#{i think you're headed for a breakdown - threads}

[diedbrave]

@spider-self continued from here.

Eddie couldn't say that he understood, and even if he did, he wasn't sure that he wanted to. This being, this demon creature, would never be sensical to Eddie - or any of the Losers, for that matter. Eddie Kaspbrak wasn't sure if he believed in God or not. His mother had raised him Baptist, but he certainly hadn't followed any of the teachings once he had left her household. Now that his memories were back, it was easier to remember why.

How could their be a God, if He allowed demons like this to walk the Earth and prey on the innocent?

He was certain that to understand IT's truth, meant to truly go insane. Because there was no truth strong enough to make sense in the utter chaos and destruction that this creature, this clown, had brought with IT. Eddie didn't know why he was facing Pennywise now. Facing him, alone, where he could easily get killed. He could face the fate of Georgie, or Betty Ripsom, or Patrick Hockstetter, or any of those victims. Easily.

But IT had called them back here. Mike had said it himself - the clown had called the Losers home. Why? Why, if it had been perfectly safe without them in Derry. If the Losers had forgotten the clown's mere existence, where it could have thrived and continued the cycle without the fear of threat. And maybe, just maybe, Eddie was crazy enough to want to make sense of it all.

"You didn't have to call us back to Derry. You could have killed more kids, and it wouldn't have even been a blip on the radar." He would know. There was no way that small town, Derry, Maine, would ever show up on the news in New York. Chicago. LA. Where most of the Losers had lived. "You need us for something. You won't destroy us until we've served whatever sick purpose you have for bringing us back."

[nerdygirlramblings]

I have a vision

Like reader and John are married for god knows how long (probaly since he was just a Sergeant) so it's obvious that reader knows Ghost, or rather Simon since John is like a father to him.

So when John comes home after a rough mission, Simon is with him. Usually Simon would sleep on the couch or the guest room but this time it's different. He's on the edge of a breakdown and reader offers him to join them in bed for cuddles, John doesn't mind that.

It ends up with Simon bare and vulnerable and reader and John taking care of him

If you wanna include some smut it's your choice, you're the author

Also the gender of reader because Idc about that

Thank you for this ask! This one took a few different journeys in my head before we got here, but this is the version that felt right. I hope you enjoy the result!

an: I delved into asexuality here, but if I misportrayed the acespec experience, please lmk! This is a new space for me, and I want to get it right.

Simon's known you since before he made lieutenant. You've been Price's since forever. Simon likes you because his Captain loves you. Simon loves you because you support his and Price's relationship.

The first time it had happened, they'd been on base less than an hour, wrung out from the mission and staring down the barrel of after action reports. Price was sitting at his desk, paperwork splayed out and only half finished when Ghost had come in and nearly dropped from sheer exhaustion. He couldn't tell if the weariness was mental or physical or some combination of both, but Price served as a grounding force.

Price wasn't a mind reader but he was an expert in body language, and he'd taken one look at Ghost and known exactly what was wrong. He beckoned the younger man over. It took coaxing and a promise that things would be better to get Ghost to kneel at Price's feet and put his head in Price's lap. Price slid one hand off the paperwork he'd only been half-heartedly completing and ran it up under Ghost's mask, pulling the balaclava off. Thick fingers scrubbed through the sweaty hair and eventually began a light pet.

"You're safe here Simon. I've got you," he rumbled, voice gruff from the cigar on his desk. Simon's not sure how long they were there, Price's hand keeping him grounded while giving him the space to let go. It could have been seconds or days. All he knows is he had never felt as free as he did by the time Price roused him off his knees and shooed him back to his own paperwork.

After that, mission debriefs began including quiet time for Simon and his Captain where the older man would help the younger come back to himself. For someone as touched-starved as Simon had always been, Price's comfort was a blessing.

He doesn't remember what mission they'd come off of the night you found them, but he does recall the startled gasp you made when you walked in with dinner for your husband only to find him with another man in his lap. You'd only met the lieutenant once before. He couldn't, wouldn't, get between Price and you, but he didn't know how to find the strength to leave.

Thankfully, you kept an open mind. Let your husband explain that there was nothing sexual or even romantic to their relationship. Smiled at Simon as he stumbled through how it felt to not have to worry just for a little while. And, when all was said and done, opened your arms and beckoned Simon into them.

For years now your house has been Simon's safe place. He has his own bed in what you tell others is the guest room, but several years back you decorated it in Simon's favorite colors with little touches to help him feel grounded. The kitchen cupboard has his favorite tea, and the crisps he likes are always in the pantry. He has a key to the front door and knows he's always welcome no matter the time, so he thinks nothing of slipping in after midnight, finally back from a solo mission, his humanity hanging on by a thread.

Of course John hears the door the moment the lock rolls back on its tumblers, Simon's heavy tread carrying quietly in the still air. He tries to get out of bed without waking you, but you never sleep well when he's not there, so you notice immediately. Bleary eyes find his as he stands half in the doorway, says, "Simon's just got in. Going to go check on him."

You nod as John slips out of your room. He had given you what few details he could about Simon's mission while the other man was gone. You worried about him, how big a toll this would take on him. So moment after John leaves, you slowly climb out of bed, slip into your robe, quietly pad down the hall. You can hear your husband's low rumble and a sound that rocks you. Crying. You don't think it's John, the timbre's off, but despite hearing it, you struggle to believe Simon is crying.

You didn't believe there was anything that could ever make his lieutenant - the Ghost - cry.

You ease the door open, catching Simon so very human. Broken. Hunched over, head between his knees, hands clasped tight behind his neck. He's still in most of his gear. He must have come straight from transport. John rubs his hand up and down Simon's back, but the man barely reacts. He doesn't seem to realize John's there.

Both go suddenly still at the change in the air when you come into the room.

"Simon," you whisper. Like your husband, you want to comfort him. Unlike your husband, this isn't something you've offered before, not a comfort Simon's been allowed.

You kneel in front of him, gently reaching out for a boot. In the thin light from the window, deft fingers pick apart knots so the boots are easier to slip off. First one then the other thuds to the floor behind you. You run gentle hands up his chest, unclipping the tac vest. John pulls it off Simon's shoulders. Shirt and trousers follow, the two of you working seamlessly, silently to help Simon shed Ghost. When he's down to just his pants, you slip your fingers under the edge of his mask.

"Is this okay?" Your whisper feels like a shout in the darkness.

Simon grunts and dips his chin further into your palm. You take it as permission, pulling the knit up and off. Cupping his cheeks in your hands, you run your thumb through the eye black. You can't say what possesses you to do it, but you lean forward and drop little kisses on Simon's eyelids.

When they flutter open, it's like seeing directly into Simon's soul. The brown cracked with pain and desperation. A fear too big to name.

You stand, reaching one hand down to John and the other to Simon. John comes willingly, no questions. Simon needs reassurance. "It's okay, Simon. You're safe here. We've got you," you tell him. You have no idea how much you sound like John did all those years ago. It's that echo alone that allows Simon to follow you back to the room you share with his Captain.

John understands your intent immediately, ushering first you then Simon into the bed. You slide into your usual space against the wall, holding the covers up as Simon stiffly joins you. He lays on his back, ramrod straight, as John sinks into the mattress on his other side. The hand next to Simon fumbles a moment, finding his, and interlacing your fingers together. Your other hand comes to rest on Simon's chest. You curl towards John and he towards you, one hand covering yours over Simon's heart. You breathe slowly, pressing the rhythm ever so slightly into Simon's lungs.

Tension is thick for a moment. Two. Three. By ten, Simon is breathing in time with you, shuddering as silent tears slip out. Lips brush his cheek as you whisper again, "We've got you."

You do. And he knows in his bones you always will.

main masterlist

[yena-enha]

𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐌𝐞? - 𝐋𝐇𝐒

« Seoulfound Masterlist »

Warning - None, Angst

Note - SFW (Fluff and Angst)

Genre - Soulmate AU, Angst, First Love, Strangers to Lovers

Pairing - Non!Idol!Heeseung x Non!Idol!FemReader

Song Inspiration - All I Want By KODALINE

Word Count - 2k

Seoulfound Special Presents Voice Resonance For Lee Heeseung.

★ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡⋆　Seoulfound You　⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡⋆ ★

Heeseung hears her when it hurts the most.

He never knows when it’ll happen.

Sometimes it’s a whisper brushing the back of his thoughts like wind against a window. Sometimes it’s a quiet sob, muffled like someone crying through a wall. The worst nights—it’s her voice breaking, small and fragile, begging someone not to leave.

And always, always, she sounds just as lonely as he feels.

At first, he thought he was going crazy. Auditory hallucinations, he googled. Stress-induced psychosis. Lack of sleep. He’d been overworked and under-lived for too long—drifting through college, part-time jobs, and obligations he never asked for.

But none of that explained why her voice felt… warm. Familiar. Safe, in a way he couldn’t put into words.

Even though he didn’t know her name.

Even though they’d never met.

It’s not until his roommate—half-drunk and dead serious—mentions the concept of Voice Resonance that everything clicks.

"You hear someone when you're emotional, right?" his friend had said, pouring another shot. "Dude, that’s one of the rarest soulmate signs. Like… you're literally tethered by feeling. That’s crazy."

Heeseung laughed it off that night, brushing it under jokes and denial.

But in the quiet that followed, her voice returned.

And he stopped laughing.

---

It’s raining again.

The kind of cold drizzle that doesn’t bother carrying weight—it just slips into your bones and settles. Heeseung walks the streets of Seoul with his hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds in but no music playing, and exhaustion burning under his skin.

He hasn’t slept. Again.

He can feel the bags under his eyes, heavy and purple. His shift at the café ended hours ago, but he couldn’t go home. Not to that silence. Not to that aching stillness.

So he walks.

And maybe that’s why he hears her clearer than ever.

"I can’t do this anymore."

He stops walking.

Her voice is trembling—on the edge of falling apart.

And it’s not in his head this time. It’s inside him. Threaded through every nerve. Vibrating like an echo in his chest.

"Please. I just need… I just want it to stop."

His breath catches. It’s like someone sucked the air from the world. His heart pounds. His hands shake. She sounds broken. Terrified. And for the first time—

He answers.

"Hey—hey, can you hear me?"

The world is silent.

Then—

"Wait… who—" her voice falters, raw with confusion. "Who are you?"

His heart nearly stops.

She heard him.

She fucking heard him.

---

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, palms over your ears. But none of it works—not the quiet music, not the breathing exercises, not the therapist-approved affirmations taped to your mirror.

You’re tired. Not just in your body, but in your soul.

You didn’t think you’d ever hear him answer.

That voice—the one you’d been hearing for months, flickering through your breakdowns, whispering like a memory you never made. You thought it was a symptom of stress, or maybe just a voice your mind invented to keep you from unraveling.

But now?

He spoke back.

And it feels like something inside you shifted.

"I’m Heeseung," he says softly. "I—I think we’re soulmates."

You let out a small, broken laugh through your tears.

"God," you whisper, "I thought I was making you up."

"No," he breathes, and the weight of his voice settles into your chest like gravity. "You’re real. I promise you, you’re real."

---

The next few nights are different.

Not perfect. Not healed. But less lonely.

Heeseung learns your name. You learn his habits. He walks through the city at night, and you stay curled up under blankets, whispering to each other like the world might end if you spoke too loud.

Sometimes you cry. Sometimes he does.

Neither of you apologizes for it.

You talk about the little things—what his hands smell like after a café shift (vanilla syrup and espresso), the fact that your fingers shake when you’re anxious, your shared hatred for the feeling of being seen but not known.

He confesses he’s scared to find you. That if he meets you in person, it might ruin this fragile, perfect thing.

You tell him you’ve never felt more found in your entire life.

Heeseung swears your voice feels like a memory he never lived but always missed.

You say he feels like coming home.

---

It’s pouring when you meet him.

Not by design—just coincidence. (But maybe fate has a flair for drama.)

You’re on your way home when a voice floods your mind, stronger than ever before. Not a whisper. Not a thought.

But a feeling.

"Are you at the university station?"

You freeze.

You are.

"Turn around."

You do.

And there he is—soaking wet in a hoodie and jeans, eyes wide and terrified and shining.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

Because the second your eyes meet, the voice in your head fades.

Not because it’s gone. But because you no longer need it.

Heeseung crosses the distance with slow, shaking steps. Like if he runs, he might wake up.

You reach out first. Your hand in his. Solid. Real. Warm.

You don’t speak. Not out loud.

But your souls are screaming.

---

"Can you hear me?"

Heeseung asked the night he thought he’d break.

And now, with your arms around his waist and your forehead pressed to his chest—he knows.

You always could.

★ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡⋆　Seoulfound You　⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡⋆ ★

«Masterlist || Introduction»

Taglist» @strxwbloody

[mediocreanomaly]

The World Keeps Turning

Cecil x GN!Reader: Comfort Drabble

Authors Note: a little comfort for you sweeties. (I sprinkled some of my southerner Cecil propaganda in here, deal with it.)

Breathing should come naturally to you, yet your breaths come in uneven stammering inhales that threaten to turn into something more, something worse, a breakdown that would mean admitting that you can't keep it together. So you try not to think about it. Try not to think about anything.

It's one of those days where the walls seem too close, the world is moving too fast, and you… you're sinking. You can feel it choking up your throat and crushing in your chest.

You take another breath.

It's more watery than the last, threatening to spill over.

The front door unlocks, the sound adding insult to injury. It feels… wrong, being caught like this. Steady footsteps of dress shoes on the ground feel like a hammer driving nails into a coffin. The man who exhausts himself protecting the world, and you can’t even get out of bed?

It makes something dark and writhing twist in your head and you bury your face against the pillows to pretend to be asleep.

“Honey?” Cecil asks, setting down his bag; you can hear the ‘thump’ of the leather on the carpet floor as he comes to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight.

You can't look up. You CAN'T. If you do, he'll see what a mess you are right now, and the thought of adding another problem for him to fix to his day is just too much. So you stay buried, unreachable, a cocoon of quiet suffering.

“Hm” Cecil hums like he understands, like he's adjusting a radio dial, he already knows what to look for he's just got to fine tune for to you. “One of those days, huh?”

Of course he knows. Cecil always knows.

He reaches forward, fingers threading through your hair, toying with the ends before smoothing them back. His touch begins to unravel the tight knot of tension in your chest.

After a few moments, he gets up, and just as you start to miss him, he's already over at the record player in the corner, setting a vinyl in place. The needle dips, and the first crackles spill from the old speakers as Can't Take My Eyes Off You begins to play. It's familiar, one of his favorites when he's in a sentimental sort of mood. The music wavers and cracks, the record well loved from years of use, but Cecil never throws it away. You hope he never does.

You can hear the telltale sound of rustling fabric as he slides off his coat, undoes his tie, and toes off his shoes to get comfortable before he slides into bed with you.

His arms wrap around your frame, the weight of another person gathering you and keeping you together… making you feel like you can finally let go.

The water works come quick and with abandon, trembling full bodied sobs escape your mouth as you press your face against Cecil's chest. His cologne and aftershave fill your senses, a scent that feels more like ‘home’ than any GDA-approved living space ever could.

You think you speak, or at least try to. Watery gasps and cries of apologies for the situation, for yourself. He shushes every single one.

“Easy Darlin’...” he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft for a man who’s mastered the art of snappy detachment.

He talks about everything and nothing at all; his day, dull government meetings, and more entertaining, exasperated quotes from the team. He tells you he ate the lunch you made him, that Donald pretended not to be amused by the handwritten note tucked inside, but Cecil’s known the fucker too long to be fooled.

He tells you he cut down on his caffeine and that he missed you. He tells you that you're okay because, you know what? He's seen the worst of the worst and the world keeps turning.

Sweet words muttered against your hairline like if he said them enough, you might just believe him.

