#I was just trying to stand up for the principle of Letting Posts Stand Alone and Not Using Faith To Discount Everything A Person Says

[myfairkatiecat]

Guys I don't understand what I did.

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

♥️🎸♥️

✨also on ao3✨

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here

[wordsarelife]

DAY 5: CHRISTMAS LOVE

pairing: mattheo riddle x fem!reader

summary: it was no secret that mattheo riddle annoyed the hell out of you, but you did grow concerned when you suddenly didn’t mind it anymore..

warnings: suggestive, mentions of throwing up, but it doesn’t actually happen. apart from that nothing else

notes: i’m so sorry but i lost the original request, so i had to go with the short notes i had made, so i might leave something out! but i think i have the essential part

sorry it took me so long to post but i had to proofread before i could let whatever the fuck this is (🫠) into the world!

you watched the snow fall behind the stained glass window. the library was dimly lit, making it easier for you to see.

you loved this time of year. it was so quiet. especially in hogwarts. most of the student body had gone home for the holidays and you were one of the few people that stayed.

to your luck the biggest nuisance in the world did too. “what are we looking at?” mattheo riddle asked close to your ear.

you shrieked to the side, startled by his sudden appearance.

“what?” he asked “you’re scared of me now?”

you rolled your eyes “scared isn’t the word i would use, more like deeply frustrated” you grabbed the book from the window sill and got up.

“sexually?” he asked, raising his eyebrows

“ugh” you rolled your eyes, walking around him

“hey!” mattheo tried to stand in your way but was unsuccessful “where are you going?”

“somewhere you aren’t”

mattheo followed close behind you. “come on” he said “it’s christmas time! the loveliest time of the year! can’t you knit me a sweater or something?”

you send him a spiteful look.

“a hat?”

“i’m not gonna knit you anything” you halted in your step. taking a quick look at the book in your hand before you held it in his direction. “actually, do you mind bringing this back to where i got it from?”

“do i get mittens?”

“sure” you rolled your eyes and waited until he had walked around the shelf, before you quickly sprinted to the exit.

to your luck, he made it out of the library just a second after.

since he had first noticed how much it annoyed you, mattheo had made it a habit to follow you around the castle. over the time he had become an instant trigger for your headache.

“so what about these mittens huh?”

“riddle, can’t you leave me alone?” at least he was walking not next to you

“you’re the only one in our year i know”

“and?”

“christmas is for friends huh?”

“we’re not friends” you argued, crossing your arms

“we could be” mattheo shrugged. “and then you realize how great i am and give me a blowjob on christmas morning”

“oh because you’re so great i suddenly want to give you a blowjob?” you asked disgusted, while crossing your arms

“there’s no shame in admitting you want to pleasure me”

“eww” you shook your head “do you ever think about anything else but sex?”

“you’re way too hot to not think about sex or you getting on your knees and—“

“alright” you interrupted, raising your arms. but before you could try something else to get him to leave you alone, something helpful entered your field of vision.

you smiled at him, before you walked left.

“no!” mattheo argued “that’s not fair”

you walked into the girls washroom and ignored him. he held the door open.

“you know it violates my principles to go in there”

“i do” you nodded, pretty aware that he wouldn’t be caught dead in there. you weren’t even sure why. mattheo normally wasn’t the guy to follow rules, but he did have a high moral standard considering places like the girls washroom or sleeping quarters.

you smiled mischievously, suddenly thinking about testing him “come in here and i’ll give you the best blowjob of your life”

you weren’t even thinking about ever doing that.

mattheo ignored what you said, even if he did get a little white at your words “you play dirty!” he protested “but okay, you win this time!”

you smiled about the frustration on his face. he had always tried to flirt with you, but it never fazed you, so now you were the impossible challenge for him. and what better time for this than when almost to no students were in hogwarts and school was out.

mattheo found you later in the evening, while you were sitting at the slytherin table, enjoying your meal while reading your book. during the holidays no one could forbid you from doing that.

you had heard him approach from a few feet away. it was like you had developed a special radar for him over the years.

"hello, love" he sat down beside you

"don't call me that" you muttered, without looking up

"what? no flinching?"

"you're not invisible"

"okay then what was that, a few hours ago in the library?" he asked and you could practically feel him raising his eyebrows.

"the library was the last place i expected you to be" you said truthfully

"you were there"

"yes" you nodded and looked up at him "because i thought you'd never be"

mattheo sighed, sliding closer to you. you side eyed him. "come any closer and i'll scream"

“come on, y/n” mattheo said almost sounding friendly. but then there was that smug smile again. “why don’t we call a truce? considering the holiday season?”

“never” you turned the page “can you leave me alone now?”

mattheo began eating peacefully, not even caring what you had said and you just sighed, going back to ignoring him. after you had finished dinner, he followed you again as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“stop following me” you stopped, turning around to look at him

“i do have the same way, you know?” he came closer to you, leaning down and whispering in your ear “not everything i do is about you, sweetheart” you watched with big eyes how he smirked and then undid his tie with a quick gesture. he winked at you before he continued his way, leaving you standing in the hallway.

you looked after him puzzled. you had not considered that proximity — or how it had made you feel. you almost found it attractive. you couldn’t believe what you were thinking but for a short second you really were attracted to mattheo riddle. of all people.

you tried to take calming breaths, so whatever had happened right now would go away, but it was to no appeal.

of course mattheo had always looked good, even you couldn’t ignore that, but you had never once thought about him as more than a nuisance that got on your last nerve. now you were almost wishing him to be here, pushing you against the wall—

you couldn’t determine what had suddenly come over you. mattheo had done a pretty good job bothering you these past few years and you had always resisted his advances. and now, just half a year before graduation you were getting weak?

you tried shaking your head, to get rid of the thoughts in there. you quickly walked in the direction of the common room.

in your room, you went into the bathroom, taking a cold shower and after that going to bed as quick as possible. you didn’t want to grant your head the time to think about the stupid boy even more.

the next few days were torture for you. you hadn’t had a proper sleep in days, your mind always wandering back to him.

of course mattheo had picked up his usual habit again, finding you whenever you had been able to get rid of him. every word of him made you a bit weaker in the knees and almost give in. but there was that little bit of self worth that kept you from leaping over the table and kissing the smug smile off his face.

right now you were sitting at dinner, not really getting anything down while you slowly turned the pages of your magazine, while mattheo was sitting across from you, talking your ear off.

even if you could act normal with your last bit of strength, you weren’t able to fight his presence anymore. when he was able to find you, you would mostly just give in. and to your horror you had to admit that he wasn’t even as bad as you had thought. even if half the things he said were total nonsense.

you caught yourself losing track of the magazine and actually listening to him. and you didn’t even hate it. he was funny, you had to admit and he was interested in what you had to answer to his questions

“what’s your favorite color?” he asked, just after he had finished a rant about not being allowed to smoke in his dorm, but doing it anyway.

“huh?” you asked

“your favorite color” mattheo smiled and probably for the first time you noticed how beautiful it was. and it seemed genuine.

“green” you shrugged and his smile got impossibly bigger.

“i like green too” he gushed. he looked like a five year old. and to your personal horror you did not find it disgusting, but rather cute and charming. you wanted to throw up, right now, right here.

you got up from the seat abruptly. “i have to go to the bathroom” you said quickly and mattheo looked at you in confusion

“are you alright?” he asked, but you were already walking out the hall in a quick step.

you reached the bathroom and almost stumbled into the stall, falling down on the floor.

“y/n?” a voice from outside the washroom called

“not now, mattheo” you said annoyed. you leaned against the wall, while you began to cry. luckily you didn’t have to throw up. but the feeling didn’t go away.

you didn’t know what was happening to you. you were feeling like you had lost your mind.

“y/n?” mattheo called again, sounding concerned “are you alright?”

“i said not now” you screamed. he was standing in the door, looking at you scared. he looked like he didn’t know what to do. and still he did not set a foot into the room.

“are you crying?” he wondered

“no!” you screamed, while tears were running down your cheeks, very openly falsifying your statement. you quickly wiped them away.

“what’s wrong?”

“everything” you bellowed “and all of it is your fault!”

“my fault?” he asked almost offended “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“i don’t know what you did to make me feel like this, but as soon as find out you’re gonna hope you were never born” you got up walking into his direction, pointing your finger at him accusingly. he was walking backwards until you were both standing in the hall.

“whoa” he raised his hands “i didn’t do anything to you”

“you’re lying” you shook your head “i can’t eat, i can’t sleep. i think about you all the time, without wanting to and i actually listen to what you tell me and the worst thing is that i suddenly don’t hate you anymore. i hated you for the past six years and now i can’t do it anymore? what the fuck is going on mattheo? i feel like i’m losing my mind”

you almost wanted him to find a solution for your problem.

“i don’t know okay?” mattheo said “maybe you’re just in love with me” he joked then, but it smile faded quickly and he got serious. “maybe you are in love with me” he repeated softly.

you send him a spiteful look “i’d rather jump out of the window than be in love with you”

“i’d rather jump out of the window than be in love with you too” he exclaimed. then he paused, until he looked into your eyes, smiling slightly “but i just can’t help it” he whispered

your eyes softened. for the first time in a long time, you believed what he was saying.

“i can’t eat, i can’t sleep” he muttered, gently fixing a strand of your hair “i think about you all the time” he touched your cheek softly “and i actually listen to what you tell me” his fingers grazed your lips. “and i don’t ever want it to stop” his hand touched your neck and your eyes closed on instant.

then he softly kissed you. your hand went to his collar, drawing him closer. you deepened the kiss, while you breathed in his smell. he smelled of nicotine and some sort of perfume that was unfamiliar to you but it could make you recognize him anywhere.

he softly broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours. “why does it feel so intense?” you asked “i thought i had to throw up back in there” you pointed behind you.

“i’d say it gets better, but it never does” he shrugged “not even after years”

“years?” you repeated “you felt like this for years?”

“did you think i was following you around because i loved spending my time in the library?”

“i thought you followed me because you just wanted to get in my pants”

“don’t get me wrong, i do want to get into your pants” he smirked “but not only once and i also want to do so much more than just that”

you smiled at him. maybe being in love with someone wasn’t so bad after all. not when it was him.

he smiled back “let’s go back to the common room” he suggested and you nodded. he layed an arm around your shoulder, kissing you on the forehead.

“mattheo?”

“hmm?”

“why didn’t you go in the washroom a few days ago, even though i promised you the best blowjob of your life?” you asked the question in a joking manner, but it really did interest you.

“you didn’t mean it”

“still”

“it’s not respectful” he shrugged “entering a place like that, it’s not okay, even if no one would catch me. even if it would be just the two of us” he said truthfully “but back there? i almost threw all that out of the window, because i thought something was wrong and you needed my help”

you hugged his body closer “thank you” you whispered and he kissed you on the head.

“so.. about those mittens”

you laughed. “merry christmas, matty”

“merry christmas, y/n”

taglist: @twistedhistory @bakingintheshire @mqstermindswift @taygrls @athenalikethegoddess @claradelage @novelizt @ahead-fullofdreams

[weekendpassrevoked]

Easy's Songbird - Chapter 29

author's note: SURPRISE! DOUBLE POST! 🎉

As a little bonus, here’s the link to the Easy’s Songbird Pinterest board, where you can check out the two outfits she received in this chapter under the Isabella sub-board. I had so much fun putting them together, and I hope you all enjoy seeing them come to life visually!

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

To both her elation and frustration, she never got the chance to investigate and present to Sink.

Easy’s NCO’s had taken it upon themselves to throw themselves into the fray, every single one of them writing a letter of resignation.

Isabella learned about it from Luz, who burst (yet again) into the Harrison cottage that evening while she was practicing piano, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and terror.

"They did it," he said without preamble, causing Mrs.Harrison to nearly drop her teacup in surprise. "The NCOs. All of them. Lipton, Talbert, Guarnere, everyone."

Isabella's hands stilled on the keys, her heart lurching. "Did what?"

"Letters of resignation. Every single non-commissioned officer in Easy Company just told the Army they'd rather quit than serve under Sobel." Luz ran his hands through his hair, looking simultaneously awed and horrified. "They're willing to throw away their lives, their rank, everything, rather than follow that man into combat."

Mrs. Harrison excused herself tactfully, sensing the gravity of the conversation, leaving Isabella and Luz alone in the sitting room.

"When?" Isabella asked, her mind racing through the implications.

"This afternoon.”

Isabella felt a surge of fierce pride mixed with cold fear. The NCOs had done exactly what she'd hoped they would—made their own decision based on their convictions. But the consequences would be catastrophic.

"What's Sink's response?" she asked.

“He demoted Harris and kicked him out of the regiment and Ranney’s been made a Private. Everyone else got lucky.”

Isabella sank back onto the piano bench, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what had just happened. This wasn't subtle fact-gathering or careful political maneuvering. This was an open revolt—every experienced leader in Easy Company simultaneously declaring they had no confidence in their commanding officer.

"It's brilliant," she said slowly. 

"That's one way to put it," Luz agreed grimly. "Another way is to say they just committed suicide for a principle."

But even as he spoke, Isabella could see the admiration in his eyes. The NCOs had done something unprecedented—risked everything they'd worked for rather than compromise their integrity. It was the kind of bold, principled stand that would either save Easy Company or destroy it entirely.

