal and political.

Then there’s his personal narrative, dragging his own son into the political conversation as a token of relatability. Please. This is a man with the privilege and wealth to give his family a comfortable life, using them to score points in a game that doesn’t concern the majority struggling to make ends meet.

Let’s not forget his Trump-like behaviour. "Let’s get Australia back on track!" Sound familiar? It’s disturbingly close to “Make America Great Again,” isn’t it? It’s as if the ghost of Trump is whispering in his ear, guiding his speeches. It reeks of mimicry, of playing to the lowest common denominator, of fuelling fear instead of building hope.

The Liberal Party of today is not the Liberal Party of yesterday. We live in a different world, climate crisis, wealth inequality, indigenous justice, housing stress, yet Dutton’s mob act like it’s still 1950. They offer solutions fit for a time long gone, in a world that no longer exists.

And then there’s Clive Palmer and his train-wreck party of political parasites. His ads are as racist as they are ridiculous, seriously, a train with Asian writing used to promote a nationalist agenda? The hypocrisy is off the charts. Suellen Wrightson, another echo chamber of empty promises, blabbers on as if she’s going to deliver the moon, while sounding like the voiceover to a bad conspiracy video. Her recent statements have drawn criticism for being not only misleading but overtly xenophobic.

These parties, the Liberals, Palmer's circus, and the other "trumped-up patriots", are not fighting for Australians. They’re fighting for seats, power, and control. Just like that fish n’ chips shop racist from Queensland Pauline Hanson, and her One Nation rubbish of irony gaslighting xenophobic retoric, many of these reactionary voices are from up north, as if that corner of the map has become a breeding ground for backward politics.

Meanwhile, Albanese… yes, he’s not perfect. He sticks to the script too often and falls into the same old political routine. But at least he’s not pandering to white nationalism or Trump-style demagoguery. That alone is a relief in this climate of loud, divisive nonsense.

Australia must reject fascist-style politics. We are not a white supremacist state, we are a land that has been nurtured by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples for tens of thousands of years. This land was later colonised by the English, and then built by wave after wave of migrants from all over the world, Greek, Italian, Chinese, Vietnamese, Lebanese, Sudanese, Indian, and many more. Together, we shaped this country, not just a few rich men in suits claiming to speak for us.

If we allow these loud, power-hungry, manipulative forces to take over, they’ll strip away the very freedoms they pretend to defend. Bit by bit, freedom will become a distant memory, a faded dream. And what will rise in its place? A nightmare, silent, obedient, and locked down by fear.

We shouldn’t worship political parties or leaders. Choose what works for you and your loved ones, but never bow to these people like they’re monarchs. That era is dead. Hold them accountable. Scream their promises back at them. Make them work for the vote, not take it as entitlement.

Yours Truly

Moth Hawk

[etherealising]

chapter four | to burden natalie berzatto

masterlist | ↢ previous chapter | next chapter ↣ |

pairing: platonic!natalie berzatto x f!reader | slight carmen berzatto x f!reader | slight the bear crew x f!reader | male!oc x f!reader |

summary: your lack of competent decision-making after mikey’s death puts natalie in a compromisng position.

warning(s): substance abuse | overdose | grief | self-sabotage | angst | humor as coping mechanism | one mention of ativan | unintentional self-harm | blood | hospitals | scars | mention of treatment centers | rehab | recovery | thoughts of relapsing | appreciation of natalie berzatto | avoidance of grief | selfishness | memory loss | unhealthy grieving mechanisms | PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED ANYTHING!

wc: 8.1k

please remeber you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any warnings trigger you DO NOT READ!

The smooth music filtered out of the record player, a rich voice singing through the house painting the atmosphere with a calm vibe. The two occupants were gathered in the living room, sifting through the last of the boxes that contained small decorations and keepsakes. Discussing what would look best where and what should have been left behind in the move.

You looked over your shoulder to check on Nat, her sudden silence cause for concern. Circling over to her you realized what had stolen the words from her lips. You maneuvered to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the framed photo in her hands, the two of you silently reminiscing.

You placed your head on her shoulder as she let out a quiet sniffle, her emotions heightened due to her condition. “You looked so beautiful that night,” you let out a quiet laugh before moving to stand next to Nat, eyes still focused on the framed Polaroid in her grip.

It had been a year and it still wasn’t easy to look at any pictures of Mikey without feeling like your chest would cave in. You hadn’t seen this particular picture since his passing, the grief too much, all memories painting your west coast apartment shoved into a nondescript box.

You understood now why it was so important to label your boxes when moving. If the box in front of Nat had some type of label on it, you knew for sure it already would’ve been shoved into the dark recesses of your closet.

“You can just put that one back in the box,” you left Nat’s side to continue going through your box, pulling out the book designated to sit on your coffee table.

Natalie watched you from her side of the living room, a small scowl painting her face as she watched you so easily disregard a memory that had once been so special to you. She looked back down at the picture, your bright smile staring back at her as Mikey and Richie leaned in to kiss your cheeks. A fond memory of the three of you the night of your senior prom.

Looking back at you one last time Nat let out a sigh before walking over to the mantle and setting it on the corner, visible for everyone to see. She understood how much Mikey’s death affected you, but there was no way you could heal from the hurt if you never allowed yourself to live in the uncomfortability of grief. It was something you had to want for yourself.

Nat had half the mind to keep digging through the box, eyes catching on another memory. Not wanting to sour the first night in your new home, she replaced the cover, doing her best to act as though she wasn’t curious about the box of memories.

The doorbell rang as you were looking for a place for the picture of you and your mom at your college graduation. Carefully sitting it on your coffee table you made your way to the door making sure to grab your wallet on the way. You opened the door to see the pizza delivery person standing there, giving them the money and a tip before thanking them.

“Oh that smells delicious,” you laughed as Nat followed behind you to your decent-sized kitchen. The two of you grab plates and a slice of pizza before heading to your couch.