He stays until you've worn yourself out, until all that's left is dull exhaustion, and even then, he just holds you tighter.

“We're alright, sugar,” he says softly, pulling the covers higher up your shoulders, keeping the world out of this moment for just a moment longer.

For once, it feels like that might be true.

[dimensionslip]

Dedue: I... will always be by your side... Dimitri, my liege... my one and only...

Or, a translation breakdown of this very powerful Dimidue exchange before Dedue turns into a demonic beast in Crimson Flower Chapter 17.

[EN Localization] Dedue: It is time. Your Majesty… I will avenge your father. You are the one true king…Dimitri. Grr… Grrrr! Dimitri: Dedue! I will fight by your side until the bitter end… As long as I am with you, this lance of mine will know nothing of defeat!

[JP to EN Translation] Dedue: It's time, huh. Your Majesty… You must accomplish your goals. To avenge my brethren… and the late king…! I… will always be by your side… Dimitri, my liege… my one and only… Ghh… Gghh… Guaaaaaaargh! Dimitri: …Dedue. Ahh… until the end, I will fight by your side. As long as we're together… this lance of mine will know nothing of defeat!

(The following is a copy-paste of my text from this Twitter thread. I will clean this up some more on a later date. Also thank you Mareza for bringing these lines to my attention years ago!)

While I can see how the localization arrived at certain lines, I scratch my head at why some portions were omitted to the point that it changed the vibe and meaning of the scene. To start off, the lines come off as more emotional and personal in Japanese, I feel. On both Dedue and Dimitri's ends, and is about twice as long when spoken in terms of duration thanks to it.

Dedue does not really say anything about personally avenging Dimitri's father, and actually mentions two separate things in this regard. "My brethren" (我が同胞) and "the late king" (先王陛下). Those should not be combined and should be counted as separate things here.

「我が」 (waga) can be translated as either "my" or "our", but in this context it's "my". Also, 「ください」 "kudasai" was not accounted for properly in the localization, since it's used to ask for something. Not something you use when referring to something you're about to do.

A small side note, 「我が同胞の……先王陛下の、仇を……！」 is more literally "For my brethren… for the late king, the enemy must…!" but it comes off a little clunky and not as clear, so I went for something a little less literal. There's an definitely an implied "avenge" in that text, which the localization did get. But mentions of Dedue wanting revenge for his brethren were not mentioned at all in the English localization.

Nonetheless, Dedue's last words are what absolutely carry the emotional weight of this conversation. He reassures Dimitri once last time, and then calls him "Dimitri-sama". Which I would like to draw attention to.

It was difficult translating this one. Dedue doesn't really call Dimitri anything else other than "Your Highness" or "Your Majesty" depending on the route/time we're talking about. He does call Dimitri by his name in their A support, but other than that I'm not sure where else. But 「ディミトリ様」 here is highly unusual, and I think they wanted to call attention to it. For Dedue, I think it's more personal than anything he's ever called Dimitri--in this route at least. Especially in conjunction with what he says right after that.

I think "Dimitri, my liege" is probably the best way to handle it given context. Normally I would translate "Dimitri-sama" as "Master Dimitri" or "Lord Dimitri", but that just does not feel right, and simply leaving it as "Dimitri" turns it into something else entirely.

But yeah, to further drive this very emotionally charged scene, Dimitri says all those things a few lines later. The most notable difference here is the way the last line was phrased.

Dimitri says "As long as we're together" in Japanese, which I think comes off differently compared to "As long as I am with you". The word choice puts a lot more focus on Dedue being there rather than Dimitri's presence, and I think that adds to the emotion of the scene. Not to mention, all these dramatic pauses. I was talking about this with @pluma_azurea (who helped with smoothing out some of the lines!) and we both agreed that it's the pauses here that really add to the experience.

In general though, I think the English localization handled Dimitri's lines well. And the same emotion comes off in both English and Japanese, I feel. But there's a notable difference in the way Dedue's lines are tackled, and I hope this post cleared some things up!

Ahh still… this is such an amazing set of lines. Emotionally charged and hurts in the best ways possible. It's also a lovely look into the circumstances surrouding Dedue's loyalty towards Dimitri. The intensity of it. Dimitri's sorrowful trust in him. It's also a neat nod to Dedue's hangups regarding the Tragedy of Duscur, among many other things.

[diedbrave]

Eddie couldn't help but to bristle at that statement, even though he also knew there was no way to argue against it. He had been popping pills as a kid, as Richie so crudely put it, because his mother had insisted that he had needed them all for his health. He had certain bottles for certain occasions, and had always set multiple watch alarms to remind him to take his medication. He knew Richie wasn't talking about that, though. He knew Richie meant now, in the present.

Apparently Eddie hadn't been as good at hiding his own shit as he thought.

Which was why he didn't fight back this time around as Richie reached back for the glass, taking a long inhale through his nose, an exhale through his mouth. Something he was working on practicing in therapy, so he wouldn't get all fiery and snappy, especially at times like this. "Fine. Whatever. I'm not going to fight you. See if I care. Apparently whether you live or die should be none of my fucking business."

He wished he had his own drink at the moment, but he knew that would go against everything he had just said and was trying to prove. He did raise an eyebrow at Richie tossing out what he had said, wondering if secretly the trashmouth had been drinking even at an early age to cope with things and none of them had realized, too wrapped up in their own issues and trauma. "Okay then. The moment you decide to talk to me like a grown ass adult, we'll talk about it. But if you're going to continue to shut me out, I don't even know why I'm here." Here, as in Richie's place, where Richie had helped him to move into after his divorce with Myra was finalized.

' eds. i'm fine. ' richie repeated, insistently, glaring at him and at the glass that eddie had taken from his hands earlier. ' i know what i'm doing. i'm a grown ass adult, i can deal with my problems the way i deal with 'em, just like you deal with yours like you do. '

richie cocked an eyebrow. he'd been around eddie long enough now to know his habits, to recognise when someone was being sneaky because that was exactly how he acted.

' you've been popping pills since we were like 10, eds. '

he pulled his hand back from eddie and reached for his glass again, holding it close to his chest in case eddie decided to lean over and grab it back.

' it's fine. it's nothing i haven't been dealing with since i was like fucking 13. ' eddie didn't need to know the truth. no one needed to know the truth about richie; that shit could stay locked up and in the back of the closet where it belonged.

[brigdh]

I want to talk about Izzy's rant to Ed in episode 10, the one that brings out the Kraken. I've seen a lot of different descriptions of what is going on in this scene – death threat, homophobic slurs, etc – and I don't think either of those are what's actually what's happening.

Let's look at it closely, line by line, and the way Ed reacts, from the very beginning of the scene.

Ed: Well, feels nice to tidy up a little. Can't believe I was living like this. Can you, Iz? Izzy? Izzy: I'm going to speak plainly. Ed: Wonderful. You know we share our thoughts on this ship.

Izzy, cont: This, whatever it is that you've become... is a fate worse than death.

Okay. So there we've got what some have interpreted as a death threat. But does Ed seem threatened? He's startled, certainly, put on his back foot – literally – but he doesn't look afraid or alarmed to me. He draws in a slow breath, assessing the situation, but overall seems more confused than frightened.

In fact he laughs it off with his next line:

Izzy then escalates the level of aggression in the conversation:

But Ed, again, looks more confused than anything. Check out that furrowed brow, that head tilt! This is a man going "what is your deal?", not a man thinking "uh-oh, you might kill me!".

Extremely noticeably, even when Izzy storms right up into his face, Ed holds steady. He doesn't run, doesn't lean back, doesn't hunch his shoulders or drop eye contact – there is no vulnerability or defensiveness in Ed's body language at all. Ed is in supreme control of this confrontation – look at the slow way he deigns to turn back to the paper Izzy's holding! As though he's making the point that he chooses when to turn, not Izzy:

Then we have the "homophobic slur". But watch closely:

Ed does not react to "namby-pamby", "silk gown", or "pining" at all. He doesn't even blink. He barely seems like he's hearing Izzy. His entire attention is on the picture.