“You’re right. They got lucky they didn’t get shot. Although, knowing Sink I’m sure he considered it.” she replied.

Luz let out a shaky laugh. "Word is he spent about an hour pacing his office, muttering things that would make a sailor blush. Nixon said he could hear him through the walls."

Isabella could picture it perfectly—Colonel Sink, faced with the most brazen act of collective insubordination in his career, torn between fury at the breach of military discipline and grudging respect for the principle behind it. The fact that he'd stopped at demotions rather than court-martials suggested he understood the deeper message the NCOs were sending.

"And Sobel?" she asked.

“Nothing yet,” he answered. “I don’t know what Sink has up his sleeve.”

Isabella frowned, the incomplete resolution leaving her uneasy. "That's... concerning. You'd think if he was going to act on the resignations, he'd also address the root cause."

"Yeah, well, that's politics for you," Luz said with a shrug, though she could see the same worry in his eyes. "Maybe Sink's waiting to see how this all shakes out before making any big moves with Sobel."

"Or maybe he's trying to figure out how to handle this without setting a precedent," Isabella mused. "Can't have every company's NCOs thinking they can force command changes by threatening mass resignation."

It was a delicate balance, she realized. Sink had to address the NCOs' concerns without appearing to reward insubordination. Demoting Harris and Ranney sent a message about consequences, but leaving Sobel in place would essentially tell the remaining NCOs that their sacrifice had been meaningless.

"What about Winters' court-martial?" she asked.

"Still pending, as far as anyone knows," Luz replied grimly. "Though I can't imagine they'll push forward with it now. Hard to argue that Winters is the problem when his entire leadership structure just declared they'd rather quit than serve under his replacement."

Isabella nodded, though something still felt unresolved. The NCOs had made their dramatic stand, but until Sobel was actually removed and Winters officially reinstated, Easy Company remained in limbo. And in her experience, military bureaucracy rarely moved quickly, even when faced with unprecedented circumstances.

"How's morale?" she asked.

"Mixed," Luz admitted. "The guys are proud of what the NCOs did, but they're also nervous about what comes next. Nobody wants to go into combat with all this uncertainty hanging over us."

Isabella understood that feeling perfectly. The very qualities that made Easy Company special—their cohesion, their trust in their leadership, their sense of shared purpose—had been severely tested by this crisis. Even with the NCOs' bold action, it would take time to rebuild the stability they'd lost.

"And the other companies?" she pressed. "What are they saying about all this?"

Luz grimaced. "Let's just say we're not exactly popular with the other COs right now. Word's gotten around about what happened, and some of them are worried their own NCOs might get ideas."

Isabella felt a chill of apprehension. If this situation spiraled beyond Easy Company, if other units began questioning their own leadership or if Regiment decided to make an example of them, the consequences could be far worse than anyone had anticipated.

"We need this resolved quickly," she said quietly. "The longer it drags on, the more damage it does to everyone involved."

"Agreed," Luz said. "Question is, what can we do about it?"

Isabella was quiet for a moment, thinking. The NCOs had played their card brilliantly, but now they were in a waiting game. And waiting games, in her experience, rarely favored the side that had already shown their hand.

"Maybe it's time for a different approach," she said slowly. "Something more... direct."

Luz raised an eyebrow. "What are you thinking?"

Isabella met his gaze, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves that came with contemplating a risky move. "I'm thinking maybe it's time someone had a conversation with Colonel Sink about the bigger picture here."

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wait to speak to Sink lied on her shoulders heavily as she restlessly sat outside his office. 

The wooden chair was uncomfortable, designed more for function than comfort, and Isabella found herself shifting every few minutes as the minutes stretched on. Colonel Sink's aide, a young private with nervous eyes, had informed her that the Colonel was "reviewing urgent matters" and would see her when available. That had been forty-five minutes ago.

Isabella could hear muffled voices through the heavy oak door—Sink's gravelly baritone alternating with what sounded like Major Strayer's more measured tones. Occasionally, she caught fragments of words: "precedent," "discipline," "morale." The conversation seemed heated, though neither man was actually shouting.

She'd rehearsed what she wanted to say a dozen times during the walk here, but now, sitting in the quiet hallway with her heart hammering against her ribs, all her carefully planned words seemed inadequate. How did you tell a colonel that his battalion was teetering on the edge of crisis? How did you explain that good men were willing to throw away their careers rather than serve under an incompetent officer?

The aide glanced at her sympathetically. "He's been in meetings all day," he offered quietly. "Ever since the... situation with Easy Company."

Isabella nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew that her request for an audience had probably raised eyebrows—enlisted personnel didn't typically request private meetings with battalion commanders. But her intelligence work had earned her a certain level of access, and more importantly, Sink had always encouraged direct communication when something important was at stake.

The voices behind the door grew slightly louder, and she caught Sink's distinctive drawl: "...can't have every damn NCO in the regiment thinking they can dictate command decisions..."

Isabella's stomach clenched. If Sink was leaning toward even harsher punishment for the NCOs, her conversation with him became even more critical. She had to make him understand that this wasn't about insubordination—it was about leadership, competence, and the lives that hung in the balance.

The door opened suddenly, making her jump. Major Strayer emerged, his face grim, carrying a thick folder under his arm. He nodded curtly to Isabella as he passed, his expression giving nothing away about the conversation he'd just finished.

The aide stood up. "Corporal Vega? The Colonel will see you now."

Isabella rose on slightly unsteady legs, smoothing her uniform and taking a deep breath. This was it—her chance to speak for Winters, for the NCOs, for Easy Company itself.

She just hoped she could find the right words.

Stepping into Sink's office was like entering the eye of a storm. The room was sparse but commanding, dominated by a large desk covered in neat stacks of papers and a detailed map of what looked like the French coast. Colonel Sink stood behind his desk, his back to her as he stared out the window at the Aldbourne countryside. Even in silhouette, his posture radiated the kind of authority that had earned him his position.

"Sir," Isabella said, coming to attention and saluting crisply.

Sink turned slowly, his weathered face showing the strain of the day's events. His eyes, sharp as ever, took in her appearance with the assessing gaze of a career military man. "At ease, Corporal." His voice carried its usual gravelly authority, but there was something else there—exhaustion, perhaps, or the weight of difficult decisions.

"You requested to see me," he continued, moving around his desk to stand in front of her. "That's very unusual for you. This better be important."

Isabella felt her mouth go dry, but she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "It is, sir. It's about Easy Company."

Sink's expression didn't change, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "I see. And what exactly about Easy Company requires my immediate attention?"

The question was direct, challenging. Isabella realized that Sink already knew why she was here—he was testing her, seeing if she had the courage to say what needed to be said.

"Sir, I believe the company is at a breaking point," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "The NCOs' resignations weren't about insubordination. They're about leadership—and the lack of it."

Sink studied her for a long moment, then gestured to a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, Corporal. And tell me exactly what you think I need to know."

As Isabella settled into the chair, she caught sight of several familiar names on the papers scattered across Sink's desk—the resignation letters, she realized. The tangible evidence of Easy Company's crisis lay right there between them.

"Start from the beginning," Sink said, settling back into his own chair. "And don't waste my time with diplomacy. I want the truth."

Isabella took a breath, knowing that everything—Winters' career, the NCOs' futures, Easy Company's survival as a functioning unit—depended on what she said next.

"Sir, the truth is that Captain Sobel is going to get good men killed."

The words hung in the air between them, stark and uncompromising. Sink's expression didn't change, but Isabella saw something flicker in his eyes—not surprise, but perhaps acknowledgment of a truth he'd already suspected.

"That's a serious accusation, Corporal," Sink said quietly. "Care to elaborate?"

Isabella leaned forward slightly, her nervousness giving way to conviction. "Sir, I've worked under both Captain Sobel and Lieutenant Winters. I've seen how they operate, how they plan, how they lead." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Captain Sobel's navigation during exercises has been consistently poor. His tactical decisions put men at unnecessary risk. And his inability to maintain the respect of his NCOs isn't a personality conflict—it's a fundamental failure of leadership."

Sink steepled his fingers, his gaze never leaving her face. "And Lieutenant Winters?"

"Is everything Captain Sobel isn't," Isabella replied without hesitation. "Sir, I've watched Lieutenant Winters turn Easy Company into the finest unit I've ever seen. The men trust him because he's earned that trust through competence, fair dealing, and genuine concern for their welfare."

"Yet Lieutenant Winters missed a mandatory inspection," Sink pointed out. "That's a fact, not an opinion."

Isabella felt her pulse quicken. This was the moment she had to be most careful. "Sir, with respect, I believe that 'fact' deserves closer examination. I spoke with several men who were present that morning, and there are... inconsistencies in the timeline of events."

Sink raised an eyebrow. "Inconsistencies?"

"Yes, sir. The timing of when orders were supposedly given, whether Lieutenant Winters was actually informed, the nature of Captain Sobel's attempts to locate him." Isabella took a breath. "Sir, eight NCOs don't risk their lives on a whim. They did it because they know what happens when good soldiers are led by incompetent officers."

Sink was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming silently on the desk. "You realize what you're suggesting, Corporal? That Captain Sobel fabricated evidence to support disciplinary action against a fellow officer?"

Isabella met his gaze steadily. "Sir, I'm suggesting that the evidence deserves thorough examination before we lose the best Lieutenant in the regiment."

"And if you're wrong?" Sink asked. "If Captain Sobel's account is accurate, and Lieutenant Winters did fail in his duties?"

Isabella felt the weight of that possibility, but her conviction didn't waver. "Then I'll accept whatever consequences come from speaking up, sir. But I'd rather risk my career than stay silent while Easy Company is destroyed."

Sink studied her for another long moment, then leaned back in his chair. "You know, Corporal, in all my years of military service, I've learned to recognize certain qualities in soldiers. Courage under fire, loyalty to their unit, the ability to see the bigger picture." He paused. "What you've just demonstrated took considerable moral courage."

Isabella felt a flutter of hope, but tried not to let it show.

"That said," Sink continued, his voice hardening, "I can't have soldiers—regardless of rank—believing they can dictate command decisions through collective action. Military discipline exists for a reason."

"Yes, sir," Isabella replied. "But so does military competence. And sir, with whatever's coming—the operation everyone knows is being planned—Easy Company needs leadership it can trust."

Sink's eyes sharpened at her reference to future operations. "What makes you think there's an operation being planned?"

Isabella realized she'd ventured into sensitive territory, but there was no backing down now. "Sir, the increased training tempo, the focus on night operations and equipment familiarization. It doesn't take a strategic genius to see that something significant is coming."

"And you believe Easy Company isn't ready for that something under Captain Sobel's leadership?"

"Sir, I believe Easy Company would follow Lieutenant Winters into hell if he asked them to. Under Captain Sobel..." She let the implication hang.

Sink stood up abruptly, moving back to the window. For several minutes, he said nothing, staring out at the peaceful English countryside that belied the preparations for war happening all around them.

Finally, he turned back to her. "Corporal, you've given me a lot to think about. But understand this—whatever decision I make will be based on what's best for this regiment and this war effort, not on sentiment or personal preference."

"Yes, sir. That's all I'm asking for."

Sink nodded slowly. "You're dismissed, Corporal. And Isabella?"

"Sir?"

"Not a word of this conversation to anyone. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

As Isabella stood and saluted, she caught one last glimpse of the resignation letters on Sink's desk. Eight pieces of paper that represented eight lives put on the line for principle.

She just hoped her words had been enough to make them count.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where the hell is Chilton Foliat anyway?” Liebgott asked, sitting across from her at the mess hall.

Isabella huffed. “It’s a small town near here. Mrs.Harrison says it’s only about 10 minutes away by car.”

Chilton Foliat was where Colonel Sink had decided to transfer Sobel after his conversation with her. It seemed Easy Company’s massive mutiny and her talk had gotten through to Sink. The army had a parachute training school there, for non-combative roles to learn how to jump. All in all, Easy got Winters back with no court-martial necessary and Sobel was finally gone.

‘Good riddance.’

Joe pushed his food around his plate with obvious distaste. "So that's where they're sticking him? Training rear-echelon types to fall out of airplanes?"

"Seems fitting," Gene commented dryly, cutting into his mystery meat. "Can't do much damage teaching chaplains and doctors how to land without breaking their necks."

Isabella tried to keep her expression neutral, but she felt a deep satisfaction knowing that her conversation with Sink had contributed to this outcome. Sobel would be out of Easy Company's way, relegated to a position where his incompetence could cause minimal harm, while still technically maintaining his rank and avoiding the embarrassment of a complete dismissal.

"Wonder how he's taking the news," Joe mused with obvious satisfaction.

"Probably about as well as you'd expect," Luz said, sliding into the seat next to Isabella with his own tray. "Saw him leaving Battalion headquarters earlier. Looked like someone had told him Christmas was cancelled."

Isabella almost felt sorry for Sobel—almost. But then she remembered all the good soldiers who might have died under his leadership, all the unnecessary risks he would have taken, all the competent NCOs he would have driven away with his petty tyranny.