Setting your plate on the coffee table, you left to quickly grab two wine glasses and the sparkling cider Natalie and Pete bought you as a housewarming gift. Stopping to grab a bottle of water from the fridge for Nat just in case the cider upset her stomach before taking your seat on the plush couch.

“I’m happy you’re home Baby.” Your eyes met Nat’s before you moved to pour yourself a healthy amount of sparkling cider, ignoring Nat’s laugh at the full glass in your hands. You raise your glass in a mock toast, at least one of you was happy that you were back.

“I guess it's good to be back. Nice to be around people that care about me,” the grateful smile sent Nat’s way as a form of thank you.

Natalie deserved more than a pathetic smile and both of you knew it.

You had been relatively alright after Mikey’s death, which came as a surprise to everyone. Your impromptu stay in Chicago after the funeral was a way for you to keep an eye on Natalie and Donna, occasionally helping Richie at The Beef when you could.

But you had to return to your own life eventually, and when you did shit spiraled out of control for you.

People always drone on and on about the five stages of grief and how it affects everyone differently, and you never thought that statement to be more true than when you stepped foot in your apartment upon your return from Chicago. Grief is supposed to come and go, you were doing everything that everyone was telling you to do. Following all the steps, checking all the boxes. Forcing yourself to try and heal, to feel your emotions as much as you would allow yourself to.

But at the end of the day, it was just you, an apartment full of memories, a voicemail you were too scared to ever listen to, and the shadow of your grief following behind you.

You experienced all the denial, anger, bargaining, and depression and you waited and hoped for the acceptance to come. But all that ever came was the cycle of grief replaying in your life like a bad dream.

You had thrown yourself into your work, anything to forget about the pain Mikey’s ghost left behind. And when your psychiatrist recommended a prescription to aid with your anxiety, you accepted. Anything to escape the shadow of a man you once knew appearing in your apartment on late nights.

But then the prescription wasn’t enough, and the alcohol you once used to numb everything had lost its edge, your days just turned into functioning as best you could. And then there were times you couldn’t even remember the previous day, the last five minutes, falling asleep on the couch.

You had become dependent; dependent on the alcohol and the drugs, and the way they made things all better for a short time.

And then you had woken up in the hospital one day, with no memories of how you got there, no care for what happened to you.

The figure in the chair next to you helped you to escape the fog in your brain. The woman you had known your whole life looking down at you with a tear-stained face, her hand tightly clutched around yours, her presence all the more confusing.

The silence in the room was too loud for you as you just watched the blonde, the lack of emotion on your face breaking the woman down even more. When the doctor came in to explain what happened it shocked you. Not because of the severity of the situation, but because you couldn’t remember a thing.

The theory was that you had been mixing prescription drugs and alcohol for some time, a truth you already knew and were purposely partaking in.

You were at your apartment after work winding down from the long day, pregaming for a night out with your co-workers. The Ativan you had taken earlier at work already put you at ease. You were trying to get to your patio for some reason but had trouble with the sliding glass door.

Too inebriated to unlock it you had essentially thrown yourself against the glass until it finally gave way to the weight of your body and you ended up face down covered in glass and the pool of your blood.

Not fazed by your injuries you collected yourself, glass and all. Grabbing your keys from the counter leaving to whatever destination you had in mind. Somewhere between removing yourself from the mess of your ruined sliding door and stumbling out into the hallway, you swallowed two more pills.

According to the reports, a neighbor found the mess of your body in the hallway, making it a mere few inches from your door before your body succumbed to the deadly cocktail swirling inside you.

In October of 2022, 8 months after Michael’s death; you would overdose.

You were broken from the haze of memories as you felt a dip in the couch. Natalie came to sit right next to you head resting on your shoulder, you gently laid your head on top of hers. You owed Nat your life.

A quiet sniffle left you, losing the battle to keep your emotions under wraps. “You’ve done so much for me Sug, and I…I’m sorry if I haven’t shown you enough appreciation.” You felt Nat’s arms wrap around you, squeezing you into a side hug as the two of you sat in each other’s presence.

It was no secret that without Natalie and Pete, you might not have been experiencing this moment. You for sure wouldn’t have gotten your shit together if you were still all alone on the West Coast. Nat had gone out of her way to find the best treatment facility on the East Coast for you, it had been decided that you would make the move back to Chicago when you were released.

So while you were away facing the consequences of the darkest moments of your life. Nat was at home picking up the pieces of your life while also trying to keep hers intact, not that you realized or cared back then.

Nat and Pete sold the family home that was still in your mom's name, nobody needed to ask to know that it wasn’t healthy for you to live in or across the street from a museum of memories. The couple got you a good deal on a quaint home not too far from them, the leftover money put towards the rest of your savings.

Natalie Berzatto, a miracle worker in your eyes had somehow pulled strings to get you an interview with the Tribune. So yeah, you owed Nat a lot more than placating smiles and cheap pizza.

“Are you sure you’re ready for tomorrow?” You shifted positions at Nat’s question, the two of you now sitting criss-cross applesauce, facing each other on the couch. You gave a small nod, fingers playing with your fuzzy socks.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” you let out a small laugh. “I can’t expect you and Pete to babysit me forever.” You smiled up at Natalie, the prospect of writing again caused a sense of excitement to stir within you. It felt like the only thing you had left, the only thing you were still good at. Although you had almost completely fucked up your life, you still had your writing, and that was a start.

“Maybe we can meet up for lunch after?” You didn’t want to celebrate too soon, you hadn’t even got a job yet, but the idea of a lunch date with Nat sounded like the best form of indulgence you had allowed yourself in a while.

The night continued with the two of you talking, Sugar doing her best to catch you up on all that you missed sans any mention of a certain blue-eyed baby brother she had. As the night began winding down the two of you cleaned up the mess of your dinner, before you sent Nat on her way with promises to fill her in after your interview tomorrow.