Ed's body language and behavior changes at one word and one word only, and that is "boyfriend". As soon as Izzy says it, Ed's furious:

(It's even easier to notice when you actually watch the scene instead of using gifs, because Izzy really draws out 'piiiiiiining', putting a lot of time between the first half of the sentence and 'boyfriend'.)

Why is the use of the word 'boyfriend' so important?

Well, what has Ed been doing all episode? He's been crying in a blanket fort and singing sad songs, yes, but he's been keeping a careful level of mystique about why he's doing it. Ed often uses distanced circumlocutions instead of directly acknowledging his emotions, but he's doing it in this episode even more so than usual:

Here are the lyrics to his song:

(Version one, with Lucius) Hanging on By a thread Hanging on Shouldn't let go If I let go, all will fall Fingers bleeding down to the bone now Can't let go Nothing makes sense Hold on Hold on Hold... on

(Version two, performed for the whole crew) Just let go Make yourself let go Make it go away Away, away today Life's a hard sad death And then you're Deaaad

Notice something? There is no mention of Stede, or love, or break-ups, or abandonments, or relationships in general. All Ed discusses is a vague life-sucks attitude, which could apply to basically anyone under any circumstances. He seems pretty okay with people knowing that Blackbeard is having some sort of weird emotional breakdown as long as he convinces himself that no one knows it's specifically from having his heart broken

This is true of everything Ed says and does for this entire episode. He never once even mentions Stede's name, unless "Farewell, Bonnet's playthings" at the very end counts. The only thing Ed openly admits to feeling bad about is a fictional character who's having a hard time "holding on" (holding on to what? he never says). There are no allusions to heartbreak or romance anywhere in his dialogue.

Now, Ed's not stupid. I'm sure he knows Izzy and Lucius and the rest of the crew can connect the dots and realize that something bad happened with Stede, even if Ed doesn't fill them in on the details. But Ed is also traumatized, and has a whole host of coping mechanisms set up to help him avoiding thinking about things that he doesn't want to think about. If he's not a murderer because "technically the fire killed those guys", then no one knows he's heartbroken because technically he hasn't acknowledged it.

Until Izzy says the word 'boyfriend'. Suddenly the secret is out, and Ed can't handle it. Izzy knows his weakness. That's why this word effects Ed more than anything else Izzy says in the whole scene.

At the end of the confrontation, he hears the crew calling for another song. Look at Ed here. He looks as haunted, as disturbed, in this moment as he does at any point in Izzy's rant.

This is an important part of the scene, not just a closing note. Because if Izzy (the Caribbean's most emotionally constipated man) can see through him, obviously the whole crew can too.

Obviously Lucius – who advised Ed on his and Stede's relationship, who played along with Ed's 'fictional character' claim, who wrote down Ed's lyrics – can do so most of all.

There's a direct emotional logic to Ed killing Lucius because he had a fight with Izzy, and it doesn't involve Ed having been threatened or hate crime'd at all. Ed doesn't deal well with his own feelings (from Stede), so he chooses to become Blackbeard/the Kraken and gets rid of all the witnesses who saw otherwise.

[diedbrave]

@riptozier continued from here.

"You look like you're wearing a fucking crop top." Eddie dead-panned, and okay maybe it wasn't that bad, truly, but it was bad enough that Eddie had to fight between being incredibly annoyed while also trying not to laugh. Richie had a good four inches on him, so it was no surprise that the shirt was going to be a little short - something Eddie didn't even want to think about because that meant a short joke was definitely on the horizon.

He didn't want to be late to work, even though he ran his own company at this point and therefore the only person he could get in trouble with was himself, but he couldn't pull himself out of being completely flabberghasted. "Why are you wearing one of my shirts, Richard?" He stressed, holding the new set of keys that, yup, he had definitely forgotten in his anxious rush out the door. He needed to get rid of the other car keys, but some paranoid sense told him he shouldn't.

"I literally did laundry for us both yesterday." Because he was living with Richie, and he didn't trust Richie to clean his clothes nearly as well as he probably should. "So there's no fucking way you're out of shirts and felt the need to, what, wear one of mine?"

[diedbrave]

"Well Dan, my name is Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak." He smiled softly, before laughing as he shook his head. "And don't worry, there aren't any benches dedicated to me either." Not unless there was a bench for his sacrifice of his life that he had made to a giant alien clown spider, but considering that was fairly hush hush information, he highly doubted it. "Guess we're just two average guys at the park. Good thing I don't really have a leaning towards celebrities." Even though a good chunk of his friends seemingly had that status.

He flipped the page of his paper again, not even noticing that the other was intruding on his thoughts. Even if that were possible - and maybe it was - Eddie had so many thoughts going a mile a minute that the last thing he would notice was someone in his brain. At the question, he lowered the paper, raising an eyebrow to look over the other with dark brown eyes. "Is there ever? I'm just trying to find something to kill time." Before he had to get to his divorce hearing. Not that he would bore this stranger with his personal life.

"What about you, did you just come here to people watch or feed the birds or something?"

@diedbrave

Dan laughed gently. ❝No, that's not me. My name's actually Dan Torrance.❞ He introduced himself as he sat down. ❝I don't think that there are any benches dedicated to me.❞ He joked as he settled next to the stranger.

He hadn't exactly meant to, but Dan had received some memory of the man next to him when he was a kid, under the greenery of some trees, not unlike the ones here. It was pleasant and made Dan smile a little. He didn't linger in the man's thoughts. That was rude. Even though Dan was an avid people-watcher these days. That's what he was doing at the park.

❝Anything good in that paper?❞ He asked.

[ficnation]

Chapter 6

Series: The Cockroach

Pairings: Negan Smith x Female! Reader; Lucille Smith x Female! Reader; Negan Smith x Lucille Smith

Word count: 2,5k+

Warnings: usual twd themes, cancer mentions and treatment, nightmares, panic attack

If you're not on the taglist but would like to be tagged, let me know!

Main Masterlist || "The Cockroach" Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

It had been days. Maybe longer. Time didn’t feel real anymore.

Your bruises were still ugly, your ribs still sore, but at least you could move without wanting to vomit. Progress. Physically, at least. Mentally? Different story. Sleep was a joke, and when it did come, it wasn’t relief—it was Murphy. His voice, his face, his name sitting heavy in your throat like a swallowed scream.

You shouldn’t have left him. You needed him. Murphy was your anchor, your world, and no matter what you felt for Lucille, no matter what this place meant for you now—you would not leave him behind.

The dim glow of the basement faded, replaced by warm sunlight pooling through white sheets.

Murphy’s smile. Bright, boyish, untouched by the weight of the world. He lay beside you, half-hidden beneath the covers, his messy hair a dark halo against the pillow. His blue eyes sparkled as he nudged your side, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You ever think about just staying like this forever?” His voice was hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter the moment.

You smirked, rolling onto your side to face him. “You’d get bored.”

“Nah,” he grinned wider, reaching out to push a strand of hair from your face. “Not with you.”

The sheets filtered the morning light, turning everything soft and hazy. It felt safe here, hidden away from all the bullshit. Just you and him.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”

Murphy leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

You wanted to freeze time. Keep him here. Keep him safe. Keep him yours.

But the memory fractured—ripped away like torn fabric.

The dim basement light returned, washing the world in cold, sickly yellow.

The silence was unbearable tonight.

You sat at the kitchen table, thumb picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, knee bouncing. Across from you, Lucille sipped weak tea, her expression unreadable. The sound of the chemotherapy bag dripping into her IV filled the space between you. Or maybe that sound was just in your head.

Her gaze flicked toward you. She noticed. The restless energy, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to wrap around something solid—like they needed something to fight.

“You should get some sleep,” she said gently.

You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my mental breakdown.” It came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.

Lucille exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t.

“You’re restless.”

“Gee, what gave it away? You should be a detective,” you deadpanned.

She didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just waited. That was the worst part. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just giving you space to step forward or step back.

You rubbed a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples as you let out a slow breath. The words weren’t ready to leave you yet. But Lucille was patient. And patience was the one thing that always broke you.

“I left him.” The confession was barely above a whisper, pried from between clenched teeth.

Lucille didn’t ask who. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she just knew you.

Who else could it be? You had no boyfriend. No casual flings. Just you and Murphy. A relationship so tangled, so blurred at the edges that defining it was impossible. It was a whole thing.

A hollow laugh slipped from your throat. Sharp. Bitter. Fractured.

“Very dramatic. Blood, yelling—a real ‘go, save yourself’ moment. Would’ve been a hit in theaters.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but your voice shook at the edges.

Lucille’s expression softened. “And now you can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Huh. You are perceptive,” you mocked, but it lacked any real heat.

She gave you a look. The kind that made you feel like a petulant child. The kind that Murphy used to give you when you got too stubborn for your own good.

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

“I should’ve fought harder.” The words fell out, raw and jagged. “I should’ve—I don’t know. I should’ve done something.”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge.

“And now he’s out there, and I’m here. Sitting on my ass like some goddamn—”

You cut yourself off, but the damage was done. The tears gathered, hot and stinging, burning at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, looking away, pretending they weren’t there.

Lucille leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Drip. Drip.

“You don’t have to hold it in.” Her voice was soft, but firm.

You let out a tight, bitter laugh. Shook your head.

“No, I can’t.”

She frowned, but before she could argue, you pushed forward, voice quieter now. Raw.

“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop… then I can’t save him.”

Silence.

Lucille didn’t tell you it was okay. She didn’t feed you empty reassurances. She just let you sit in it. Let you breathe through it.

The clock ticked. Your pulse slowed. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there—a storm behind your ribs, waiting for permission to break.

Lucille nodded once. Decisive. Certain.

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. No pity. No sugarcoated comfort. Just a plan.

You nodded back, exhaling.

The storm didn’t break tonight.

You headed upstairs, looking for something to do—anything to make the weight in your chest disappear. Anything that would silence Murphy’s voice, the echo of his last words still gnawing at the edges of your mind.

You didn’t have anything against his voice, but you sure as hell didn’t want to hear that moment replaying over and over again.

“Go.” The unsaid ‘save yourself’.

Like hell you could.

You pushed the thought down and stepped onto the porch, where you found Negan, slouched in a chair, smoking. He was back from wherever the hell he disappeared to, looking like he was trying way too hard to be unbothered.

You weren’t stupid.

He was doing it again—pretending. Acting like Lucille’s condition wasn’t sitting on his chest like a goddamn anvil. Acting like the slow creep of death in the next room wasn’t tearing him apart the same way it was tearing you apart.

But it was always there.

The sickly pale color of her skin. The wigs she insisted on wearing every day. The dark circles under her eyes, beautiful even as they dimmed.

Negan could pretend all he wanted—but you saw it. And he saw that you saw it.

Without a word, you sat down next to him, carefully keeping some distance between you. Close enough to share the moment, far enough that you wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.

“Share?” you asked, holding out your hand for the cigarette before he could even think about telling you no.

Negan sighed, side-eyeing you before handing it over. He didn’t protest, but you could tell by the way he rubbed a hand over his face that he wanted to.

And in true Negan fashion, he didn’t offer comfort—just commentary.

“You look like a kicked puppy. That a new aesthetic choice, or are we just leanin’ into the whole ‘existential crisis’ thing?”

You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slow, hoping it would settle you. It didn’t.

“Can you just shut up for once? Or is that too hard of a job for you?”

Negan let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who chose to come out here, sit next to me, take my damn cigarette—and now I need to shut up?” His voice curled with annoyance, every word growing sharper. “I think the fuck not.”

Your grip tightened around the cigarette, the burn of it grounding you.

“Jesus Christ, Negan.” You turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “I don't know how Lucille puts up with you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—am I not grieving properly for you?” His smirk was mocking, but his voice was cutting. “You wanna teach me how it’s done? Maybe I should sit in a dark corner and mope until I implode—that more your speed?”

Your jaw clenched.

“You are so goddamn exhausting.”

“And you are so goddamn predictable.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’? The whole tortured, guilt-ridden, it-shoulda-been-me act?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to react.

“News flash—you can sit here and hate yourself all you want, but it ain’t gonna bring your boy back.”

The world stopped.

You went still.

The cigarette slipped between your fingers, hitting the porch floor with a faint sizzle.

Negan’s eyes flashed when he realized he hit something real.

“Ah. There it is.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about, huh? Poor little girl lost her best buddy, and now she don’t know what the fuck to do with herself.”

That was it.

Before you could think—before you could stop yourself—your hand lashed out.

Crack.

The sound of skin meeting skin cut through the night.

Negan’s head snapped to the side, jaw tight, the ghost of your slap burning red against his cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your hand trembled, but your face remained stone cold.

Negan slowly turned back to you, jaw flexing. His tongue ran over his teeth, and for the first time, he didn’t have a smartass response.

You saw the moment he decided not to react. The way he swallowed down the anger, the fight, the instinct to throw another verbal punch.

Instead, he let out a slow, low chuckle.

“That all you got?” His voice was hoarse, full of something you couldn’t place.

You ground your teeth together so hard it hurt.

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You turned and walked away.

Your boots thudded against the wooden floorboards, each step carrying the raw, burning rage he’d just set loose.

Negan stayed where he was, watching you disappear into the house.

Neither of you said another word.

But the fight?

It wasn’t over.

The night crept in, slow and heavy, wrapping itself around you like a too-tight rope.

You tossed and turned on your makeshift bed, your body restless, your mind refusing to shut the hell up. It wasn’t about the discomfort—Lucille had done her best, piling blankets and pillows together until it almost felt like a real bed. Almost.

Hell, it was probably better than that shitty excuse for a mattress you had in your apartment.

But comfort had nothing to do with it.

It was the rage—boiling under your skin like molten iron, filling your chest, coiling tight around your ribs. It was the fear, cold and sharp, creeping up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms. It was the guilt, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat like a noose.

And it was all so insufferable.

A well-deserved torture for leaving Murphy behind.

But eventually, your body betrayed you, exhaustion dragging you under despite the demons still clawing at your mind.

And it was worse.

“Oh, there you are! Missing me already?”

The voice—his voice—snapped your head up so fast, you almost stumbled.

Murphy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. His blue eyes were bright and joyful.

Just him.

Standing there like nothing had happened.

Your breath hitched, something sharp lodging itself in your throat.

“Murph…?”

The relief came so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around his shoulders, bury your face in his hoodie and just breathe him in.

He’d press his lips to your forehead, over and over again, like he always did after being apart too long. It was his ritual. His way of saying he missed you.

And every single time, you’d scrunch your nose and shove at his chest, muttering, “Eww, Murphy, you’re slobbering all over me.”

But the truth?

You never wanted him to stop.

You wanted him to do it now.

You took a step forward, a laugh bubbling up past the knot in your throat. “Miss you? That’s rich coming from you—don’t tell me you were crying in your sleep, Murph.”

Murphy gasped dramatically, hand to chest. “Me? Crying? You wound me, honey.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

You felt warm. Safe.

For the first time in days, your ribs didn’t ache, your chest didn’t feel hollow.

It was just Murphy—his voice, his presence, alive and real.

“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He smirked, head tilting. “C’mon, honeypie, have a little faith.”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head. He always said that. Always.

And yet…

Something was wrong.

Your stomach twisted. The warmth started to fade.

The light around you dimmed.

Murphy’s smile twitched—just barely—but you saw it.

His body stiffened, the playful glint in his eyes flickering, dimming into something else. Something… unnatural.

His expression slackened.

His hands trembled.

“Murph?” Your voice wavered.

His mouth parted, lips forming a word—your name? No. Not quite.

And then—

His eyes clouded. His skin paled.

And his voice dropped into something hollow.

“You left me.”

Your entire body seized.