"Any word on when Winters officially takes back command?" she asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Luz confirmed. "Sink's making it official at 0800. Said he wants to 'clarify the command structure' before we move into the next phase of training."

Gene raised an eyebrow. "Next phase?"

Luz shrugged. "Nobody's saying what that means, but scuttlebutt is we're getting close to whatever we've been training for all this time."

“Don’t ever use that word again, George.”

“Aw Birdie. I thought you’d like me using more advanced vocabulary.”

She sighed. “If that’s what you consider advanced vocabulary Luz then I’m worried.”

Joe snorted into his coffee. "Advanced vocabulary? From the guy who thinks 'perspicacious' is what you call someone who sweats a lot?"

"Hey, that's a perfectly reasonable assumption," Luz protested, grinning. "Besides, at least I'm trying to expand my intellectual horizons."

"Your horizons don't need expanding, they need basic construction," Isabella shot back, affection in her voice.

Gene shook his head, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. "You two are like an old married couple."

"Don't give him ideas," Isabella warned. "He already thinks he's God's gift to womankind."

"I am a catch," Luz agreed cheerfully. "Handsome, charming, devastatingly witty—"

"Modest," Joe added dryly.

"Exactly! See? Even Liebgott recognizes my sterling qualities."

"Alright, since Luz's vocabulary lessons are clearly a lost cause," she said, rolling her eyes. “We should talk about more exciting stuff.”

“Like what?”

Isabella grinned mischievously, her youth peeking through. “I don’t know. Let’s gossip about something!”

Liebgott groaned. “We need to find you some female friends, Birdie. You’re killing me here.”

"Hey!" Isabella protested, laughing. "I'm perfectly capable of having normal conversations with you degenerates. Besides, you love gossip just as much as I do!”

Luz perked up immediately. "Oh, I'm always up for gossip. What kind of gossip are we talking about here?"

Gene looked like he was already regretting being at this table. "Please tell me we're not about to discuss who's been sneaking around with the local girls."

"That's exactly what we're going to discuss," Isabella said with delight. "Come on, you've all seen who's been making eyes at whom around the village."

Joe sighed dramatically. "This is what happens when you let an eighteen-year-old girl hang around with a bunch of soldiers. She turns us all into a sewing circle."

"A very well-armed sewing circle," Luz pointed out helpfully.

"Fine," Joe said, leaning forward with obvious reluctance that fooled no one. "But I'm only participating under protest."

Isabella clapped her hands together. "Excellent! So, who wants to start? I saw Malark talking to that blonde girl from the bakery yesterday, and he turned about fifteen shades of red."

"Malarkey?" Gene asked, finally showing interest despite himself. "Really?"

"Oh, he's been mooning over her for weeks," Luz confirmed. "Practically walks into walls when she's around."

Joe smirked. "Better than Penk. Did you see him try to ask out the postmaster's daughter? Stuttered so bad she thought he was having some kind of medical episode."

Isabella burst out laughing. "She didn't!"

"She did," Joe confirmed. "Nearly called Doc over to check if he was having a seizure."

Even Gene was fighting a smile now. "That explains why he's been avoiding the post office."

"Poor Penk," Isabella said, though she was still giggling. "Someone should give him some tips."

"From who?" Luz asked incredulously. "Half this company hasn't talked to a girl in months, and the other half are too busy thinking about combat to remember how."

"Well, I could help," Isabella offered innocently.

All three men stared at her with varying degrees of horror.

"Absolutely not," Joe said firmly. "We are not letting you play matchmaker with the company."

"Why not? I'd be good at it!"

"That's exactly why not," Gene added, looking genuinely alarmed. "You'd have half the company paired off within a week."

Isabella grinned. "Now that you mention it, that does sound kind of fun..."

"No!" 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the weeks since Sobel’s departure, Winter’s return to Easy, and Lieutenant Meehan’s appointment as Easy’s new commanding officer, life had begun to simultaneously slow down and speed up.

The air around the men was lighter, much easier now that their main cause of stress was gone. They all liked Lieutenant Meehan, he was a lot like Winters and took his role as Easy’s commanding officer seriously and, unlike Sobel, was competent when putting maneuvers to the test. The amount of training increased but so had the ability of the company, and no one could ask for better. At the same time, the men enjoyed the easy and calm lifestyle of Aldbourne. With Sobel gone, they were now able to use their weekend passes without issue and many of the men had taken advantage to travel to London. 

Also in this time, Isabella’s correspondence with Lucas and Cameron had increased. The smaller distance between her and Lucas making mail arrive faster. Cameron and his group had also been sent to England, much to her delight, in a western-coast town called Bude. Funnily enough, the three of them ranged from west-coast, middle, to east-coast, forming a line straight across England.

Isabella had taken to marking their locations on a small map Mrs. Harrison had given her, using different colored pins to track where each of her brothers was stationed. It was a comfort to see them all on the same island, even if the distances still felt vast when measured in longing rather than miles.

"Look at this," she'd said to Gene one evening, spreading the map on the infirmary table during a quiet moment. "Lucas here in East Anglia, me in the middle, and Cameron all the way out in Devon. It's like we're holding down the whole country."

Gene had studied the map with his usual quiet attention. "Your family's got a habit of spreading out, doesn't it?"

"We always have," Isabella agreed, thinking of Michel Alejandro somewhere in the Pacific. "But this is the first time we've been spread out for the same cause."

The letters from both brothers carried news of their own training intensification. Lucas wrote about long flights over the North Sea, practice bombing runs, and the growing certainty that something significant was approaching. Cameron's letters were more cautious—his unit's work much more classified—but she could read between the lines about amphibious training, coordination with naval forces, and equipment that suggested they weren't preparing for another training exercise.

"They're all pointing toward the same thing, aren't they?" she'd written to Lucas in her latest letter. "All this preparation, all this movement. It feels like the whole war is holding its breath."

The increase in training at Aldbourne supported that feeling. Lieutenant Meehan had thrown himself into preparing Easy Company with an intensity that matched his competence. Exercises became more frequent and complex. They practiced coordination with artillery units, worked on radio communications under combat conditions, and ran through scenarios that seemed designed to test every skill they'd learned.

"At least now when we're crawling through mud at three in the morning, we know it's for a good reason," Joe had commented after a particularly challenging night exercise. "Instead of because Sobel wanted to prove some stupid point."

The difference in morale was striking. The same soldiers who had grumbled and muttered under Sobel's leadership now attacked their training with renewed purpose. They trusted Meehan's judgment, respected his competence, and knew that whatever he was preparing them for was necessary.

Isabella found herself busier than ever, splitting time between her medical duties with Gene and her intelligence work with Nixon. The intelligence briefings and analysis had become more frequent and detailed, filled with maps of French coastlines, German defensive positions, and tidal charts that suggested amphibious operations.

"Can't say much," Nixon had told her during one late-night session, "but I can tell you that all this training is going to pay off sooner rather than later."

It was both exciting and terrifying. After months of preparation, Easy Company was finally approaching the real test of everything they'd learned. And for the first time since joining the paratroopers, Isabella felt confident they were ready for it.

Around the end of July, she sent Cameron a birthday package, wishing him the best on his special day. He was born July 31st, but she wanted to send her gift some days beforehand to make sure it got there on time.

The package had taken her weeks to assemble. Finding suitable items in wartime England proved more challenging than she'd anticipated, but Isabella was determined to make Cameron's eighteenth birthday special despite the distance between them. She'd managed to procure a small tin of his favorite peppermints from a shop in town with the help of Mrs.Harrison, along with a book of English poetry she thought he might enjoy—something to remind him of the country they were all temporarily calling home.

The most precious item in the package, however, was a letter she'd written on sheet music paper, composing a simple melody with lyrics that captured memories of their childhood together. It wasn't her most sophisticated work, but it was deeply personal. Along with this, she added a letter rambling about her own current events.

“There’s a small festival the town throws every year in September,” she wrote excitedly. “Mrs.Harrison says it’s really fun. I can’t wait to see what it’s like!”

Isabella had paused while writing that line, her pen hovering over the paper. Mrs. Harrison had indeed mentioned the Aldbourne Harvest Festival with great enthusiasm, describing the traditional Morris dancing, local crafts, and the way the entire village came together to celebrate another year's survival and bounty. It sounded charming and peaceful—exactly the kind of normal, civilian experience Isabella had been craving. Unlike the men, Isabella hadn’t used her weekend pass to visit London, too nervous to travel somewhere unknown but also too nervous to see the one place she’d always dreamed of visiting. It was a strange paradox.

"The piano is still my saving grace," she continued writing. "Mrs. Harrison insists I play every evening after dinner, and Mr. Harrison has taken to humming along while he tends his garden. I think they're enjoying having music in the house again almost as much as I'm enjoying having a piano to play."

She smiled as she wrote that part, thinking of the way the elderly couple had embraced her musical presence in their home. It had become a nightly ritual—dinner, cleanup, then Isabella at the piano while the Harrisons settled into their favorite chairs with cups of tea. Sometimes she played classical pieces she'd memorized, sometimes folk songs her family had taught her, and occasionally her own compositions.

"Gene, Luz, and Joe are convinced I'm going to start a matchmaking service for the company," she added with a laugh, remembering their horrified reactions. "As if I would ever interfere in their romantic lives! (Though between you and me, some of them could definitely use the help.)"

The letter grew longer as she wrote, filled with small observations about life in Aldbourne, stories about the other soldiers, descriptions of the English countryside that Cameron might find interesting. It was the kind of rambling, affectionate letter she might have written if they were simply at different schools rather than preparing for war.

"I miss our long talks," she finished. "Miss having someone who understands all my ridiculous ideas and still thinks they're worth listening to. Take care of yourself, little brother. The world needs more people like you in it."

As she sealed the package and prepared it for mailing, Isabella found herself hoping that by the time Cameron opened it, they would all still be looking forward to harvest festivals and piano concerts rather than facing whatever storm was gathering on the horizon. But even if that hope proved false, at least Cameron would know he was loved and remembered on his eighteenth birthday, wherever the war might take them next.

It was near the middle of August that she had received a package of her own, carefully wrapped in brown paper. Inside are two pairs of dresses, and her hands tremble as she carefully lifts the first one out, fingers delicately brushing over the embroidered daisies and golden-yellow fabric.

“The yellow dress reminded me of home. Of the way your hair looks in the sun.” Cameron had written, his familiar cursive warming her heart.

She pressed her lips together, trying to keep her tears at bay as she gently lays the first dress over the back of a chair and reaches for the second. This one is lighter, whimsical, tiered and soft as a dream. A cascade of cream, sage green, and burnt orange, layered with ruffles and delicate floral embroidery.

“I’ve been working on these dresses since before I shipped out. I couldn’t leave my favorite work unfinished. I hope you can wear these to the festival you’re so excited about. It would make me so happy for you to enjoy yourself. You’re on your own for the accessories, but I’m sure you’ll find something fitting.” He explained.

Her sweet little brother, who had so much love and joy and art to give to the world had happily taken his birthday gifts and turned it on her, gifting her something so much better in return.

‘Jerk.’

Tears rolled down her face as she laughed. It was unsurprising, Cameron would always try to one-up her when it mattered.

Isabella wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, still smiling through her tears as she held up the golden-yellow dress against herself in front of the small mirror Mrs.Harrison had placed in her room. The fabric was even more beautiful than she'd first realized—Cameron had somehow managed to find material that seemed to capture actual sunshine. The bodice was a warm honey-colored cotton, with delicate white daisies embroidered along the neckline and scattered down the front panel.

A soft knock on her door interrupted her admiration. "Isabella, dear?" Mrs.Harrison's voice called gently. "I thought I heard... is everything alright?"

"Come in, Mrs.Harrison," Isabella called, quickly wiping her face again. "Everything's wonderful, actually."

The older woman entered, took one look at Isabella holding the dress, and her face lit up with understanding. "Oh my dear, that's absolutely lovely! Did that come from home?"

"From Cameron," Isabella said, her voice still thick with emotion. "My little brother. He made them himself." She gestured to the second dress draped over the chair. "He's incredibly talented with a needle."

Mrs.Harrison moved closer, her experienced eye immediately taking in the extraordinary craftsmanship. She marvels at the tiny, perfect stitches. "Made them himself? My goodness, this lacework alone would take anyone weeks to complete. And look at this..." She moved to examine the second dress—the tiered creation that seemed to flow like water with its layers of cream, sage green, and burnt orange ruffles. "The way he's constructed these tiers, the precision required for all these gathering stitches... And this embroidery!" She traced a delicate floral motif with one finger. "Your brother isn't just talented, dear. He's an artist."

"He's been sewing since he was small," Isabella explained, carefully laying the yellow dress on her bed. "He makes all our performance costumes back home. Says it's his way of making sure we always look our best when we're sharing our music."

"A young man who sews?" Mrs.Harrison asked, not with judgment but with curiosity.

Isabella nodded, a fierce protectiveness flashing in her eyes. "Cameron's never cared what people think about his interests. He loves creating beautiful things, and he's good at it. Really good at it."

Mrs.Harrison smiled warmly. "Good for him. The world needs more people willing to create beauty, especially now." She paused, studying Isabella's face. "You must miss him terribly."