Making sure your kitchen was cleaned to your liking, you made your way into your room to begin settling in for the night. A knit crew neck you had meant to return to its rightful owner once upon a time, becoming the basis of your pajamas after a relaxing shower.

Settling into bed you couldn’t help but lie awake, mind racing with all the different scenarios that could play out tomorrow. This was your first night alone in your new home and the reality of just how alone you were slowly began to sink in. You knew Nat would always be there for you if need be, but she had her own life to live, the beginnings of a family in her near future.

All you had at that moment were your racing thoughts and the regrets of a life you had almost ended too soon.

You sat in the lobby of the Tribune leg bouncing nervously as you waited for your meeting with the editor-in-chief, resume, and copies of your work sitting snugly in your tote bag. You knew Natalie had already sent over your information, but your nerves forced you to believe that being over-prepared would be necessary.

The sound of the receptionist calling your name caught your attention. She was standing a little ways away from you waiting for you to follow her, you gave a nervous smile before rising from your seat and following the rhythmic click-clack of her heels down the hall. As you watched her walk in front of you, you thought you may have been a little underdressed in your casual street clothes, but you forced yourself to push your thoughts aside. They’d be judging you for your backlog of work, not your choice of attire.

The receptionist lead you to a corner office, the frosted glass of the exterior providing a sense of privacy. Ushering you into the empty room she let you know that the editor you’d be meeting with would join you shortly. You sent her a small thanks before walking into the room, eyes catching on the minimalistic decorations scattered around the office.

Your feet lead you to the wall of windows situated behind the desk, the view reminding you of an office you had occupied so many months ago. You looked out over the Chicago skyline, it still felt so surreal to be back in this city.

The face staring back at you something you were still learning how to get used to. The scars that decorated the right side of your face were healing up nicely considering how deep some of the glass had gone.

You jumped at the sound of the door closing, someone entered so swiftly you hadn’t even heard them, or maybe you were just too wrapped up in memories of a past life. You hurriedly turned from the window not wanting to seem rude, the man who had entered the room caught your eye before gesturing for you to take a seat at one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

You felt a little less concerned about your fashion choice as your eyes followed his Levi-clad legs as he settled into the chair behind his desk. You could feel your nerves returning, not knowing what to expect from this interview. In the most humble sense you had forgotten what being interviewed felt like, not having to go through the process since getting your first big journalist job straight out of college.

“Nervous?” Your leg stopped bouncing as the man’s voice met your ears, a shy smile curving your lips.

“Here I thought I was being subtle,” you tried to joke hoping to relax yourself a bit. The responding chuckle helped somewhat, so far the man sitting in front of you didn’t seem like too much of a stickler.

“Never thought I’d see the day you were nervous in front of me Baby,” you tried to control the look of disgust you felt begging to paint your features. You were grateful for Nat’s help but you were sure this was a mistake.

“I’m sure HR has their hands full with you.” You mumbled, the roll of your eyes showcasing your irritation. “Thank you for the opportunity sir, but I don’t think this is a good fit for me.” You reached out to the chair next to you where you had sat your tote bag wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“No wait,” the sound of the rolling chair moving rapidly caused you to stop, seconds away from rising from your chair. You turned your attention to the figure in front of you eyebrows pinched together.

“It's me, Hayden,” your brows furrowed even more, your mind searching your memory for that name. “I…uh, I took you to senior prom. We met in our creative writing class that same year.”

You felt your eyes widen as your mouth formed the shape of an ‘o’, eyes darting to the pristine nameplate facing you on the desk. The name ‘Hayden Ivanovski’ staring directly back at you.

“No fucking way.” The whisper traveled easily through the silent office, Hayden’s echoing chuckle caused you to let out a small one of your own. “I’m sorry, it's just nobody but close friends and family even call me that anymore. And, I really wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You watched as he nodded, you could see it now. The boy you once knew in the maturity of his face, hadn’t changed much but it was enough that you wouldn’t easily recognize him if he passed you on the street.

“Uh, the porn stache sure is a uh choice,” your hand raised to gesture to your upper lip, you couldn’t help the smile curving your lips.

Hayden laughed head dropping as he resumed his seated position. “Divorce makes you do crazy things,” your smile faltered, you hadn’t meant the quip as an invitation to discuss any personal grievances. “No need to look so sad, it was mutual.” He shrugged the topic off like he hadn’t given it a second thought in a long while.

You nodded your head distractedly, “Enough about my failed marriage, how have you been?” You gave him a small smile, mind going blank as you thought of the best route to take this conversation.

“I uh, almost died five months ago,” the laugh ripped from Hayden’s chest, the last thing you were expecting to hear. You watched as he found your eyes, his smile disappearing as he took in the harrowing look on your face.

“You-you’re not serious are you?” The question almost caused you to laugh.

“As serious as my overdose was,” you watched as Hayden shifted in his seat, the air easily became uncomfortable. “Sorry coping mechanism.” You laughed the topic off, you had assumed Nat told him when she booked you this interview.

“So um, when does the interview start,” your leg began bouncing up and down again, the nervousness returning. If you hadn’t already made a bad impression you were sure exposing your less-than-stellar life choices definitely lost you the job.

“Nat didn’t tell you?” You stopped your brows from pinching together, the constant frowning sometimes the tiny scar between your eyebrows. “I don’t need to interview you, you’re an amazing journalist. I hired you the second Nat told me you were moving back. That is if you want to work here.”

“You’re not just hiring me because we went to prom together, or as a favor to Natalie are you?” Nat had helped you to get your foot in the door, you had wanted to secure the job because of your merit.