Murphy lurched forward, his face twisting, his mouth gaping open, rotting teeth, dark veins spreading down his neck—

No. No. No.

His arms snapped out toward you, fingers curling like claws—

“You left me.”

You ran.

You turned, bolted in the opposite direction, but your feet wouldn’t move fast enough.

His breath rasped behind you, wet, guttural, wrong.

“You left me.”

And then—

Darkness.

You woke up gasping.

A jagged, shuddering inhale that burned your lungs, your chest tight and constricted. Your body shook, fingers curling into the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Panic. Raw and suffocating.

Your throat was tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, against your skull, against every nerve ending in your fucking body.

Your vision swam.

The walls closed in.

You weren’t in Alexandria. You were back there.

You were back in the moment you ran.

“You left me.”

A sob punched out of you before you could stop it, your hands flying to your mouth, fingers digging into your skin as you rocked forward, trying to breathe, trying to push it down, trying to stop the shaking.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t make it stop.

And then—

A voice.

“Sweetheart?”

Lucille.

Your head snapped up, wild-eyed, chest still heaving, vision still blurred.

Lucille was crouched in front of you, voice soft, gaze steady.

Not hovering. Not coddling. Just waiting.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, grounding yourself in the sound of her breathing.

In. Out. Steady.

Slowly—painfully slowly—your pulse began to even out.

Lucille didn’t ask.

She just nodded. Then she stood.

“Come on.” She offered her hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”

And just like that, the world came back.

It didn’t make the weight in your chest disappear.

It didn’t change anything.

But for now—just for a moment—it was enough.

@whiskeypowder @hopefulatrocity @witheringblooddemon @humanmistakes @yttricuz @twdeadlysins @donttelltheelff @spidergirla5 @sexyseabass @sweetpotatospock @witchygagirl @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @theoraekenslover @thatlebronchick @acezeyez @timeladyrikaofgallifrey @splaterparty0-0 @the-dixon-effect

[unlikeable-female-character]

What are your thoughts on the Blake vs Baloney thing?

I believe her.

I don’t think she would have gone down this route if she did not have good reason and a strong case. No woman, be they a-lister or ordinary person in the street, would do this to themselves and their family if they didn’t have to. The woman rarely wins even if she actually wins. Because the precedent has been set that allegations do not ruin men’s lives. I mean....look at who is currently president of the United States....him being a felon and adjudicated rapist was not enough reason for people to not vote for him.

As we have seen by the insanity surrounding Blake's case, people are falling over themselves to not believe her, to diminish what she went through, to deny that it could possibly be true because of whatever thing she did years ago. The narrative is that if you're not the ‘perfect victim’ then just don't bother and that is so damaging. Because if you complain then someone will dig into your past and if they find even the smallest sliver of you not being, I don’t know, basically the Virgin Mary, then you aren’t to be trusted and aren’t to be believed. It’s sick. What should matter is what happened in that moment when she experienced that harassment and nothing else. Being a bit rude years ago is - or should be - irrelevant.

Her amended complaint states that other women in the production also had reason to raise issues at the time and they are willing to testify. I don't know who those women are but I applaud their bravery in being willing to testify especially after seeing the way that Blake has been treated since the original complaint.

The online/media circus surrounding it is absolutely gross. I can only admire Blake and Ryan for biding their time and letting the legal system do its job. Unlike him (who lest we forget seems more focused on making sure everyone thinks she was trying to steal his precious film from him and is concentrating rather less on disapproving the sexual harassment 🙃) and his lawyers who seem all too happy to continue perpetuating the smear campaign, this time with even more people online willing to jump into the fray. From what I can gather reading posts from actual lawyers who understand how to break this all down their belief is that he's trying to win in the court of public opinion because he doesn't stand a chance in a court of law. Like I said, even if she wins, she still loses.

The fact that he has right wing grifters like Candace Owens on his side…Jesus. If I see one more comment saying ‘oh but Candace has a great breakdown of it…’ No love, Candace just wants your clicks and if you stick around long enough you’ll find yourself being driven down that alt right pipeline to MAGA-ville so fast your head will spin.

The conspiracy theories are all ridiculous. The 'she was in love with him and he rejected her' one. The 'Ryan was jealous and so he's taking revenge' one. The absolutely vile 'Ryan is controlling her and making her do this and she's in an abusive relationship' one. I even saw something on Threads today where a person was trying to say that Hugh and Sutton's relationship was the catalyst for all this because Ryan saw what could happen between two people who worked together...like...what? How that translates into him somehow persuading his wife to file a complaint of sexual harassment i have zero clue. I'm also pretty sure Ryan knows what can happen between two people who work together since that's literally how he met Blake!

The one thing that did make me laugh because it was absolutely THE biggest self own was when they tried to say that Nicepool was based on him and oh my god. Firstly, pretty sure parody isn't illegal (otherwise wouldn't SNL be being sued on a regular basis?) but also - if I was watching a film and I saw a character who was unbelievably insufferable and annoying and recognised myself in that character...you couldn't torture that information out of me. Because i guarantee when everyone was watching DP&W in the summer not a single person was looking at Nicepool and thinking 'you know who he reminds me of...' BUT THEY ARE NOW. Idiot.

The braying mob online, riding so hard for a man who would never do the same for them, are so hypocritical and vile. They screech about Blake being a bully then go to the comments section of basically anyone who has anything positive to say about her or Ryan and write the most heinous shit imaginable. They don't recognise that the mean girl they are railing against is basically in the mirror looking back at them. Multiple fan pages on IG have either had to limit their comments or have posted to please stop bombarding them with hate. Ryan has limited comments and even Hugh's posts get their fair share of pro-Baloney crap on them and he's not even involved or been named in any of the complaints, he's just their friend. I don't know how any of it helps. It certainly doesn't make him look any better. I've seen multiple people say that if he really was the 'feminist' he claims to be he would have released something by now asking people to please back off, stop harassing women and let the law do it's work. So easy to do and costs nothing, and yet and yet....

One would hope that at some point the insanity of it all will calm down but I can't see it happening any time soon. I hope that Blake is able to have her day in court and I hope that the other women who say they will testify can screw their courage to the sticking place and not be scared away by all of this.

[auncyen]

what I meant to write: mIrabelle as the one looping having a crying breakdown in the equivalent of act 3 because I thought of it a few days ago and it's been stuck in my head (Panic! at the Dinner Table).

What actually got written: can you imagine how terrible it'd be for another looper to start suspecting Siffrin did something WELL

-

Siffrin has been suspicious for several days.

(Odile might say 'days' is inaccurate, but it's close enough, you think! You start in early afternoon on one day and then, when everything goes well, see Euphrasie in late afternoon of the next day, so it's around a day--sometimes over...many times under. Also, calling them days feels...better. Maybe it's a 'cycle' or 'loop' for everyone else caught up in this, with them always being reset to the same places, the same lines until you start changing things, but you are moving through time. You're Changing.)

(You're changing, aren't you?)

(For the better?)

--Siffrin has been suspicious for several of your days. They still act like their friendly self--they've even gifted you a flower sometimes! (You suppose other times you might have been too abrupt in waking them up. And sometimes you haven't woken them up at all, because you realize they'll come to the Clocktower anyway. They all will, it's where you're staying. You couldn't come up with anything more creative than a sleepover?) But...something's off.

You first realized something was strange about Siffrin--well, a lot of things are strange about Siffrin. You're more worried about his memory than ever now. Whenever you go into that secret room for the stash of tonics, Siffrin starts talking about a time he ran away from home, only to suddenly stop and look confused. You've tried encouraging him to continue by reminding him of everything he said up to that point (Isabeau applauded your thorough recitation with the most lightheartedness he could muster while still looking Siffrin over with his own concern), but it doesn't jog anything. You've tried guiding Siffrin to tell the story a different way with questions, but it seems like he loses the thread even faster that way. Lately you've just...cut him off from telling the story by laughing as soon as he brings it up and mentioning how mad his parents must have been when he returned. Siffrin still looks confused and lost for a terrible moment when you say that, but then he grins and agrees, and surely he's agreeing because that's what actually happened, isn't it? He said he was playing a prank. He played a silly prank for an hour or two, and then he went home, and probably he got a scolding for it but everything was fine.