"I do," Isabella admitted. "All of them. But Cameron..." She touched the delicate embroidery on the yellow dress. "He's the baby of the family. We've all been protective of him since he came to us. And now he's off somewhere, probably in just as much danger as the rest of us."

"But he's thinking of you," Mrs.Harrison pointed out gently. "Creating something beautiful for you to wear, wanting you to enjoy yourself at our little festival. That's love, dear."

Isabella nodded, feeling fresh tears threaten. "He always does this. Whenever one of us gives him something, he finds a way to give back something even better." She picked up Cameron's letter again, reading his familiar handwriting. "He says he wants me to be happy at the festival. To enjoy myself."

"And you should," Mrs.Harrison said firmly. "When someone puts this much love into a gift, the best way to honor it is to wear it with joy." She smoothed one of the ruffles on the tiered dress. "Which one are you thinking of wearing?"

Isabella looked between the two dresses, each so different but equally beautiful. "I don't know. They're both so..." She gestured helplessly.

"Perfect for different occasions," Mrs.Harrison finished with a knowing smile. "The yellow one would be lovely for the afternoon activities—the Morris dancing, the market stalls. Very cheerful and practical. But this tiered beauty..." She lifted the cream and sage dress carefully. "This is for evening. For dancing under the stars."

"Dancing?" Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Mrs.Harrison, I'm not sure the local boys would know what to do with a girl in uniform, let alone one in a dress this fancy."

Mrs.Harrison's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Who said anything about local boys? Surely some of your fellow soldiers will be attending?"

Isabella felt her cheeks warm. "I... well, yes, I suppose some of them might get passes for the festival."

"Hmm," Mrs.Harrison said, not fooled by Isabella's casual tone. "And I imagine at least a few of them clean up rather nicely when they're not covered in mud and carrying rifles."

"Mrs.Harrison!" Isabella protested, but she was smiling.

"What? I'm simply saying that a young woman should have the opportunity to feel beautiful and feminine, especially when she spends her days in military fatigues." Mrs.Harrison's expression grew more serious. "You're eighteen years old, dear. You should be going to dances and having young men court you properly, not preparing for war. But since this is the world we find ourselves in, we make the best of it."

Isabella sat down on the edge of her bed, still holding Cameron's letter. "Sometimes I forget I'm eighteen. I feel so much older most of the time."

"The war does that," Mrs.Harrison said gently, settling into the small chair by Isabella's desk. "Forces children to grow up too quickly. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't grab moments of joy when they come.”

“Have you given any thought to what you'll do with your hair?” Mrs.Harrison added. “Because these dresses deserve something special."

Isabella touched her curls self-consciously. "I usually just pin it back for practical reasons. I'm not really sure what would look appropriate."

"Leave that to me," Mrs.Harrison said with the confidence of a woman who had raised three daughters. "I still remember a few tricks from my girls' courtship days. In fact, I have a beautiful lace cloak that’ll go wonderfully with that yellow ensemble that Eliza used. We'll have you looking like a proper English rose."

A comfortable silence fell between them as Isabella carefully folded Cameron's letter and tucked it into her footlocker alongside the other treasured correspondence from home. Mrs.Harrison busied herself examining the dresses more closely, her seamstress mind already working on the styling possibilities.

"You know," Mrs.Harrison said thoughtfully, "I believe your Cameron has given you more than just beautiful dresses. He's given you permission to be young again, even if just for one evening."

Isabella smiled, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. "He always was the wisest of us, despite being the youngest."

"And the most romantic, I suspect," Mrs.Harrison added with a knowing look. "These dresses aren't just beautiful—they're designed to make their wearer feel beautiful. That boy knows exactly what he's doing."

"He does," Isabella agreed, running her fingers over the intricate embroidery once more. "Cameron sees beauty everywhere, even in the ugliest situations. Especially in the ugliest situations."

Mrs.Harrison nodded approvingly. "Then we shall honor his vision. The festival is in three weeks, which gives us plenty of time to plan properly. Hair, accessories, perhaps even a little rouge if you're feeling adventurous."

"Rouge?" Isabella laughed. "Mrs.Harrison, you're going to scandalize the entire village."

"Nonsense," the older woman replied with a wave of her hand. "A little color never hurt anyone. Besides, if some of those handsome young paratroopers are going to be there, we want to make sure they notice what they've been missing, don't we?"

Isabella felt her cheeks flush again, but this time it wasn't entirely from embarrassment. There was something thrilling about the idea of feeling feminine and pretty, of having the men see her as something other than their competent, practical medic. Not that she wanted to give up that role—it was part of who she was now—but the idea of adding another layer, of being multifaceted yet again after so long...

"You're thinking about someone specific, aren't you?" Mrs.Harrison observed with the perceptiveness of a woman who had watched three daughters navigate young love.

"What? No, I—" Isabella started to protest, then stopped. "Maybe. I don't know. It's complicated."

"The best things usually are, dear," Mrs.Harrison said gently. "But that's a conversation for another day. For now, let's focus on making sure you have the most wonderful time at our festival. Your Cameron will want to hear all about it in your next letter."

Isabella nodded, already imagining the letter she would write describing the evening, the dress, the dancing. Cameron would want every detail, would probably ask her to sketch the hairstyle Mrs.Harrison chose for her.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Mrs. Harrison smiled warmly. "Thank you for bringing music and laughter back into this house. And for reminding an old woman what it's like to have a daughter to fuss over again."

As Mrs. Harrison left her to settle in for the evening, Isabella carefully hung both dresses in her wardrobe, making sure they wouldn't wrinkle. She could hardly believe they were real, that Cameron had somehow managed to create such beautiful things while preparing for his own dangerous assignment.

She pulled out her journal—the one she'd started writing in again after her conversation with Speirs—and began composing her thank-you letter to Cameron. But as she wrote, her mind kept drifting to the festival, to the possibility of dancing, to the strange and wonderful feeling of anticipating something purely joyful for the first time in months.

Maybe Mrs.Harrison was right. Maybe Cameron had given her more than just dresses. Maybe he'd given her back a piece of herself she thought she'd lost.

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

taglist: @malarkgirlypop, @darling-heffron

[eepyuii]

frostbite — pt. 2

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; swearing, a LOT of canon archon quest yappery (sorry)

note ; part two baybee!! in comparison to the ao3 version of this, i’ve decided to merge the chapters two by two to make them seem longer and since so far, i’ve only written five- next one might take a little longer to come out. or maybe i’ll just post chapter 5 stand-alone, who knows

also i’ve got a taglist now!

previous | next | masterlist

your arrival in liyue harbor goes less than stellar.

the port is packed full of people who are either confused or outraged at the line of millelith soldiers who refuse to let anyone through. you end up waiting in a line for an annoying amount of time, up until you’re finally attended to by a soldier.

“i’m sorry but liyue harbor is not accepting in any tourists, we are trying to keep our… current situation under control as best we can while investigations are still in order, i hope you can understand.” the millelith states formally.

“oh, well err- i’m no tourist, i was born in liyue harbor! my parents migrated from overseas many years ago and i was just on a leisurely trip to snezhnaya, haha…” you lie through your teeth.

the mere mention of snezhnaya sets off the most minute reaction in the millelith solider, hence why you’re under a fake identity to begin with. you politely hand him a folder with forged documents so gracefully provided to you by your employers and pray to your lucky stars- and, well, tsaritsa, that it’s good enough for him to let you pass.

the soldier remains neutral for a few seconds as he eyes through the paper.

“very well. but please behave in an orderly fashion inside the city, as i said the trail on the ahem- incident is still fresh. welcome home.”

it takes a lot out of you not to snort at the welcome.

the poor naïve man truly wasn’t lying- the inside of the harbor was just as tumultuous as the outside. people in the streets gather in small groups and anxiously whisper their worries to each other. but most of all, they eye you suspiciously like you were the one to stab a sword through rex lapis with the entire harbor watching. you’d say they’re within reason to do so, losing their protector god and all.

you wouldn’t call yourself the most devoted of subjects but you’d also hate to imagine a snezhnaya without the tsaritsa so… benevolently

watching over it. challenging the heavenly principles like she has would certainly cause a catastrophic bite in the ass for the nation if she were to perish. maybe you could be a devoted subject enough to prevent that from happening.

drowning in a whirlpool of your own thoughts, you don’t even realize you’re already standing in front of the northland bank branch of liyue harbor. you try to walk inside as discreetly as possible, so as to not raise any suspicion toward you from the millelith or civilians and to not disturb the workers inside the bank.

unfortunately your efforts are in vain, because you’re recognized immediately.

“ah, sergeant y/n! we were expecting that you would arrive soon. please, allow me to take care of your luggage.” calls out the receptionist, ekaterina.

not only does she practically announce your arrival, she does it while the very bane of your existence is present in the main hall of the bank, formerly distracted as he spoke to a blonde woman in the strangest garments you’ve ever seen and a uh… floating baby?

childe’s ears, no- his entire body, almost instinctively perk up at the mention of your name and he abruptly stops his sentence midway through to look over to the entrance, to you.

“y/n? what in the name of the tsaritsa are you doing here?” he inquires, eyebrows furrowed with the purest of confusions. that is until he remembers the traveler and paimon are still present and most definitely more perpexled than he is.

so he decides to save face before anything else.

“missed me too much?” childe adds cockily.

your eyes almost roll on their own accord. “whatever you’d like to tell yourself. unfortunately, they decided to station me here to help�� stabilize the situation, surely that has nothing to do with you screwing up?”

he scoffs. “there’s been nothing to screw up. in fact, the situation is plentiful under control and we’ve already devised a plan to solve it. your intrusion is unneede-”

“wh- you big liar! we literally met after you kicked a bunch of millelith butt in broad daylight! we’ve been stumbling up and down these past few days just to clear our names.” the floating baby speaks up.

you cock your head to the side at the revelation with curiosity and just a smidgen of smugness.

“and you! don’t think just because paimon likes making fun of childe doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. we heard what the lady called you, you’re fatui just like mr. pants-on-fire over here. just who are you anyway?!” the floating baby glides over to you with an accusatory finger pointed and a suspicious squint to her eyes.

the blonde woman, who’s been radio silent this entire time, merely puts a hand on the floating one’s shoulder to pull her back, though she also looks wary of you.

childe laughs at the display and holds out a formal hand as to introduce you. “traveler, paimon, this is y/n, my.. coworker as you can obviously tell. don’t worry though, they’re not a bad guy or kind of a bad guy like me, you have nothing to worry about. they’re actually an amazingly talented battle medic and head nurse of the fatui, that’s why they carry the sergeant title.”

you’re taken aback for a brief moment at the unexpected praise. you were waiting for just a formal introduction of your position in the fatui, or even one that contained a little snarky comment about your attitude towards him. but no, he only complimented your talents. it’s almost a little too courtly too.

“y/n, this is the traveler and paimon. these two not from around here but they unfortunately managed to land right in the bullseye of the incident and are being considered murder suspects. i’m merely helping them clear their names.”

ah, there’s the kicker. he’s “helping” those two.

you know childe well enough to comprehend that he wouldn’t just help some strangely dressed bystanders if he didn’t think he could snake his way into benefit, in this case most likely the geo gnosis. that’s why he’s trying to make somewhat of a good image for himself and those associated. conniving bastard.

then again, takes one to know one.

“so it’s true then, rex lapis is dead.” you hum. “but why has the millelith jumped to the conclusion that it was a murder so quickly? what exactly happened in the rite of descension?”

“weeell, the ceremony was starting just fine and dandy when suddenly the sky got unusually dark and then- bam! thunder strikes and this huge amber dragon drops dead from the sky.” paimon explains dramatically before shivering.

“eugh… really gave paimon the heebie-jeebies… then, the tianquan went over to examine the body and immediately announced it was a murder.”

“interesting.. did the dragon seem to have any visible injuries? any slashes or punctures? weapons sticking out of his body?”

“it’s tricky to say, as i was just relaying onto the traveler before you arrived, the qixing have long since confiscated the exuvia and are refusing to let anyone see it.” childe joins in, looking down pensively with a hand on his chin.

“it feels too early to draw any conclusions but paimon can confidently say it was not us and our names are squeaky clean! either way, we should get going- we’ve done so much walking up mountains since we got here and it’s making paimon famished.”

“see, you keep saying that but you still float, paimon-“ you hear the traveler say as the pair turns to leave.

“oh shush, you!!”

the air between the remaining two of you is thick with awkwardness. you decide to be one to break it once the traveler and paimon are well away from earshot.

“so, how will your charitable little side quest tie into getting the gnosis?”

“hah, you’ve barely arrived and you’re looking so far ahead?”

“aren’t you? in fact, didn’t you say you’d already ‘devised plan to solve it’ and that my presence was ‘unneeded’?” you question, accentuating the quotings in your sentence with a less than half-assed impression of childe’s own pesky tone at the time.

“jeez, i do not sound like that-“

“not the point-“

“yes yes, whatever… for the record i do already have a plan.” he admits. “unfortunately for you, doc, it is a bit airtight and therefore- your interference is unneeded.”

“y’know what, you’re right. if someone like you is describing their plans as airtight then maybe it’s best if i stay out of its splash zone.” you bite back and childe scoffs.

“who even ordered you be sent here?”

the malicious grin grows on your face with haste.

“the jester.”