You watched as Hayden quickly shook his head, “While it is nice to reconnect with you, we need some experience in our newsroom. I know before your uh… incident you were working as a travel journalist, and the pay here wouldn’t be the same. But you’d still have full control over the stories you write, although you might not write as often as you’re used to.” You nodded along listening to his explanation. The fact that this was happening failed to resonate with you.

“So, the position of Managing Editor is yours if you want it.” Hayden sent you a small smile awaiting your response, he did his best not to focus too long on your scars as he stared in your direction.

“As long as I can write and edit then I will happily work for you,” the large grin spreading across your lips stretched the small scar stitched into your upper lip.

The smile on Hayden’s lips matched yours as he walked around the desk to shake your hand. The two of you sat there going over the expectations that your new role required, Hayden explaining the environment he tried to uphold at the paper.

You finished the meeting off with a tour of the floor the Tribune occupied, the one you’d mostly be working on. The two of you caught up a little as he input you into the system and created your badge so you could easily come and go as you pleased. You learned that he married Marlene Buchanan, a girl you went to high school with. The ink of their divorce still drying after only being finalized two months ago.

He invited you out to lunch but you had to rain check explaining the plans you made with Natalie promising the two of you would work something out in the future. He walked out with you, the two of you parting ways once you left the lobby.

You stood on the sidewalk taking in the crisp Chicago air. Your life was finally starting to feel like your own again, and even though you had only secured a job, the inevitable weight of doom that followed you was beginning to feel a little lighter.

Natalie was pacing in the office quickly moving to close the door as the chaos sounding through the building caused a headache to form. She knew Cicero would be there in the next hour, and that the money problem was their biggest issue in getting the new restaurant up and running.

The urge to call you was immediate after speaking with Cicero. Nat knew how much you cared about this place, and regardless of what anyone else thought she wanted you to have a say in any decision they made now that you were permanently back in Chicago. And she’d be lying if she said the reserved funds that came with you weren’t also a reason to invite you to this meeting.

Shouts could be heard through the door as she finally made her mind up, you two had plans for lunch anyways so you could just meet her and the two of you would leave together. Any excuse Nat could think up to call you would help her.

Sighing she scrolled through her contacts before forcing herself to press on your name and just call you. She listened as the phone rang, part of her hoping you didn’t answer her call, the hope immediately dying as your voice sang through the speaker.

“Nat, hey! I was just about to call you,” She smiled at the light tone in your voice, a tone she hadn’t heard in quite some time. “We still on for lunch?” The question caused her to take a deep breath, it was now or never she either asked you or she didn’t.

“Yeah of course. Uhh but would you mind meeting me at The Beef?” She was hoping the question came across as nonchalant, she called out your name as the line went quiet, sure you had hung up on her.

“Nat, I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” the apprehension in your voice made her feel guilty for even asking you in the first place.

“Listen, Baby, I know how you feel but we’re making a big decision today and I feel like you deserve to have your input heard,” she waited for a minute before continuing. “If it triggers you we can leave immediately, no questions asked okay? I just…this might be good for you.” She bit her lip as she waited for your response, she would be okay with whatever you decided but at least she had put the opportunity out there.

“I think I can be there in 45 minutes,” the tired sigh that escaped your lips matched the way Nat was feeling.

“Thank you, Baby.” She listened as you said your goodbyes before hanging up the phone, Nat was sure if she didn’t already have morning sickness she would’ve thrown up from that phone call alone.

It was exactly as you remembered it. Not that you had expected the exterior to change in the year since you’d been there. Although not physically changed things felt different, it no longer felt nostalgic as you stood there looking at the newspaper-covered windows. You could feel the anxiety eating away at you, the sick part deep inside of you wishing you had something to numb your feelings.

You could hear the faint sound of an alarm blaring with how close you were standing, the sound helping you to focus on the things you could control. You hadn’t come all this way just to look at the old building’s facade, and part of you didn’t think you could take disappointing Natalie by walking away. Nat wouldn’t have been disappointed in you though, but since your accident, you were scared to ever see that look in her eyes again.

The deep breath of fresh air filling your lungs helped to cool you down a bit. The pairing of your puffer jacket and scarf felt a bit suffocating.

In through your nose out through your mouth, a few more deep breaths were all you allowed yourself before forcing your hand to grip the door handle and step foot into a building that might haunt you for a lifetime.

The constant screeching of the alarm was so loud it made you glad that it drowned out the sound of the bell ringing above the door. Your eyes traveled around the restaurant, it was the same but it wasn’t. Little things missing telling you that some type of work was being done.

“As I live and fucking breathe!” The loud voice you would recognize anywhere drawing your attention to the dining area, Richie’s large figure taking up the doorway.

You shared a small smile with him. Subtly adjusting your scarf to cover the most noticeable scar lining your face, you watched as the older man took steps to close the distance between the two of you. The tall man quickly pulled you into a tight hug.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed a hug from Richie until you were snuggly pressed against his chest, the warmth of his body helping to relax you. The unconscious thought crossed your mind that you might have never experienced one of these hugs again if you hadn’t made it to the hospital in time.

The love Richie was pouring into the hug caused your eyes to water, Mikey’s passing bonding the two of you, the loss of someone you both loved so much bringing the two of you impossibly closer. But not close enough for him to know the path you had taken after. And not close enough for you to want to burden him with being just another addict in his life.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your head before pulling away, the annoying alarm still blaring at full volume. You stepped back to give him space, “You been fucking around in the crawl space Richie?” The question paired with your signature grin as Richie let loose his boisterous laugh.

“Of course, you’d fucking know about the alarm.” Richie’s disgruntled mumbling met your ears.

“Hey, Richie, could you please turn that goddamn motherfuckin thing off?” The voice of Cicero filtered through your ears. “It’s making me insane!”

“My bad Uncle J, Baby just walked through the door and shit like a ghost. Fucking Mikey booby trapping crawl spaces and shit.” He poked his head back into the dining room to let the occupants know he somewhat had the situation under control.