...You still. Would like to avoid that room in the future. To not see that scared, lost look on Siffrin. Maybe you're strong enough now that you don't need the tonics?

But, but, you need to focus. Siffrin's memory problems are strange and worrying, and you really wished they'd said sooner how bad it is instead of letting you all tease them about it, but what's suspicious is their connection to the King.

You're not entirely sure what it is. When you go to the King, he always singles Siffrin out. "Bright One...do you remember?"

Obviously, with the already-mentioned memory problems, the answer is No. You've tried asking Siffrin if they know the King in any way, but of course he says no? Even if they knew each other once, Siffrin could have forgotten him the same way he can't remember what happened when he went out on the ocean in a boat to prank his parents? You imagined a tragically doomed romance between a villain and a hero with partial amnesia from an injury earned in one of their past scuffles (why is Siffrin's memory that bad???) for all of ten seconds before you realized that if Siffrin could forget the King, he'll surely forget boring, stagnant Mirabelle as soon as he leaves. After that you were too depressed to imagine anything between Siffrin and the King, which was probably for the better. Especially considering...

One time, the King singled out Siffrin in a different way. A terrible way. The first loop--the first day after you defeated the King and got to see Euphrasie for a glimpse of happiness before being sent back--you'd lost your temper a bit. You'd pushed everyone to go through the House faster than any time before, brought back to your senses at the end of the second floor by Odile dryly commenting on her tired feet while giving a pointed look at Bonnie, who was obviously getting worn out. You'd apologized over and over, and chewed your nails off at the second snack break to let them take all the time they needed to recover their energy, and went through the third floor without saying anything to rush Siffrin. You'd kept your temper in check until you saw the King again, and then you'd accused him of being a cheat, an unchanged loser who couldn't accept defeat, and he'd let your venting wash over him with a calm indifference ("I do not know what you speak of, Housemaiden") until you told him exactly what you were speaking of--the time that kept turning back, again and again, the days the loops the returns--

His face is mostly obscured by his long hair, but you could tell by the way his head turned that he'd directed his attention to Siffrin, and you knew it was with a glare by the cold fury in his voice. "What have you done, Bright One. The Universe's will is with me."

And then

the king struck

and Siffrin--

You don't speak to the King anymore. You don't let him talk either. You're pretty sure he told you everything you'd want to know from him. He can use Time Craft, but he isn't the one holding you in these endless days. He thinks Siffrin can use Time Craft, which sounds ridiculous, but since then you've talked with the Change God (you'd wanted reassurance you'd wanted a sign your statue was the only one unbroken in the whole House and you touched its face in reverence and the Change God spoke to you) and they'd told you three things:

you're their favorite!

they're put out by Dormont being stagnant and unchanging, but they're excited to see how exactly you change (maybe being their favorite isn't good. Your favorite characters go through some awful things, after all)

Siffrin isn't not responsible for this???

So it makes sense that Siffrin had a hand in this somehow! After a few more days which let you reach Euphrasie, you realized the time reset at the end only happens while Euphrasie is talking to Siffrin! That's suspicious! And, and, you've tried preventing it by keeping Euphrasie from talking to Siffrin, but she is so insistent she'd like to talk to them, and everyone starts looking at you strangely the more you protest, and you just...can't stop it.

You can't stop Siffrin from ruining things.

You hate that you're even suspicious of him, but he won't admit to using Time Craft when you ask, and surely even with his terrible memory, he'd remember that? He doesn't forget everything! But if he's lying, then...

Then you don't know what that means.

You don't know what to do.

--

...What Siffrin did: show Mirabelle how to wish and be an islander recognized by other islanders and not particularly liked by the Change God

[diedbrave]

"I mean, don't get me wrong, New York has its perks. I like musicals enough, I think that's cool. And Central Park is beautiful, especially for going running in the morning. But people can't drive there for shit, and it's loud as fuck, and smells like shit all the time." He laughed softly, though shook his head - he didn't want to smash her dreams of going to New York too quickly. "I'm sure it's a lovely place to visit. It was just a culture shock, moving there after a small town like this."

He gestured around them, before an eyebrow was raised at the mention of his wife. "Huh, well. Not too great, actually. She kind of likes to keep me on lock down, didn't want me to leave. She worries a lot for me. Almost like my mom used to, before she died." His nose wrinkled at this, realizing just how much Myra had truly been like his mom. Again, something he hadn't realized until he was back in this hellhole of a town. Like IT had taken all of their memories and kept them in a box, just to throw them back in their face.

Though, for what reason? That was something he still didn't understand. Why IT had felt the need to take their memories in the first place, make them forget everything. If it was because the clown had felt threatened, that made no sense - as far as the Losers had known, IT was dead, until Mike Hanlon had called that day. He blinked out of his own space of thoughts, glancing over with a slight, "Huh? Oh! Chicago!"

He imagined that Chicago and NYC were pretty similar, though he didn't know firsthand. "My friend Richie lives there now. He's this big comedian, does a lot of gigs there and stuff. I don't know much about it, but I heard the food is amazing."

"They're somewhere around here, though," she says, mostly to herself, but she perks up a little. "I've wanted to go to New York. I've gone recently, but I could never go when I was younger. My mom thought I'd get lost in the city." Somehow, Nica supposes her mother had been right in some regard. Tiff'll take us to Broadway soon, just watch. I think there's a poker tournament in Atlantic City within like a month, Chucky says in their shared space. A nicer warmth settles throughout Nica and she's realizing something feels a little more right.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a familiar red balloon. There's a small skitter of her heart in her chest, and then there's something that she can't fight. Some part of her wants to follow the balloon, but there's also a part of her that wants to stay with Eddie. Nica wanted to see how much of the town had changed, and she almost feels the textured stars that Pennywise had left on her wheelchair. D'you think IT would remember you after all these years? Chucky asked, bringing up the smallest part of doubt that had solidified itself in her mind.

No, IT has a good memory. There was something about ITs presence in the town, something that she couldn't really explain. She liked it, though.

"How did she take the news?" she asks, smiling a little at the mention of his wife. Nica looks him over, though, and there's a softening smile at the corners of her lips. She knows the look, and it was one that she had on her own face for a few years before she'd met both Tiffany and Jennifer. It had changed her life, honestly more than she thought it would. HEY. Give me some of the credit, kid, Chucky reminds, although there's no malice to his tone.

Her expression changes a little, and she gives a gentle nod. "I feel like that about Chicago, but I haven't been there in ... shit, its been years."

[raapija]

Xan we get anything slightly angsty from the pookie au 🥺 theyre too content

Thank you for the prompt <3 I'm sorry for the late response. The amount of times I've started to write something, deleted it, started again, deleted, started, deleted... ugh... But now I've finally settled for this. I struggle to write angsty stuff, but I hope you like this one. It became a lot sadder than I anticipated...

This is inspired by this post, so give it a quick glance before reading.

this is set in 2020

summary: Lance calls Fernando after a tough day and it turns even worse.

warnings: angst, self-doubt, lance having a breakdown and fernando not helping

Lance sat on the edge of his bed. The clock on his hotel room wall was too loud. It made his ears tingle with each tick, driving him mad. He got up, went to pick the clock off the wall and pulled the batteries out. He carefully laid them onto a small table and then returned to sit on the bed, now cross-legged and looking down at his phone.

The black screen of his iphone taunted him, begged for him to pick it up. It was beautifully laid on the red satin cover of the bed. Lance fought between calling and not calling. Maybe he should just go for a run to clear his mind, but the idea of hearing Fernando's voice... He needed it right now. The race had been a total fluke, finishing dead last and he had rushed through the media pen to get back to his hotel. Everyone was staring at him again.