“wha-?! argh, that old man…”

—

“ekaterina?”

“yes- how may i help you, sergeant?”

“what would be your recommendations for restaurants ‘round here?”

evening was nearing and you could feel the emptiness eating at your stomach from the inside. the few days that had passed of your stay in liyue were remarkably unremarkable. half of your time was spent cooped up in northland bank with diplomatic or medical paperwork while the other half was you doing whatever discreet investigation inside the city that you could, up to little avail.

childe was moving forward with his scheming while effectively keeping you completely in the dark from it- well not completely, as he wasn’t the only stubborn one out of the two of you. some intel about his flawless, artful plan had “slipped out” (meaning you pried it out of ekaterina) and come to your knowledge- for example, today he’d be going out to meet with the traveler and paimon for another meeting with one of his… contacts, he called it. you just didn’t know where.

luckily your source of discovering that had just walked through the door.

“welcome, friend of childe! and congratulations on the first day of your illustrious career with the fatui.” ekaterina greets formally and you’re too late to stop yourself from visibly cringing.

“i have no intention of joining the fatui.” the traveler says curtly.

“you sound remarkably sure of yourself… remember, we are mere mortals- our ideas are fluid like water. only the tsaritsa truly has a will as solid as permafrost.”

you huff at the receptionist’s straightforwardness.

“i’m sure we can maintain.. beneficial connections without anyone signing away their names. why don’t we keep to the matter of this visit?” with a slightly forced business smile, you try to ease the traveler’s stone-like expression. thought, if you were in her shoes you believe you’d react much the same.

and you would sure as hell never recommend for someone to join the fatui.

“hm, yes, back to the matter at hand- childe tells me that he has upheld his end of your agreement.”

“what agreement? ..oh, the thing about him helping us find a guy?” paimon inquires.

“correct. childe promised he would find someone to break the stalemate. and harbingers do not break their promises lightly.”

this time you succeed in internalizing your reaction to the comment- from your personal experience, childe did not exactly fit that concept. but there was no time for dwelling on that now.

“ah, where is that guy anyway?”

“childe is currently at liuli pavilion.”

bingo.

“liuli pavilion?” you ask.

“oh, oh! paimon knows this one!” paimon exclaims, proceeding to give an insight of the rival cooking styles of liyue and you almost admire how dedicated she is to liking food so… academically. you’re half zoning out at their conversation when your stomach traitorously growls for all ears to hear.

“hey, y/n, why don’t you join us? you’re a friend of childe’s too afterall!” the floating guide propositions naively.

“ah err… i-i wouldn’t describe it like that, plus, i wasn’t invited to this meeting. i’d hate to intrude.” you try to wave it off. while this could be your current best chance at receiving more context on their investigation, you’d rather not do it where childe would catch onto you.

“well it won’t hurt to ask him! c’mon, at least walk with us, you’ll have to find a place to eat anyway.” paimon drags you by the sleeve out of northland bank, along with the traveler, with unexpected strength in her grasp.

the streets are bustling with people, walking back and forth as they also step out to guarantee themselves some dinner. the crowd covers the sight of liuli pavilion’s entrance and it’s not until you’ve actually arrived that childe sees you.

he looks no less than befuddled.

“aha, y-you’ve made it…” he laughs awkwardly, clearly not expecting the current situation to ever occur. “care to explain the plus one?”

“they’re just that! they were also looking for a place to eat so we invited them to join us.” paimon contextualizes, oblivious to the silent glare battle taking place between the two of you.

“w-well anyhow-“ childe effectively retreats from the as promised, i’ve found someone who can help you. someone who can solve the mystery of why the liyue qixing would hide the geo archon’s vessel.”

“so.. where is he? in liuli pavilion?”

“he certainly is. come, i’ll… introduce you.” he intends to sound cheerful but the last part of his sentence comes out the smidgen most strained as his eyes flicker to you momentarily.

“i took the liberty of setting up a business dinner, as per liyue custom.”

the traveler and paimon walk ahead and get distracted with the warm welcome of the restaurant’s staff while you and childe try not to jump to an argument then and there.

“trust me, i resisted this impromptu invite as much as i could.” you mutter, preferring to look at the surroundings rather than the harbinger beside you.

“good, because you won’t be joining anyway.” he replies coldly as he starts walking inside ahead of you.

“at least let me see the damn restaurant first, maybe i won’t join your table but that doesn’t mean i won’t eat there.”

“how will i know you’re not listening in on our busine-“

“childe? y/n? c’mon, let’s get to our table!” paimon calls out from further into the pavilion.

as you round to the reserved table, you see a brown-haired man in refined amber clothing seated at the far end of it, tea in hand. somehow you think you’ve seen him before but only out in the streets, perhaps at third-round knockout listening to the storyteller at the front tables.

“yes yes, i’m here.” childe steps up, half-sheepish at his late arrival. “unfortunately, y/n won’t be joining us as they have other matters to attend to.” he says like you’re not standing right beside him.

“really? but y/n didn’t say anything, plus, they seemed like they were awfully hungry-“

“forgive the intrusion but, childe, might this be the same y/n you’ve mentioned before?”

the man at the table joins in and childe looks like he’s promptly died on the spot. you, however, look elated at the revelation.

so elated that you don’t see the flush of red that plagues childe’s face and ears.

“why yes, i might just be.” the grin on your face seems only friendly to the other three and only the harbinger feels it’s real sting of triumph.

“then, please, let us all eat together.”

you all waste no more time to do so, childe sits on the man’s right, you sit beside him while the traveler and paimon mirror you on the other side- well, paimon at least floats on top of the chair.

“allow me to introduce mr. zhongli, consultant to an organization known as wansheng… and a trusted associate of the fatui.”

“wansheng?” the traveler asks.

“indeed.” the redhead answers. “wansheng’s line of work can be… sensitive at times. let’s just say they understand when discretion is needed. and we, the fatui, have always been glad to do business with friends who walk in the shadows.”

“w-walk in the shadows..?” paimon shivers.

“it is an honor to meet you. i have heard tell of you from mondstat.” zhongli turns to you. “you as well, doctor, i have been meaning to arrange for us to meet ever since hearing word of you from childe.”

you’re pleasantly surprised by him calling you doctor for a moment, as no one has ever really referred to you in such a respectful manner. sure, childe and others have called you “doc” playfully but never fully doctor.

and then you remember who the title is usually reserved for.

“discretion… shadows… ah! is wansheng some kind of business involving… ‘dealing’ with people?” paimon panics.

“indeed. it is as you have guessed.”

“ahh!!” she screams.

“don’t worry, wansheng is a funeral parlor.” you assure her amusedly and paimon’s fear shifts to confusion.

zhongli cluelessly nods in affirmation. “the wansheng funeral parlor organizes burials. we ensure that those who pass on do so in peace.”

“e-eh?”

you hear childe laugh warmly from beside you, the warmest you’ve heard from him in years. “did you think he was some sort of hired killer? the fatui calls many such people friends, but the wansheng funeral parlor does not dabble in such business… well, ostensibly.”

“ostensibly?” you question.

“well, they are still- ah, i shouldn’t say too much. in any case, i brought you to meet mr. zhongli because…”

“because i can bring you to see rex lapis’ vessel.” the consultant follows up plainly.

“what?!” exclaims paimon.

“ha, don’t be so surprised. sure, the geo archon’s body has been squirreled away by order of the tianquan ningguang… but first, let’s hear what mr. zhongli has to say, shall we?”

how childe managed to hide such a supposed fatui associate, an insanely useful one at that, from you with all the snooping around you’d been doing is beyond your mortal comprehension. what baffles you even more is his unwavering determination to keep you as far away from the entire operation as possible, going against the order of your involvement that came directly from not only dottore, the very second fatui harbinger, but also the director of all of the fatui himself.

unfortunately you’ll still need to wait until zhongli preaches his tale before you get to strangle childe where he stands.

“rex lapis may be the prime of adepti, but he is ultimately an adeptus. many adepti have left us over the millennia- this is the inexorable trend.”

zhongli turns to the traveler. “the times have changed- you must have felt it too when you were at jueyun karst.” with the travelers confirmation, he continues. “as you have seen, the time of adepti is ending, and the time of mankind is slowly dawning.”

the dinner proceeds with talks of the rite of passing and as the traveler and zhongli become more well acquainted, they all agree to leave liuli pavilion and further discuss their arrangements.

“you can go if you want to, don’t worry about me. i might just have a few more drinks…” childe dismisses the two travelers.

“and me also. somebody needs to teach a certain other someone how to use chopsticks if we’re to stay in liyue for a good while.” you imply half-jokingly, grateful that the two get on their way quick so you can give the redhead beside you an exclusive earful.

as you feel your cheeks start to warm with the burn of the alcohol, you down decisively the last one of your drinks for the night and slam the cup on the table with vigor.

“am i some sort of joke to you?”

childe almost chokes on his own beverage at the suddenness. “e-excuse me?”

“actually no, let me rephrase that- do you think it’s funny to play around with the job i’ve been assigned here and purposefully leave me to wander around streets i don’t know like a bumbling idiot while you keep contacts like mr.fucking-rex-lapis-historian under your belt?” you practically bark.

“y/n, please, i think you might’ve drank too mu-“

“answer the question or so help me celestia, i will leave this restaurant with my hands as red as that stupid scarf of yours.”

the harbinger huffs. “alright alright! no i don’t think it’s funny to do… all of what you said. but i don’t think that’s fair- this is my mission and it’s been running smoothly since before you even got here. at least i thought it was until they decided to send more manpower with zero forewarning, do you know how insulting that is?”

“how is it insulting to have backup in case something goes wrong? that’s all i’m here for- to help, and ideally help with the investigation. but i can’t do that if i don’t know where the hell jueyun karst is, much less where else to go to look for clues.”

childe only sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. “you’re right… i shouldn’t alienate you from what’s your assignment too. but let me keep up with my plan for now and if something goes awry, i’ll call you. i’ll fill you in on it tomorrow morning.”

you nod firmly- easier than you thought it’d be.

“now will you please teach me how to use these damned sticks?”

taglist ; @kentply

[fallcloaked]

five times protected ++ five times protective

slaps this right back at u

//Okay my brain has refused to finish these so I'm posting what I got

Subnautica Au Sidereal hated the dark. The crushing lonely dark of the deep ocean. The terrifying darkness leaking into the corners of his vision as he drowned. The constant darkness that'd infected his brain when they crash landed. He hated it. But hating it didn't make it go away, hating it didn't get him home, and hating it didn't make the burning in his lungs stop. The habitation module had failed, He'd run faster than he ever had in his life before through the twisting tunnels of the base, hating himself for trying to make it feel less claustrophobic. He'd seen Artemis running in one of the cameras in the observation room. At least she'd survive, the moonpool was close to the sleeping quarters for this specific reason, but he'd been out by the reactor trying to get it running just a little more efficiently. He wondered as the dark finally closed in on the center of his vision if she'd hate him for cracking that damn window. He'd let out the last few bubbles in his lungs before he could wonder further.

He'd expected death to be less painful, less loud and bright. For his chest not to feel like it was stabbing him and for his throat not to feel so fucking sore. As he gasped and began coughing out the water onto the cyclops floor and stared up at Artemis He knew he had at least one thing he didn't hate on this godforsaken planet.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Among us Ranger had been found dead in the lab above the specimen room. Nearly half the crew were dead, and paranoia had descended upon the living like a miasma. Accusations had been thrown over and over again each meeting at people trusted for years. Sid had decided to Stand close To Artemis as the conversation kept getting more and more vicious. When finally the captain decided to ask where everyone had been there would have been a split second where Artemis perhaps realized she'd get blamed. She'd been arraigning the specimens for transport, she was the team Archeologist. It was one of her few duties in an emergency. But before she can say anything Sid's already speaking, already explaining how there was no way it was him or Artemis, they'd been in 02 by the tree Monitoring it to make sure the Oxygen systems were still working so they didn't fucking suffocate. It would only take ten minutes for them to vote, less then two to push Alice over the cliffs edge into the lava. Her screams would echo for longer than they felt like they should, like they haunted them for their actions. Artemis would See Sid hurriedly getting back towards the medical bay just as he was supposed to. But then he'd give her that odd smile of his as he turned right too fast and headed towards one of the larger ventilation shafts.

Avatar Au Sidereal was talking to himself again. It was something anyone who spent any appreciable amount of time around Sid noticed, the constant under his breath conversation he was having with himself. Sometimes it was about current events, others events that happened years before, but any time he thought he was alone, or with someone he considered family it would happen. Today Artemis would barely hear it, drifting in and out of consciousness as Sid slowly healed the head injury. He'd always said he was better at using the principles of healing to harm then actually heal, but today she'd see him using herbs and medicines she didn't even know he had squirrelled away in that bag he never let her touch. After another Session of healing and a terrible mixture to drink Sid would stand back up. Through swimming vision she'd see The albino blood bender open a door into what looked to be a freezer, the same man who had got her with the wire hung up against the wall by chunks of ice. Before she finally falls back into slumber all she can focus on is how red the water he'd be using to heal her had been.