“Mikey’s fuckin Kevin McCalliper-,” The responses correcting Richie caused you to let out a small giggle, the noise bringing a smile to Richie’s lips.

You continued standing with Richie as he spoke to somebody on the phone, the long one-word password he gave made you chuckle. Pretending you knew how to help Richie was an excuse to not join the conversation going on in the back for a while.

While the blaring alarm was causing your ears to ring, the loud noise was a buffer between your impending thought and the inevitability of being back in this restaurant. The sudden quiet was the only sign that you would have to face a now unavoidable situation.

“Here lemme take that,” Richie reached out expecting you to give him your scarf and jacket. You hesitated, your wardrobe feeling like a sense of armor for the time being.

“Uh, I’m actually pretty cold. Thanks, Rich.” Your hand shot out to pat his bicep, head jerking in the direction the voices were coming from. “Sugar in there?” You didn’t need Richie to reply to know the answer.

You followed Richie’s lead as he headed to the back, taking a deep breath to still your nerves, not all too sure what you were getting yourself into. You watched as Richie pulled up a chair next to Cicero for you, taking your tote bag out of your hands as he gestured for you to sit. You smiled politely, giving him a small nod as you moved further into the room.

Three out of four familiar faces stared back at you, the look on Nat’s face indicating how much it meant for her that you showed up.

“What is this an intervention?” You made the joke as a way to cut the tension that had filled the room, the silence felt even louder as Nat said your name in a reprimanding tone, the joke not being funny to her one bit. You shrugged before moving to sit in your designated chair, shooting a small smile to the dark-skinned woman who was eyeing you from across the table. Your eyes easily avoided the blue ones you knew too well.

You listened as Nat cleared her throat, all attention focused on her. “So uh, I invited Baby here because I think she deserves to be a part of this decision.” Four eyes flashed to you as you awkwardly adjusted in your seat. “And, um she has a decent savings account.”

A snort left your lips at Natalie’s rushed words, her ulterior motives for inviting you here reminding you a bit of her mischievous brown-eyed older brother.

“Sorry uh, big fan of your work. But uh, how do you play into all this.” Your eyes drifted to the unknown woman, a smile played at your lips, a feeling of shyness sweeping across you at the fact that she had any idea who you were.

“Family friend.”

“Old acquaintance.”

The three other people at the table looked between you and Carmy, eyes darting back and forth at both of your explanations. You couldn’t help the cackle you let out, missing the look of panic shooting through Natalie’s eyes. You couldn’t recall a time you would ever describe your relationship with Carmen Berzatto as an acquaintanceship.

“Baby is a close family friend,” Nat interjected before any other response could be given. “A friend we should be thankful for even considering investing in the restaurant.”

Your eyes finally found Carmy’s having a hard time taming the smile threatening to spread across your lips. The false confidence you were exuding helped you not overthink the situation you were in.

The conversation picked back up where it had left off after you entered. You sank into your seat shoving your hands into your jacket and tucking your chin into your scarf as you did your best to pay attention. You couldn’t help but let your eyes travel across the mostly empty dining room, memories of a life that no longer felt like your own clawing to overtake your senses.

Up and down, up and down. The tick you gained while in recovery helped you to remain in the present your leg working overtime as it bounced to keep you focused.

The voices talking around you are drowned out by your wandering thoughts. Thoughts that had you re-evaluating your relationship with Natalie.

It was no secret that you had become a selfish person after Mikey’s death, every decision you made was to benefit you, and if someone else somehow benefited from it then good for them.

That was the reason you stayed in Chicago so long after the funeral, telling yourself that the remaining Berzattos needed you, that you were staying to make sure they made it out of the deep end alive.

But that was a lie, you stayed because you were too afraid to face your own emotions, afraid to face your grief head-on. Even now you could say you stayed behind to ensure Donna and Sugar were okay, but deep down you knew that you stayed because you didn’t want to be alone.

You helped Richie at The Beef because he needed you, needed to know he wasn’t alone. In all actuality, it was you who needed them, you who had become dependent on people grieving just as much as you.

The same could be said about your substance abuse after returning to your reality. The idea of never being able to talk to Mikey, see Mikey, or hold Mikey was all just an excuse you used to justify your indulgences.

You constantly told yourself that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Sugar or Richie with your hurting, that they didn’t need to babysit you while trying to heal themselves. That when your memory became spotty and you missed more than one of Sugar’s calls, it was because she didn’t need to put up with you and your problems.

And then unintentionally or not, you became Natalie’s problem. Not even letting her brother’s grave grow cold before you forced her to face the idea of losing another person she spent her whole life loving.

You pleaded with the universe for Nat to wipe her hands of you. To let you waste your life away and rot like you were starting to. To turn her back on you, because how could you so easily fall into the same vice as Mikey knowing how much it affected him; knowing how much it affected the people who cared for him.

How dare you pretend as though no one would give a shit if they had to bury you mere months after putting Michael to rest. How fucking dare you be so selfish.

There were nights in bed where you’d lay awake questioning your intentions. Had you purposely thrown your life away because you knew Natalie would come to your rescue? Did you somehow manipulate Natalie’s good nature into digging you out of a hole you were so far gone in you couldn’t bring yourself back from?

You always got on Natalie about putting herself first, and how she needed to stop stretching herself so thin for everyone else. And then you went and almost fucking died, and you forced her to take on a role she had been playing her whole life.

You had willingly ruined your life and forced Natalie to face the consequences.

If there was one thing you learned in your recovery, it was that getting clean, staying clean, and becoming a healthier better version of yourself should never be done for someone else. You had to want it for yourself, but damn if seeing Natalie’s face didn’t push you to get your shit together you weren’t sure what did.

“500,” you weren’t sure where the confidence to speak up came from, not even entirely sure what the balance in your savings account even was. Your unfocused eyes now staring directly into Natalies. “That’s my offer.” You quickly glanced around at everyone else unsure as to what they were even talking about but needing to put your stake into the game.