Lance grabbed the phone, taking a while before unlocking the screen and going to find Fernando's number. It was under 'Nano ♥', like it had been for years. The emoji at the end pulled on his heartstrings.

"Cariño?"

Lance sighed when he heard Fernando pick up.

"Lancito? You okay?"

"Yeah, uh..." Lance hurried to answer. He picked on a loose thread on a seam on his joggers. The words were harder to find than usual.

"I miss you." he got out. He let his head hang down, gripping his hair and squeezing his eyes shut.

"I miss you too, baby."

"I love you." Lance added, his voice barely audible. Tears started to fall down, staining the satin under him a dark shade of burgundy. He gripped his hair tighter, so hard it hurt.

"Yo también te quiero, cariño."

Fernando's voice was so smooth, so calm. A stark contrast to Lance's sobbing, which became louder and he had to hold a hand over his mouth to keep them inside.

"Don't cry. I hate hearing you cry."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry either."

"I'm sorry..." Lance whispered. He was always apologizing. Whatever it was. Especially to Fernando.

"What is it, churri? What is making you sad?"

"I had a bad race. They're writing stories about me again."

"Don't look at those. They don't know you."

"I feel like everyone's staring at me. Like they hate me."

"That's not true."

Lance wiped the tears off his face, taking a couple deep breaths to calm down. He sniffled, and then continued: "I know it's not true, but everyone else doesn't. My family, my friends, the guys on the grid... To them that's real."

"No, don't think like that. Your family loves you, your friends love you. I love you."

The word 'love' was losing meaning over distant phone calls. Lance hated it, hated it to his core. He wished Fernando would just come back and hold him. Touch him. Even be there to just look at him.

"Where are you right now?" Lance asked. He knew Fernando was in the Middle-East, doing some sort of a rally raid. He had so many things going on, that Lance struggled to keep up. It felt like Fernando was grabbing at everything he possibly could, finding ways to keep himself occupied instead of coming home, instead of staying still.

"Somewhere, always somewhere."

"But never here."

Lance felt like choking again. He missed him. Missed him so much it was killing him, tearing him apart. If he had known love could hurt you this much, he would've never let himself fall for Fernando.

"I'm tired of being in love and being alone."

"It's okay, I'll find you again."

"But you're so far away from me. You're always away. And I'm always alone."

"I love you, I'm coming back, lo prometo. Te amo."

Again. Love, love, love, echoing in Lance's ears. Two years. Two years Fernando had been away. They saw each other maybe once a month.

"I don't know how much longer I'll be able to wait."

There was a pause in Fernando's end, then a sigh, and Lance felt the tears start to well up in his eyes again.

"I'm trying."

"I need you."

"Cariño, I'm sorry. I promise I find a way back."

Empty promises. Fernando's specialty. Lance wanted to stab at him, right in the heart. A new emotion took over, anger.

"You sons miss you, too. Lando, Oscar and Carlos."

Another pause. His kids were always a way in. Lance took it as a chance to take control.

"You were there for all their life and then you go away like this. Why? Why now? You hold everyone together and now it's all falling apart. You say you love me, but you're never here to love me. You're away so much, it doesn't even feel like we're together anymore. Why?"

"I don't know..."

"Figure it out!" Lance cried. What he was about to say next tortured him, it felt like his soul was being ripped out of him. "I can't live like this. I've given you three years and you've given me nothing. Every day you just go further and further away. Like you want me to leave you."

"No. Never."

"It's what it feels like..." Lance choked out. He didn't even try to keep the tears in anymore. He was too tired of it all.

"You can not leave me. I love you. I find a way, I promise. Lance, you can't."

Lance gave out a pained groan at Fernando's pleading voice. He wanted to throw his phone at the wall. Wanted to scream at Fernando, hit him, kick him, make him understand how much it hurt.

"It's killing me. I give you chance after fucking chance. I'm done with it. I'll only give you one more. One more fucking... -If you don't come back, that's it. I won't ruin my whole life for you."

"I will."

"One chance."

"I promise, I will come to you. Lance, I promise. I lo-"

Lance hung up on him, gripping his phone tight and swinging his arm back to throw it, but he didn't. He instead crumbled down onto the bed, crying into the sheets. He wrapped his arms around himself to imagine it was someone else holding him.

Lance wanted him to come back, to knock on his door in the morning and hug him and kiss him. But a small part of him also wanted Fernando to stay away. That small part ate at him, growing bigger and bigger. Lance wanted to kill it; burn it with fire and never think of it ever again. But it became stronger every day, almost enough that it could take over. Only Fernando could make it go away. If he'd only come back.

[diedbrave]

@hearsthephone continued from here.

He didn't know why Finn rounding it out, bringing up the other Losers, only stoked the fire more. Maybe he was protective of them. It wasn't like they weren't accustomed to bringing in new members - they'd done it with Ben, with Mike, with Beverly. Finn was just another member like them, who had a fucked up shitty life, and was kicked around by older kids who thought they were better than them. Maybe it was because Finn had brought their number to eight, and there was something about the number seven that felt right.

Whatever it was, he felt his blood boiling beneath the skin, and part of him worried that he was going to have an aneurysm. His chest was heaving a bit, voice strained and piqued as it often did when frustrated, and he quickly scrambled into his fanny pack to find his inhaler, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it like it was his only saving grace, feeling the mist go down his throat and open up his lungs until he was coughing slightly, heartrate decreasing.

"You're right. You're fucking right, and I hate that you're right." He huffed, kicking at the ground, glaring at it as if it had offended him. "All of our lives have been shit, there's no comparing. I just...it's frustrating, Finn. Why us? What the fuck did we do to deserve any of it? We're all just fucking kids!"

[allisluv]

Okay I have a request for your 100 followers celebration. 🕯️ With angst/comfort of reader comforting Katniss after she had that breakdown at the end of Mockingjay about Prim when she saw Buttercup please. Thank you! Also congrats

buttercup.

pairing: katniss everdeen x fem!reader

cw's: established relationship, petnames, the five stages of grief, hurt/ comfort, angst, sad katniss because that deserves a warning in itself.

word count: 0.4k

a/n: anon i can't apologise enough that it took me like a year to get around to this!! i've had so many requests and finding motivation has been hard but i hope this is okay <33

The house is even more dark and dreary than usual when you come back from grocery shopping. You had been reluctant to leave Katniss on her own since Prim's death, and you had left it to the very last available minute, but eventually, you had ran out of food in the house and had been left with no other option.

As much as you had tried to coax Katniss to come with you, she was point-blank refusing to move from her place on the sofa. You had promised her you would be back in half an hour at the most, and you had somehow managed to bring that down to twenty minutes instead.

Your heart drops into your stomach when you enter the house, only to hear Katniss screaming and sobbing from the kitchen. Your steps falter as you hover in the doorway, watching as Katniss cradles Prim's cat, Buttercup, in her arms and sinks to her knees.

You're on her in an instant, bundling her into your arms and pressing kisses to her forehead as she cradles Buttercup and sobs her heart out. Her chest heaves and you coax her into leaning her weight back against you. "Take deep breaths," you mumble into her hairline. "Deep breaths, baby."

Katniss sobs harder and Buttercup nuzzles his head into her chest in an effort to soothe her and provide what little comfort a cat can. "It hurts," Katniss whimpers as you pepper kisses across her temple.

"I know it does, baby, I know." You soothe, rocking her back and forth in your arms. "I'm sorry," you whisper. If you could take away her pain, you would do it in an instant. You wouldn't even think twice about it. "I'm so sorry."

It takes the better part of half an hour for Katniss to calm down, and Buttercup has settled in her lap by then. Your girlfriend's body is slack against you as she presses her face into the nape of your neck, inhaling the comforting smell of your perfume and shampoo mingling together.

"I'm here." You say, threading your fingers through her hair. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. You rest now. I'm not going anywhere, you hear me?"

Katniss' cries have dulled to whimpers by now as you rock her back and forth and she closes her eyes.

Despite having lost so much at the hands of the Capitol and District Thirteen, she's glad that she has something they will never take away; love.