Normal Verse He's running across rooftops before before he can think. Artemis had told Sid about her before, general warnings about anti magic mace, super strength, durable, the whole normal deal in this world. But none of that really mattered right now, what mattered right now was the fact that She'd hit Artemis so hard into the roof that the material cracked. Artemis would see the telltale flash of indigo as sid moved through space, but instead of the normal teleportation he'd simply dash forward past the hawk woman. two indigo silhouettes of himself slamming themselves into her a few times before Sid made his move, launching himself off of one of those air platforms he used. Scythe in hand as he tried to slash straight through her, only for that mace to catch it and wither the magic into naught but wisps of wind. By the time Sid's landing on the ground he already has a plan on how to work around it and launches himself straight up, the clones going to distract her. A moment later there's a spray of blood as what looks to be a grappling hook of that indigo energy spears through one of her wings and lets sid yank himself towards her faster than expected. There's more blood and screaming as Artemis finally gets up from the little crater she'd been sunk into. She'd see Kendra's wings torn and bloody, a chunk of her face ripped off and Sid standing a few feet away drenched in her and his blood, one of his arms hanging barely connected to his shoulder, for once the lace like energy not healing the injury. For a moment Sid wouldn't even recognize Artemis moving or making noise, he'd be so caught up in fighting, in Killing. But a flicker of something would finally cross the feral mages face as Artemis got herself up and barely missing a beat Sid would tackle her off the building and with a blinding flash of indigo they'd be underground and soon much further away and safe.

[tiredassmage]

so like. the thing about alucren and theron. this is also slightly blorbo pilled but most of the people reading this will probably be on my blog, but i'm gonna just ramble which means i'm gonna start out of order. one of the long-term kickers about theron shan for alucren is that he reminds her quite a bit of what she thinks of tyr. and for those keeping track at home, tyr is... alucren projects on the guy, and uses him as a mirror, and uses him as a sign post of what she's... meant to be emulating. sort of.

she gets a lot wrong about the guy when they're still cipher nine and cipher eleven. she really doesn't start seeing him until... maybe a little bit of it on ziost, and more definitively during the alliance. not coincidentally then, this is also when alucren goes through quite the gauntlet of realizations about herself - ranging from... how she feels about love, her relationship with masculinity (and subsequently the toying with pronouns and... reclaiming gender for herself), to... well, probably a variety of other things that i shorthand as 'self-awareness.' which is a lot about tyr for a post i started by mentioning theron shan, but it is because she sees some patterns.

and that is, in short, the fact that both of them tend to follow their hearts.

theron shan is someone alucren refuses to immediately get along with on principle. the only son and youngest child of a loyal imperial family who wanted for little to nothing as he grew up and whom was molded in an image of duty to the sith and the empire before aught else... with that kind of introduction, i think it'd obvious why alucren remained standoffish with a republic spy. let alone the fact that theron is... almost nice. noticeably in a different way than tyr is, i think it's important to note in her mental landscape when considering the two. but the guy's fairly casual for supposedly being one of the sis's top operatives.

and he's not always enthused with alucren, and he's not against telling her that. but when i consider alucren against him in the era of the alliance, she... at some point, she does realize that theron just... he showed up anyway. and he keeps doing so. even when she'd think him to have every justification for washing his hands of the whole mess (dealing with her is... not an insignificant part of what she'd define as that 'whole mess').

and without getting too far into the weeds about different timelines and versions of events and yada yada, it's... either way, the era of zakuul breaching the known galaxy and the alliance's rise to oppose it is one of the greatest periods of upheaval in alucren's life. it creates an absolutely massive amount of change that, finally, she has no choice but to stand in the middle of and try to figure it out and catch her breath in it all. there is nothing to run back to - or what little there is is completely and irrevocably changed as well. there's versions of this where she tries - where she returns to dromund kaas in the name of being there for her older sisters in the wake of their parents' deaths in the attacks on dromund kaas. but for all their closeness as alucren grew up, not even they can completely keep in touch with her, even when she's on the same planet.

because it's a lot for alucren to process. and underneath everything he's ever tried to be, everything he's pretended he is or isn't, is someone who is... afraid. who runs from fear.

and when she has enough of her wits about her, that's something she hates admitting. it's weakness. it's vulnerability. it's intolerable.

but in the throes of it? when there is nothing but to face the chaos in the depths of fear? she's deathly afraid of having to do that alone. of finally getting left behind. of the consequences of being the dog that bites when its told, even if its legs shake with fear of reprimand for not doing it right, not doing it fast enough, of biting the wrong hand.

no one can save her but herself. and she's not often sure she's strong enough to do that.

and then there's... hopelessly idealistic fools like theron shan. and tyr, frankly. idiots that keep showing up and sticking around her no matter how many times she snaps at them in her fear. no matter what she does that might drive a 'sane mind' away.

and then... in the end, there's nathema. and the kind of plan that only a foolish heart like that could hope to swing. only a risk someone like theron shan would take.

not one alucren could, necessarily. she balks. and she cowers. and she runs.

she's not the type to bet on anything less than a sure thing. and maybe that is even a part of her response.

she won't leave theron shan there, bloodied with his mistakes, or what a colder version of her from several years ago would have possibly even sneered as failure. she... can't. the her of that day couldn't... fathom being able to do that.

she'll allow him a place to heal the body. she won't turn away attempts at explanations or apologies.

but she won't let him stay. she... can't. she can't ask him to do that. to his heart.

because it's a good heart. and there's better people in this galaxy he could spend time worrying it with.

because she knows hers will always lead her back to dromund kaas. for perhaps different reasons now than when she was some twenty years younger, and less silver at the temples, and more hot blooded. but it's home. oh, it's bloodied her face and kicked her when she's down and it'll only ever love her as one loves a muzzled guard dog, but... it's hers. it's her home. she knows the rules there, knows how the game in imperial halls plays.

she'd like to think she learned a few things from theron shan about how to have a spine connected to her heart.

and hers of today tells her he won't be happy where she's going. nor will he like her turning him away. he won't want to take her offer to find him an escort safely to any place in this galaxy he'd ever want. he won't be happy with leaving, after everything.

her resolve to tell him so would crumble if he even could half-use convincing eyes to tell her he'd be happy anyway. even if he made an attempt.

she suspects he knows that. suspects the way it tightens his jaw and then it gapes already trying to find an answer neither of them are really expecting.

alucren doesn't ask him to leave out of bitterness, like a younger self probably would have. she forgives him. she believes him. she really does.

but she can't ask him to live unhappy with a heart so heavy as his. just because he could... she's not sure he should.

she's learned a lot from theron shan in the years between yavin iv and odessen. she's better for it. she can carry just a little bit more on her own. it's okay.

she won't forget this time. she won't. this time, it will stick.

[racingliners]

So, in my many emotions at seeing these beautiful pieces by @aphrostiel, I ended up writing a ficlet about it (because how could I not indulge myself in writing the Seb and Schumi podium we deserved).

I may polish it up further and put it on ao3 for prosperity but I really wanted to just get it out there, I hope you like it!!

(Thank you so much to Jules for both their blessing to post this for for sharing such incredibly beautiful art!!)

Golden

The sun cast warm, golden rays in the widening breaks though the pale clouds as they walked out onto the podium together. Seb, being the young gentleman in training, suggested that Michael have his day and walk out alone. Michael, almost too overwhelmed to speak, insisted they walk out together.

They would both argue that Hockenheim looked beautiful no matter the weather, but today after a race that went from dry to pouring rain to dry again, it felt like no sight would ever come close to how the track looked right then in that moment.

Ross Brawn stood proudly on the constructors step of the podium, and was barely containing his tears as the German anthem was introduced over the tannoy. Seb couldn’t help it as he looked up at Michael, his mentor, his friend, and today probably the most fierce driver he had ever raced against, and watched as tears streaked down his face after the first few notes.

The Mercedes mechanics and engineers gathered below let out al almighty roar as Michael raised both fists triumphantly in the air at the end. There was something awfully poetic about him netting his ninety second win at Germany in a Mercedes, and the worlds press were already hard at work at their keyboards and notepads trying to figure out just how they could talk about the Red Baron’s triumphant return when no suitable adjectives really seemed to exist.

Right as the trophies were about to be presented, Michael clapped a heavy hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and beamed at him with a proud smile before fixing his winner’s cap back onto his head.

The crowd were beside themselves even before Michael was presented with the winner’s trophy – a 3D Santander logo that was painted with the colours of the German flag on in the inside but chrome silver on the outside. A fitting prize for a silver arrow. The sun glinted off the surface as the crowd and Mercedes team roared so loud it was a wonder they weren’t heard cheering for miles.

Sebastian, who still couldn’t quite believe that his childhood dream of sharing a podium with Michael had finally come true, accepted his second place trophy with a wide schoolboy grin. All he could think about was that day in Kerpen when he’d met Michael for the first time with wide eyes and a stunned smile. Seb was pretty sure that he was wearing the exact same expression on his face, and for once he didn’t care.

With the trophies presented, the dignitaries were quickly escorted off the podium and Seb let out a shaky sigh as he leaned down to grab the neck of his champagne bottle.

“Shall we get Ross first?” He asked with a cheeky smile. Michael looked at him with a familiar glint in his eye as he picked up his bottle with ease, and really he certainly was a professional in the art of spraying champagne as he popped the cork, jumped down from the top step, and ran over to Ross before the long-suffering Team principle had a chance to run away. The two men laughed as Ross was soaked through, and only when Michael was happy did he go over to the very edge of the podium platform in the hope some of the droplets of spray would reach his beloved colleagues.

Sebastian grinned as he sprayed champagne over Michael’s right side. Fernando, who had finished in third place eventually joined in and deposited the bulk of his bottle’s contents over Michael’s head.

When they piled onto the top step of the podium Seb gestured for Ross to stand between himself and Michael for the official photograph. Before he had a chance to respond Michael hooked an arm round his shoulder and pulled him in so they were stood side by side, brothers in arms complete with matching grins even if Ross still looked quite astounded with the events of the past two hours. Seb was still smiling brightly as the picture was taken, and when he took off his Pirelli cap to swap it for his Red Bull one, Michael reached over to ruffle his hair with a hearty laugh.

The crowd hadn’t relented in their cheers once, and they only hushed when Michael spoke during the podium interview. He tearfully thanked the crowd in German for all their support throughout the years – and especially since his comeback two years ago, before expressing gratitude just as heartfelt to his race engineer Bono for getting him to the end, and Mercedes head of strategy James for his cool-headed decisions that led him back to the top step of the podium once more.

He then turned to Sebastian, and looked at him with a proud smile.

“You know, I remember meeting a young kid in Kerpen many years ago, I never in my life thought I would get to race against him let alone for a race win. But we had a good fight, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed racing against someone. I hope that we can do it again sometime.” There was a warm ferocity to Michael’s smile, not in the malicious sense but the kind of a true competitor. One that would never, ever give up without leaving anything on the table.

Seb said as such when the interviewer turned to him, adding that he knew going against Michael he would have to give everything, and while he was disappointed to lose the race he would always be honoured to say that he got to battle it out on track against his hero.

“Don’t worry Seb,” Michael said with a warm pat on the shoulder when they walked off the podium and back into the cool down room, arm in arm. “You’ll get your turn next year.”

Sure enough, almost exactly twelve months later, Sebastian took to the top step on the podium at the Nürburgring. Michael, now retired, apparently doubled up as a psychic. He sent Seb a text congratulating him on his first home race win, and in the week off between the races in Germany and Hungary he greeted Sebastian with a thumbs up and a bright grin when he and Hanna happily accepted an invitation to dinner at the Schumacher home.

Sat proudly in the living room, wrapped in thin white frames, hung two pictures from that day in Hockenheim. The first was of Michael with his trophy, the second of himself and Sebastian spraying champagne wearing the brightest of smiles. Mick couldn’t help himself when he asked his father and his friend just what it was like to race each other in such difficult conditions, and both Sebastian and Michael reeled off in great technical detail exactly how everything unfolded.

Seb couldn’t help himself as he glanced at the pictures as he left, the sun now set and the sky filled with twinkling silver stars, and he felt nothing but pride as he knew he would carry that day in his heart for the rest of his life.