“Like $500..or,” your attention turned to the other woman, her voice trailing off indicating that she indeed was asking a question.

A chuckle parted your lips as you shook your head. “No, I mean 500K.” You made sure to look at each person across from you individually, instilling how serious your offer was.

“Bullshit.” The sound of Carmy’s voice startled you, sure he had been speaking this whole time but it's not like you were paying that much attention.

You scoffed, eyes rolling in tandem with the sound. “I thought you needed money Carmen,” the name slipped through clenched teeth. You turned to face Nat. Your final numbers would be decided between the two of you, “Nat?”

“100.”

“450.”

“120.”

“375.”

“200,” you hesitated for a minute. The triumphant smile on Natalie’s lips caused your eyes to narrow.

“250, or I walk.” You leaned forward hands moving to lay flat atop the table, a small smirk played on your lips. Your leverage was total shit and Nat knew that there was no way you’d walk away from this project.

“Deal.” The smile on your lips faltered as you faced Carmy again, his annoying crystal blue eyes staring daggers into you.

Clearing your throat you slumped back in your seat, hands moving back to hide inside your pockets. The meeting finished on a good note without a hitch, with the restaurant gaining an extra 250K to put toward inevitable expenses.

You quickly stood from your seat moving to escape any awkward reunion that may have sprouted between you and Carmy. The interest in meeting Carmy’s partner was pushed to the back burner as you made your way through the restaurant, looking for the one other person you wanted to speak with at the moment.

Maneuvering through the kitchen you found Tina not too far from what you remembered to be her usual station. You leaned against the wall watching her work, the effort she was putting into saving burnt and rusted pots bringing a small smile to your face. You shrugged off your jacket and slipped the scarf from around your neck.

“Need some help?” The hesitation in your voice was evident. You weren’t sure where you stood with Tina, you knew how she felt about Mikey and how much his choices affected her. The thought of relaying the past few months to her was too much for you to think about at this moment, you had time, and when you were ready you would confide in her. But for now, there was no point in ruining a much-needed reunion.

You watched as Tina jolted, not prepared to hear your voice. “Ay, dios mío!” Tina turned to you hand raised above her heart, eyes wide. “Why the fuck are you sneaking around the kitchen.” You listened to the older woman’s voice scold you before making your way in her direction.

Not giving her another second before throwing your arms around her, you probably should’ve made sure it was okay, but there was nothing like a mother’s endearing hug to let you know that everything would eventually be okay.

The two of you stood in each other’s embrace in the middle of the kitchen. Neither of you said a word as your quiet sobs began to echo off the walls. You were crying for Mikey, and for yourself, and for all the lives the both of you had ruined, whether they knew it or not.

You were apprehensive to step foot back in this establishment so soon. But it had easily shown you all the things your life would have missed out on had you not allowed Natalie to get you the help you needed.

Carmy’s head perked up as he noticed you exit the kitchen with Tina. His irritation began to rise as he laid eyes on you, Sugar had blindsided him with your arrival. He hadn’t even known you moved back to Chicago, let alone that you had any interest in getting The Bear up and running.

You looked different. His eyes immediately caught the obvious scar tracing along your jaw. The tip of it started a few centimeters below your chin before meeting your jawline and finding its end just before your ear. It was a gnarly scar and he knew for sure the amount of stitches you needed must have been painful.

Carmy was also sure you didn’t have that scar a year ago, nor the smaller one that was carved into your upper lip. He would’ve taken notice, you can’t spend 48 hours with someone and not be able to recall all the puzzle pieces that were specially made to create them.

He watched the two of you approach the group at the counter, you hanging a little farther back than probably necessary, pretending to occupy yourself with the bare walls. Carmy might’ve smiled at your awkwardness if he wasn’t so confused by your presence.

A distracted farewell to Tina left his lips as he tried not to be so obvious in his study of you. His eyes refused to meet Sugar’s as he could feel her watching him, watching you.

Sydney’s return gained his full attention, forcing himself to focus on something else other than his thoughts that were racing and full of you. The clearing of your throat as you finally made your way to stand next to Sug had all six sets of eyes focusing on you.

You didn’t just look different. From the very few interactions the two of you shared and Carmy’s constant people-watching, you seemed like an altogether new person, the confidence and surety he was used to seeing in you was dull.

“I don’t mean to impose, but I was kind of hoping I could take on a more involved role in all of this?” Carmy’s eyes squinted as your hand raised in a flourish to signify you were talking about the restaurant.

You were met with silence. Carmy was too distracted by being in your presence after a drought without you, and Sydney still hadn’t even been truly introduced to you.

“Shit, sorry.” Your hand shot out to shake the woman’s hand as the two of you introduced yourselves. Although she read your articles, mostly your profile stories highlighting various chefs, it was different to be formally introduced to the person behind the stories.

“I uh, actually read most of your articles.” Carmy watched as you brightened up a bit your writing something that would always bring you joy. “I had to cancel my subscription though.” The sound of your laugh went straight to Carmy’s heart, he hadn’t realized how much he missed the delicate sound until hearing it again in this moment.

“I actually have a proposal for you three,” you paused, making sure everyone was paying attention before continuing your explanation. “What if I highlighted the renovation? I was..uh…before,” you had to stop yourself and take a deep breath to ground yourself.

“I was profiling The Beef and Mikey before he…yeah. Um, so I was thinking I could maybe continue that with The Bear,” you stopped to make sure everyone was following along, sending Carmy a small smile before continuing. “We could profile the team, give people a behind-the-scenes look into the renovation, and who’s behind it. I would publish it, it would be great PR and might help to fill seats.”