[arodrwho]

disordered eating talk under the cut

hmmm. so i talked to psych about how i still cant fuckin remember to eat, and i mentioned how its a 3fold problem:

i do not rly register hunger signals until i am nearly starving. i just wont notice that i need to eat until i Really Really need to eat

if i set an alarm to remind myself to eat it is hard to stop what im doing to go get food. like come ON im busy just a few more minutes - [spongebob voice] 10 hours later

making food is just so many goddamned steps

and i think.. possibly he did not understand my first point and only processed the last two?

bc he said there is no medication to fix it and it is unfortunately just a matter of sheer perseverance and willpower, there is no magic pill to make me remember to eat, i just have to set habits and try my hardest to stick to them and not beat myself up about it when i fail, and he offered some advice and was polite about it and understanding about how difficult it can be but i just

i have tried these. theyre not consistently working. i know im always going to be consistently inconsistent, i get that, i have Done my research

and its true ig that i could stand to be kinder to myself about it but some level of concern is merited, like

when i went to see my rheum last she could tell just by looking at me that i had lost weight. and i didnt have a lot of weight to lose in the first place

[ngl she was kind of negligent bc she asked if i wanted to be weighed, i said i didnt care, assuming she say OK lets do it then since its relevant medical information and id just said i didnt mind, but she said OK then we wont worry about it, and then just put a note in my file saying id lost weight but id denied losing it intentionally. like.. if Anyone is unintentionally losing weight without making any lifestyle changes that should be concerning i think? mind you im pretty sure its only due to my shitty eating habits, so im not rly worried or anything, its more the principle of the thing. she should perhaps have done more than just go "huh. anyway bye" without even checking how much weight id lost]

...none of this was even my original point

my point was. i dont think he heard me right bc surely drugs exist that increase appetite? at the very least as a side effect i know thats a thing

bc i know for a fact when i took wellbutrin (bc my old psych wanted to try me on nonstimulants for adhd first) and that DID increase my appetite. it went from fully nonexistent "i will either feel mysteriously sleepy when i need to eat or just not feel anything at all" to "oh what the fuck is my stomach actually growling? it hasnt done that since i was a kid!"

is a shame it also gave me nightmares or id take it for that alone tbh, even if it did fuckall for my adhd

anyway. to conclude. @ psych ur advice was.. not exactly novel and didnt address the root problem of "hunger is such a tiny barely noticeable thing wven when i Do experience it [which again isnt til im starving] that its super easy to ignore when my brain goes hwwwrgh dont wannaaaaa"

case in point i CAN feel that i need to eat rn, just.. really not very strongly [is a mild physical sensation that comes without any accompanying desire to eat, vs what i know as actual hunger, which is a different and louder physical sensation that DOES come w the desire to eat] so ive spent the last half hour writing this post instead . like a fool.

i have pizza rolls literally RIGHT THERE [keep food nearby, he said. little snacks, he said] but i ate half [like. 7 of them] and then felt full. and now im feeling both full and like i need to eat which is really really annoying. @ body why are you like this

[terrys-min-catl]

abuse mention warning! if you're bad triggered by abuse mention and cant stand statements abt post victims abuse. then please ignore this post.

you've been warned

little sketch to not just there to exist my river of consious I see that many people perceive the conclusion of the arc as wrong because of Kevin's words about his father. That he wants to be better than his father, but quotes him and forgives him. And I didn't see the conclusion otherwise. lets talk abt this

"Can a victim of abuse say something like that?" Yes. They can and will say. We all see only a way where the victim of abuse becomes a healthy unit of society and doesnt repeat the mistakes of the past But these are rather exceptional cases that we always want to see. Most of the victims become tyrants themselves, without even knowing it. The desire to be better alone and therapy is not enough, the victim of abuse, whether they want to or not, will accept the habits of their abuser, especially if they spend enough time with them. Stockholm syndrome has not spared anyone as much as you whitewash characters whose synonym for their name is "trauma"

Who will a child grow up to be in an abusive family? An abuser. Kevin was brainwashed into total Stockholm syndrome and forgave his father. That's it. As much as I would like to have a different outcome, Kevin will not be a good father. This is a terrible, morally disfigured cruel character from childhood. How can he be a good father? When was the last time we heard about Donovan on a podcast? And about Charles? When Cecil, in the gaps between the news, manages to cram essay on the topic of products, mentioning how much he loves his son, his creativity, behavior, as well as his husband. And most often it's all one episode, which shows how involved he is in the family, how much he appreciates it, then Kevin… It's as if he exists in a vacuum from it. Whether he is so punctual, or idk. Remember the arc with mudstone abyss. How did Kevin feel about Charles' son? He disliked him so much, he couldn't accept his existence, that he began to doubt his relationship with Charles when he put him in front of a choice. It was only after the boy solved the problem with mudstone abyss that he decided to give him a chance to accept. Chance. We can only guess how things went further. But given Kevin's nature, his ways of solving problems, his problems in principle, I don't believe that their family is equivalent to Cecil's family. Naturally, I also want to believe that Charles is teaching him to be a good and accepting parent, that their life is beautiful in its own way, but it sounds too beautiful and unrealistic to me. sorry

The victims of abuse (in any relationship) will never come out healthy, and they will not be healthy anymore. Abuse is cyclical and not many people manage to get out of it, and even then not completely

Do you think that Kevin, who survived the abuse, will just let himself go from the past (but already in the present) and will not try to start from the beginning, but under his own supervision? I think their relationship is going to be kind of weird, but I believe in their existence. I don't think he needs to mention strexcorp every time he says something out of the ordinary. I didn't see any other outcome.

And Kevin himself?. Well, I love Kevin, I'm so happy at every au where he's mentioned. I like to joke about his silly nature, I want to hug him, my comfort character (even after such statements) and etc. But I see this character far beyond that. I see him as a person who has gone through a lot of terrible things and is still going through these terrible things. This is a brainwashed person, a victim of abuse, who is an abuser himself. This is a cruel person who goes to his goal, who sees his path as exceptionally correct and does not consider other outcomes of events. He will grow his little self up to be like himself, as any other person would do if they had a chance

I'm okay with the end of the arc, because I can't imagine a picture where Kevin just lets go of the past, where Kevin abruptly realizes all his mistakes, where Kevin will change his worldview, where Kevin won't want to repeat, but on his own behalf The character of black and gray morality moves forward, seeing only one path in front of him, and that is already trodden before him

In conclusion. I liked the arc, again, I liked the end, again, but I think it's too fast. this arc could be made as long as the arch with the university what it is, even longer. Where were we in a hurry? there was so much potential here, but like hh (pls forgive me for such analogy), we were shown only plot episodes and a very fast crumpled end. The end is fire, the way to this end is so-so let's hope that the authors will no longer mention so directly and unilaterally such conflicting topics as "family abuse"

Maybe my thoughts are not quite right, but everyone have their own pov and thats okay

[mr-culper]

I personally believe it is intensely painful for both of these characters to be in the darkness. You can tell it's excruciating them because neither Flint nor Aemond were born to be villains. No one is born to be a villain. I think at some point in life they each found something irrationally comforting in the darkness they descended into. Some kind of grim satisfaction of being in the dark, some kind of bitter gladness that actually comes from so much anger and resentment against the world rejected them. They are wounded so badly, they are in a great deal of pain and so alone the darkness is all they have. On principle, both of them get on the path of: you call me a monster? i'll show you a monster.

In Season 3 of Black Sails, Silver notices an intriguing fact about the darkness. Before that, he killed other character in a rather shocking way: he knocked that man down and crushed his head repeatedly with his metal peg leg. When Flint hears about what Silver has done, he comes to ask him how he is feeling. Silver looks at Flint and says that in all this journey into the dark there is an element he did not expect to find: how good it feels. He had been expecting anything, but certainly not descending into the dark would be so pleasant.

I think, if Flint had no alternative, he couldn't go back and become McGraw again for the same reason: being Flint is pleasant. It wasn't so in the beginning, but it turned out pleasant somewhere in the middle, although near the end Flint could not stand it anymore. He is a man of conscience. He was incredibly tormented by being Flint the entire story. And Aemond cannot go back either, because everything he does, even though it torments him, feels good. He is the Prince Regent now. He can't stop. He is running towards his grave at full speed – he knows it. But it's really pleasant. Rising to power, climbing up to the top, descending into the darkness, not be able to turn it back. Knowing it's bad. Knowing it's terrible. Knowing it's just disgusting. And enjoying it anyway.

It's something that most people have: finding pleasure in cruelty, often even unconsciously. Many try to move away from it. Some lets loose on, some does not. For example, Silver is a character who deliberately averted himself from the darkness in his soul. He has only touched the dark the once, he liked it, but he never wanted to do it again. Silver did everything to avoid being in there. He has his head screwed on right. However, I think only reasonable people do that, or moral ones, or those who have an anchor, I mean, someone or something that can pull them from the bottom at a critical moment. Such people usually try to avoid being in the dark, or not let it get too close.

But.

When someone cuts the ground from under your feet, then no matter how conscionable, moral, prudent you are, it is very easy to fall.

That's how Flint fell. As Aemond did.

I like to draw a parallel between them, there are things that overlap, even though they are very different characters and their pain is not the same. They both forged themselves out of steel, but Flint had to do it very quickly because he lost everything in an instant, he had to transform himself for responding to the circumstances in no time, whereas Aemond forged himself over many, many years. Flint fell down tragedy like a precipice, while Aemond's tragedy swelled little by little until it became unbearable. Flint made himself the very opposite to who he was. Aemond had been changing his inner mosaic from white to black piece by piece, day by day, without appearing to do so.

That's an excerpt from the new episode of the Tea & Rum podcast 'No one is born to be a villain'.

To find more episodes go to Boosty.

Other posts about that.

[fellfirst-fellharder-fight]

Round 2: Fight 6

Kotetsu T. Kaburagi/Barnaby Brooks Jr (Tiger & Bunny) vs James T. Kirk/Spock (Star Trek)

Propaganda under the cut!

Kotetsu T. Kaburagi/Barnaby Brooks Jr (Tiger & Bunny):

My silly little guys I don't want to rant your ear off but that dynamic can be agrued either way because they are rival to lovers 10/10 My favourite pookies

I could rant your ears off with the propaganda for Barnaby Brooks Jr. and Kotetsu T. Kaburagi from Tiger & Bunny but because tumblr asks have a character limit I'll try to keep it brief.

(Spoilers for Tiger & Bunny of course)

They're the definition of fell first x fell harder. Barnaby and Kotetsu are of the rivals to friends to lovers trope, they absolutely despised each other at first, but even when they couldn't stand each other they felt inexplicably drawn to each other.

Barnaby fell first, he was the first to feel something romantic for Kotetsu, warming up to him as soon as episode 3 (when they're deactivating a bomb and Kotetsu refuses to leave him behind on principle he smiles when Kotetsu isn't watching) but he fully acknowledges his feelings in episode 8, when Kotetsu takes a direct hit from a dangerous villain to protect Barnaby. This is seen in the post credits scene as he reminisces of the events of that day and smiles to himself alone in his apartment. When they have a fight in the climax of the first half of the season, the only way the conflict is resolved is by Kotetsu going out of his way to put his trust in Barnaby, and after the day is saved, Barnaby finally allows himself to smile in front of Kotetsu.

Kotetsu fell harder. He was in denial about his feelings for almost all of season 1; he is a widow, and through the series he is shown to not have truly grieved his wife's death, and as of season 1 he is not ready to move on and accept he could have romantic feelings for anyone after Tomoe (his wife), and he is also afraid to fall in love again and lose them too. During the second half of season 1, Barnaby is brainwashed and no longer remembers him, believing Kotetsu was the one to murder a person he was close with. Kotetsu tries everything he can think of to make Barnaby remember him, and when it doesn't work he breaks down (crying in front of another person for the first time in the show) and stops fighting back, he kneels down and lets Barnaby deliver the final blow to him...

Luckily for him, Barnaby remembers just in time! They can go back to pining hell!

But not long after (since the main conflict isn't resolved yet) Kotetsu is fatally wounded, which triggers the most fucking glass biting nail scratching absolute fucking insane Technically Not love confession in which neither of them say "I love you" but it's very clear for anyone with two functioning eyes and a couple braincells that it is indeed a declaration of love. I will link it down here so everyone else can suffer with me. https://youtu.be/CWizW_6AgQY?si=UNsyhF-yJX1bT78r

While not explicitly in a romantic relationship, the creators of the show have said the nature of their bond is "Up to interpretation", which (considering the history of the studio regarding gay relationships) sounds more to me like "Everyone here wants to make them kiss so bad but they'll cancel the show if we do"

Sorry if this was too long

(this would take up too much space so for the ver with images you can go check it out here -mod)

James T. Kirk/Spock (Star Trek):

Kirk fell first, Spock fell harder

[thefandomwritersblog]

Ghost of the Ten

Horizon Forbidden West

Hekarro x OldOne OC

Action/Adventure/Romance/Hurt/Comfort

Chapter 15

Part 3: Ghost of the Ten

~~

"Consistency is the true foundation of trust. Either keep your promises or do not make them." -Roy T Bennett

Hekarro grunts as he pushes through the foliage, his shoulders and arms burning from fighting against the thicket of thorns. Scrapes and cuts cover his skin while sweat sticks to him through the dense humidity of the night. With every step, the moist ground gives beneath him, soft enough for silence but firm enough to keep him upright. Occasional beams of moonlight penetrate through the canopy above and dance on his skin while a shadow darts quickly from tree to tree along the dirt path ahead of him.

He doesn't remember why he's here, chasing this formless shadow through the jungle. The only thing he has is a name that tumbles from his lips in a helpless plea.

"Tarrik!"

The thick vines wrap around him, binding him tightly to a nearby tree. He tugs and pulls, frantically trying to free himself, but only breathlessly struggles in vain. Moonlight illuminates a small clearing, revealing the shadow darting among the trees. A young boy turns to stare at him with an unnerving quiet in his eyes.

"Tarrik, please!!"

The silence is deafening. Tarrik turns and disappears into the dense foliage of the jungle, leaving Hekarro standing alone, howling out into the night.

~~

Dekka settled into the seat next to Hekarro, her bowl of food clattering onto the table, its contents steaming. At the sound, Hekarro's jaw twitched, eliciting a low grumble from him. She glanced sideways at him, her eyes narrowing. “I swear, if I keep finding you asleep anywhere else but your bed, I’m just going to tie you down to it.”