The following silence made you feel insecure about your proposal. “Maybe just give it a thought. No pressure or anything uh just let me know if there's any interest.” Your voice trailed off as your confidence continued to plummet, Carmy’s blank eyes doing nothing to quell your nervousness.

You turned your attention back to Sugar, a silent plea to leave in your eyes. She nodded “Uh, Baby and I had plans so we’ll be heading out.” You sent the two chefs in front of you a forced smile before hurriedly returning to the kitchen to pick up your jacket and scarf you left there. Call it cowardly but slipping out through the kitchen’s back door seemed to be in your best interest.

The fresh air whipped against your face like a blade, and the immediate change in temperature helped to relax you. There would never have been a perfect time to make your return to this restaurant, and maybe it wasn’t how you things to go, but you felt an immense pressure off your shoulders.

The hard part was over, you made it through the door, walked past the remnants of Mikey every time a specific spot reminded you of him.

It wouldn’t always be like today, you knew that. Some days would be harder than others as you worked through your struggles and allowed yourself to feel the loss of Mikey. One step at a time, it was cliche but it was really how you had to live your life from now on.

Being around Carmy would continue to be hard for the time being. You had essentially watched his brother deteriorate, watched as his mind no longer became his own. And you too had almost become a victim to the whims of your drug-addled mind.

You wouldn’t force a relationship with him and would make him privy to your shortcomings when you were ready. But you told yourself you would be okay if he wanted nothing to do with you, the choices you made would not be easy to come to terms with. And if Carmen Berzatto decided he was finally done with your constant disappointment in his life, you’d just have to accept it.

The sound of Natalie’s footsteps pulled you from the labyrinth of your mind, a small smile sent her way as the two of you made your journey far from this lot of memories.

Carmen stared at the outlines they had hung along the walls, eyes following along with tasks that needed to be completed to open in six months.

He didn’t want to admit it but he was a little bummed out that Sugar returned to the restaurant without you. Any small glimpse, or interaction he could get with you he would swallow like a man starving. The chef stood there doing his best as his counterpart gushed over meeting you, doing his best not to cringe at his two worlds colliding.

Carmy wasn’t sure if he could keep it professional while you worked alongside him on the renovation. Sure you would be doing your own thing in tandem with the work that would get done. But surrounding himself with you in an already stressful time in his life and an even more stressful environment wasn’t something he was prepared for.

He let his mind wander, thoughts of what happened to you in the year since your visit drowning him. Carmy had no clue what happened after you left that night, no clue what had seemed to connect you and Sugar more than you already were.

Seeing you again made his chest hurt. Seeing you was like a hot poker being shoved through his heart, unbearably comfortable but all so warming at the same time. He wanted to know you, know what had changed you since the last time his fingers had traced your skin.

Carmy knew the two of you were nowhere near as close as you had once been. Unsure if you’d ever share a connection like your past one. But he knew while you were here, in Chicago, surrounding yourself with him, the two of you would be given equal opportunity to put this years-long game of cat and mouse to an end; it was just a matter of who bit first.

a/n: well…here we are. i know this might read like baby’s life is just gonna be sunshine and rainbows from here on out but i can promise its not. she is a deeply flawed character with a lot of shit to figure out and a half baked relationship with everyone’s favorite chef won’t fix that. i’ve been around addicts my whole life so i have an understanding of what they can be like, i want to iterate that in no way am i romanticizing addiction. my personal experiences with functioning/addicts DO NOT make me an expert on this topic in anyway, but i do use those experiences to write for baby. i’m always here if anyone needs to talk. i hope you all enjoy <3

taglist: @hawkins-2000 @elliesbabygirl @allbark-no-bite @anakinswh0re3005 @rexorangecouny @thecraziestcrayon @fruitcupsworld @nishinoyahhh @lilylovelyxo @ridingthehotmessexpress @noas-ark @jadeittic @hellokittyever @luvr-bunnyy @sxgees @fandomhopped @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @kravitzwhore @chanluuvr @readingwiththereids @chims-kookies @ladygrey03 @ferida-kahlo @wanderlustnightwanderer @how2besalty @armydrcamers @jointherebellion215 @jackierose902109 @blkbxrbie-esther @ajordan2020 @head-slut-in-charge @magnet-girl @thebookwormlife @sevikasblackgf @writers-hes @senassn @bunnysthngs @khena @kailyn-g05 @ovaqma @fire-treasure-iii @frequentnosebleeder

unable to tag: @gcidrvsh @awatt31 @cauliflowerpatch

[kurishiri]

alfons sylvatica . . . episode.0

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: depiction of death.

I do so wonder, were I to say, “Life is but a tragedy,” would you disagree with me?

Well, in the end, it matters not if you agree or disagree.

Everyone is free to interpret what’s before them in their own way. Much like everyone is free to choose how they face reality.

By this, then, if I were to state my personal views on this, I would claim for certain that life is but a tragedy.

Ah, but by no means am I embracing a pessimistic perspective.

If you find reality to be unpleasant, you need only seek out an escape.

Even should an escape fail you, though——

madness will still remain your friend.

In the back alley, where twilight drew near, I happened upon an elderly man collapsed on the ground.

With my hands on my knees, I crouched down beside him. In response, the man’s hollow eyes, devoid of any sign of vitality, looked my way.

Elderly man: Ahh… it’s you.

Alfons: Yes, indeed, it is none other than me.

I do, in fact, have quite a large circle of acquaintances.

That goes especially for people like this man, who had been driven out from the light.

Alfons: Might there a final dream you wish to see?

Elderly man: ………My wife.

Elderly man: I………would like to say sorry………

Alfons: …Is that so.

For a miraculous, utterly unrealistic happening to occur in the finale, right before the curtain closed on a play, would be the universal joke of all comedies.

Alfons: See now, look there. Isn’t it great? “Your wife has come to see you.”

Elderly man: ………Ahh…ahh…

When I murmured this while touching the back of his neck, the man’s eyes widened, tears brimming slightly at the edge of his eyes,

and unable to say the words ‘I’m sorry’ until the end, he drew his last breath.

Alfons: Did she smile for you in your final dream?

A: …Or so I ask, but I can hardly say I’m very interested in the answer.

I gently closed his eyes before promptly leaving the place myself.

(Now, I say it’s about time to search for something new to kill off this boredom.)

Upon leaving the alleyway, I found myself in a twilight-colored London, filled with livelihood,

and the people, in their restlessness, couldn’t bother to pay heed to the fact that just a step in the alleyway would reveal quite a ghastly death.

That would make up the majority. ——However.

(…Oh?)

A postwoman passed me by, running the opposite direction as me,

and as she entered the alleyway where the man was lying, she suddenly stopped.

(So she realized him…?)

At first, I held no interest, but now I was curious to see what this postwoman would do, so in a daze, I stared after her.

She hesitated to step into the alleyway, which had begun to sink in the twilight,

instead looking around her before running toward some patrolling police officers who were some ways away.

(Aww, truly a fool she is. If only she simply feigned ignorance…)

(As the first witness of the body, she will be questioned and subsequently end up tardy for her deliveries.)

But if she left the body, either the police or the cleaners would have discovered it eventually.

(I take it she is the type to carry more burdens than she needs to.)

The kindest people are the easiest to hurt. Such habits are troublesome because it is much like walking into a bush of thorns.

(A pitiable soul she is.)

(Her naïve honesty will be her downfall and lead her to scenes that reek of blood…)

(Well, I suppose I can only hope this theory remains as such.)

Victor: You went out and used your ability again, didn’t you, Alfons?

The next day, the one who caught me in the hallway was the Queen’s Aide, who was laughing wryly.

Alfons: Well, now, whenever could that be? If you remain so vague like that, I’m afraid I will be unable to pin down exactly which incident you speak of.

A: You see, I am but a frugal soul who is simply using what is at his disposal.

Victor: Just as a friendly reminder, you guys’ existences are to be kept confidential, okay?

Alfons: Now, now, why so caught up in the gritty details?

A: After all, I reckon my ability is about as good as a plain old crook when put next to one like William’s.

Victor: Good lord, you naughty boy, you. It’s a no from me, I say, no!

With an air of jest surrounding his warning, his jewel-like eyes narrowed.

Although he was likely scheming a thing — or perhaps two, this respectable person’s true colors still remained ever unfathomable.

Victor: Anyway, all that aside, tonight marks the day of the mission. Have you made your preparations?

Alfons: Yes, but of course.

Crown, a villainous organization that used evil to fight evil, was going to condemn a target tonight.

It was just going to be like any other dull mission that gave me no room to show a sweet dream in one’s dying moments.

Or, that was what I thought.

As per William’s command, the target slit their own throat, and it was right after that.

The door opened, and in came none other than that postwoman.

Kate: ——!?

Drawing in a breath, I could hear the sound come from her throat.

(…Aww…)

(I know I had foreshadowed this, but even for a prediction, is this not much too soon?)

(Goodness, I just cannot help but wonder how that naïve honesty led you here.)

With blood staining her cheeks, she simply stood there, dumbfounded.

I could practically hear the sound of the cruel reality before her piercing through her gentle heart, even now.

(Oh, please, I would prefer anything over this serious air.)

A dull and boring mission turning into a stage set for a tragedy was much too common to hold an ounce of my interest.

(And if this is bound to become a tragedy,)

(why not simply make it a most amusing stage instead?)

If you find reality to be unpleasant, you need only seek out an escape. Even should an escape fail you, though…

Alfons: Well, well, to think we had an audience.

——madness will still remain your friend.

In the end, the lady, who introduced herself as Kate, was given a joke of a role dubbed as a ‘fairytale keeper,’

and it was decided that she would be staying in this den of evil for a month.

Alfons: She truly is hapless… I’m certain anyone would find themselves more at home in this world of darkness than a lady such as her.

Shrugging my shoulders while heading toward my own room, Elbert, who was walking beside me, turned to me with worry.

Elbert: …Are you alright, Al?

Alfons: Yes? Now whatever could you be referring to?

Elbert: Well… you seemed somewhat sad, if I had to say.

Alfons: Ahha! I assure you I am anything but.

A: Why, in fact, when will such an opportune moment arise again, where I will have a most interesting plaything for an entire month? Do you truly believe I have capacity for anything but amusement?

Elbert: …I see.

To me, this ordeal was nothing but a new plaything, having stumbled in here, I can use to fill this life with amusement.

And to her, this ordeal was nothing but the darkness of England that she did not have to witness, and a troublesome role that was pushed onto her.

(And for the both of us, if this can become an entertainment that can divert us, even for a moment, that is all it needs to be.)

Alfons: Truly… I do look forward to this.

Reality knows nothing but cruelty: it will only eat away at your heart before throwing you in the middle of the darkness.

So cease this folly act of trying to face it directly and getting yourself hurt.

(Now——may the time pass us by, much like a most amusing dream.)

← prev next →

NOTE: and this would mark the start of alfons’ route! i feel this route may probably be the least romantic-feeling out of the ones released so far; of course, that’s not to say there isn’t romance, but the way he expresses love is quite subtle and the romance may feel overshadowed by his issues. but i hope the high drama can make up for any (perceived) lack of romance!

truth be told, i feel this route may end up dividing the fandom when it comes to alfons, especially with his actions. and you may find yourself surprised at how kate ends up sort of toughing it out to the very end with him. but i do think, overall, it does take a read through of this route to really understand and delve into the parts of his character the other routes seem to only hint at.

i hope you enjoy this wild ride, if you choose to ride along with me!

masterlist🪞 ╱ ko-fi ☕️

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ tags🏷️ ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ @drachonia @.comment or dm to be added or removed!