"Blood of the Ten, Hekarro."

Hekarro awoke with a start, nearly slumped over the table, a deep groan of irritation escaping his lips. His eyes were heavy from exhaustion as he found himself face-to-face with Dekka, who was standing over him with one hand resting on her hip and a smirk of amusement stitched across her features. The mess hall was still and quiet; the guards had either left to begin their patrols or were already at their posts elsewhere around the Grove. Rikka, a familiar Lowlander from the same village as Hekarro, hummed quietly to herself as she cleared up the mess left behind by the morning rush.

"It would amuse me to see you try..." Hekarro said with a small smirk as he looked down at his own food, now cold from having been forgotten in his tired haze. He shifted in his seat. "Any changes?"

"Victoria still refuses to eat." Dekka shook her head, worrying and creasing her brows. Hekarro cursed under his breath in frustration.

"It's been days."

"Short of forcing her to eat," she replied. "We can't do much but wait and hope, Chief Hekarro."

As much as he agreed in principle to the idea of letting Victoria make her own decisions about food, the thought of it churned his stomach. In the week since her presence was revealed to his people within the Grove, every time he or Dekka encountered Victoria, she seemed distant and withdrawn. Content to hide away in her room or linger like a wraith around the edges of the Grove, silently observing the passage of the Tenakth, or staring off at the empty space of Anne's Vision. The worst thing was that he didn't know what to do for her. She wouldn't speak with anyone—not Dekka, not Beta, or even him.

Hekarro let out a long sigh and silently reminded himself to take things one step at a time. "And what about the rest of the Tenakth?"

"It appears everyone is following your orders to steer clear of Victoria. Gossip is flying around, but it hasn't grown out of hand yet. Though I fear that won't last for long."

"What do you mean?"

Hekarro turned to watch Dekka carefully as she furrowed her brow. "A messenger arrived from Scalding Spear this morning. Drakka informs us that several Tenakth are making the journey to the Grove with supplies for their loved ones stationed here."

Dread filled Hekarro's chest as he realized what she meant; it was only a matter of time before word about Victoria traveled beyond the Clan Lands. Knowing well that he had no control over rumors, he ran a hand through his hair and silently prayed to The Ten for some modicum of mercy for his sanity in the future.

One thing at a time...

“Thank you, Chaplain.” Hekarro muttered, passing a weary hand over his face. The corners of Dekka's mouth twitched into a small smile as he rose from the stone bench and handed Rikka his half-finished bowl before ducking out of the mess hall into bright mid-morning sunlight. He followed the maw toward the arena and saw Petra, her eyes bright and her dark hair neatly tucked underneath a bandana. Her men were already busy at work, performing repairs and readying the equipment. When she noticed Hekarro, a wide smile spread across her face as she energetically waved at him from across the massive arena floor.

Amused, he watched as she made her way over to him. She huffed and puffed as she ran, laughter spilling from her lips with each breath. As soon as she reached him, she exclaimed brightly, “Morning there, Chief! How are you?

Hekarro dipped his head politely in greeting before looking out over the arena. He hummed softly in appreciation of their efforts. “I see you've made some strides since we last talked."

The Forgewoman responded, "Just about. We've almost completed the set-up of forges in the Oseram Camp near the arena. My team is working quickly to assemble the supports. I sent some to begin extraction at the quarry nearby for future stone work, and others back to Chainscrape to acquire heavy lifting equipment. The transport should take several weeks, but it's far more efficient than building the cranes from scratch. By that time, the arena ought to be ready for the new equipment."

Petra nodded excitedly, hands on her hips, as she too surveyed the progress they had made. “That we did," she said proudly. “Couple more days, and we'll have done enough to start fitting those steel supports I wanted."

"Then you have everything you need to begin the project in full."

Hekarro felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards in relief. While he knew there was still more work to be done, Hekarro took solace in the fact that, as of now, the repairs were going as planned. The tired anxiety from earlier had been replaced with a flickering fire of hope. He met Petra's gaze and gave her a thankful nod.

"Your words bring me some measure of relief, Forgewoman. Thank you for keeping me informed."

"Of course, Chief," she replied with a nod. "You ever got any questions, you know where to find me."

He tracked her movements as she made her way back to the opposite end of the arena and started up his own ascent back to the rear corridors. Pausing at the overlook, he no longer felt the dread this view usually brought him. Instead, that small flicker of hope burned brighter than before, and followed him as he continued his walk. As he turned the corner into the passageway, he was surprised to find Beta standing outside a doorway with a curtain closed, worry lining her face and pulling tight on the constellation of freckles that speckled her cheeks and nose. Her hands were clutched firmly around a bowl of food.

“Victoria, please--" As she reached out to gently draw back the curtain, a sudden thunderous crack against the wall inside made her gasp and stumble backwards.

"Beta, are you alright?"

She look up and smiled weakly at him as he approached, a hand extended to her in concern, "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm trying to get Victoria to eat... anything really. But she won't." Beta exhaled heavily and looked towards the door with a pained expression. "I'm getting really worried."

He felt a deep frown crease his face as he glanced to the door. His heart was heavy with worry, and Victoria's temper and angry refusal to eat only further confirmed his fears. He hated this feeling of helplessness; no matter how hard he tried, he had no idea where to start. Unlike him, she had lost everything: her home, her people; forced to live in an entirely new world that she didn't understand. He couldn't even imagine how alone she felt right now.

"Get out!" Victoria hissed from her bed, pressed against the wall as if she were a cornered animal.

“Let me take over from here, Beta.” He requested, extending his arm for the bowl. Beta gave him an inquisitive glance before surrendering it to him. He bid her farewell with a slight incline of his head and watched as she walked away around the corner. The bowl felt surprisingly weighty in his grasp as the other hand reached out towards the curtain, hesitating only for a moment as he tried to brace himself for whatever was on the other side. Instinct saved him as he entered Victoria's room; he whipped his head back, narrowly avoiding the rock that hit the doorway instead.

He disregarded her as he swept his eyes around the room, bisected by sunlight through the ruined roof and stretching canopy of the jungle. An oppressive sadness seemed to pervade the air, and Hekarro felt its weight on his shoulders. He had only been here for moments, but what toll had days taken on Victoria?

When he turned to look at her, her face was blotchy and red as if she'd been crying nonstop for days. Dark circles lingered beneath her eyes, flickering with the storm of her rage and sorrow. Her hair was disheveled and wild, her mouth pulled into a hateful scowl as her hand moved to brush it back from her face. And yet, despite everything, Hekarro could see she was struggling under the weight of exhaustion.

He tensed, trying to keep his movements slow and steady as he approached the bed. Her scowl deepened as he gently lowered and rested his knee on the mattress while holding out the bowl for her. Her eyes flickered downwards and a myriad of emotions passed over her face.

Hunger.

Sadness.

Anger.

Emptiness.

"You don't listen very well, do you?" Her question was laced with sarcasm as her piercing blue eyes bore into him, refusing to be ignored. Her cheeks were flushed in anger, her lips just slightly parted in exasperation. And he was left completely frozen, stunned by the sheer beauty of her wrath like a distant storm gathering over the western coasts. Chaotic and unstoppable, fearsome and breathtaking in its own right.

Finally finding his voice again, he replied softly, “Only when it suits me. Right now, it would suit me if you'd have something to eat.”

Victoria clenched her jaw and crossed her arms, her voice taking on an icy edge. "I'm not hungry."

Hekarro arched a brow as he stomach betrayed her, growling loudly in protest. A furious blush crossed her cheeks as her hands tightened around her waist, as if sheer force of will could silence its demands.

"I think your stomach disagrees," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light in hopes of lessening the tension between them. But Victoria only scowled harder, her eyes narrowing at him in annoyance as she uttered something under her breath and crossed her arms in defiance. Hekarro huffed at that, "I could always spoon feed you."

"You wouldn't dare."

He leaned closer to her, heard the soft gasp escape her parted lips as the storm in her eyes swirled like a violent tempest. “Are you willing to find out?”

Hekarro wanted her to understand how serious he was about this and prayed to the Ten that she wouldn’t call his bluff, but the defiance in her eyes shone bright.

"Try me."

Hekarro’s dark eyes narrowed as Victoria met his gaze. With a surge of determination, Hekarro moved quickly and pinned her wrists together using a single hand. She protested furiously but he ignored her - and his guilt - in favor of tilting the bowl to her lips in offering.

“Stubbornness will not help you here.” he warned quietly, watching Victoria intently as she glared into his eyes. She opened her mouth to protest once more, but grimaced as he tilted the bowl more. Despite her earlier fight, a small sigh escaped her lips as he fed her, steadily pouring mouthful after mouthful down her throat. Hekarro could see the frustration and defeat in her eyes as she reluctantly swallowed each bite. Guilt tugged at him once more, knowing that he was making her do something she didn't want to do. But he also knew that he couldn't let her starve herself.

It wasn't until the bowl was nearly empty that Victoria finally pulled away from him. She leaned back against the wall, tired but with a little more life and color in her face. There was a shimmer of tears in her eyes as she gazed at the distant wall. Hekarro turned to watch the door, gripping the bowl in his hands.

"I am sorry." He said sincerely, "I didn't want to force you, but I couldn't stand by and watch you hurt yourself like this."

"Why do you care so much?" She whispered, though he could still hear the venom in her question. "You don't even know me."

"That's true." He admitted, "But that doesn't mean I want you to suffer. Even if it is self inflicted."

"Why?"

“Sometimes it can feel easier to give in to the weight of guilt and regret,” Hekarro muttered as gazed to the wall opposite the bed. “Letting it pull you further and further away from shore like a relentless riptide until you have no choice but to let it swallow you whole. And even then you welcome the emptiness it brings, because its far better than living in a world with so much hurt in it."

He squeezed his eyes shut and fought against the overwhelming rush of pain that crashed over him like a tidal wave. He refused to acknowledge the screams ringing in his ears or the ghost of the intense heat gnawing at his feet. Instead, he focused on pushing down the guilt and regret threatening to consume him.

"No one deserves to drown like that. Not even you, Victoria." Slowly rising from the bed, bowl in hand, Hekarro he made to leave, but he couldn't resist stealing one last glance at her. He hesitated when saw her watching him with tears glistening in her tempestuous eyes. A fear and timid uncertainty; a vulnerability he hadn't seen since the night he shattered her world for the second time. He gripped the bowl tightly in his hand, gazed at the lonesome room she shut herself away in and exhaled a soft sigh.

"Will you join me on a walk later today?" The question caught them both off guard, Hekarro having no idea where it had come from, but he swallowed back the sudden onslaught of nervousness as Victoria regarded him warily. He could only imagine the sudden shift in her thoughts from being forcefully fed by him to now being invited on a walk.

"If you'd prefer not to, that's perfectly fine," he added after an uncomfortable pause, practically rambling, "You've been in here for days and I thought a change of scenery might do some good. There's a lake nearby that's quiet, and-"

"Yeah," Victoria said, interrupting him with a hint of surprise in her voice. As if she couldn't quite believe she'd agreed to it. Another moment of quiet followed before she spoke again, shifting on the bed. "Sure, I guess. Whatever."

Hekarro gave a subtle nod and exited the room, feeling a flush of warmth spreading across his cheeks that slowly turned into a soft smile. The sensation stayed with him as he returned to the mess hall and carried on with the rest of his day.

[jay-j-otter]

hey hey, do you mind sharing your akiyama headcanons? just saw ur tags talking abt how theyre dark and im very interested!!!! your fem ryuaki fuels me in ways i cannot describe and i havent even played dead souls FHKGJG and your tanimuras have my whole entire heart!!!

Oh wow first of all THANK YOU for the ask!! It's been only couple days since I've discovered I've had them disabled all this time so I'm very happy I noticed it before you found my blog (,:

I've already complained a bit on twt that when I've started to write down ryuaki headcanons, it prompted me to make a 35+ pages google doc with meta on both of them 😅 It pushed me to write more fun drafts tho, so all is well, but it won't fit in this post for sure ahbfght

But ofc, I will share a little about Shun specifically. (TW for implied SA)

Akiyama... I have complicated feelings about him, because on the one hand, he got betrayed by his closest people, lost all the standing in society and lived as a homeless person for a long time, and that's a big trauma to have. But on the other... He's got back up by a miracle, and now he's trying to recreate the miracle for others. He assumes the role of a judge for other people while himself being too young, too flawed, having black and white morals.

(In Y4 I downright despised Akiyama when he refused a loan to an abused woman on the basis that she didn't want to apply for sex work, but in the same substory gave some cringefail guy 4 chances to complete the test just because it was amusing.)

But I've just completed Y5, and it gave me lots of food for thought.

First of all, from what I see, Shun here was written (rewritten?) as a more sympathetic character. For example, now when it's implied that he's gonna make some woman "use her body" for the loan, it means he's sending her to work on the construction site. Well, alright. I'll take the bad taste joke over previous cases.

There's also an important quest when Akiyama meets his former boss, who not only initially fired him on false accusations, which started his downfall, but also married his ex-fiancée. And Akiyama finally admits that at first, he wanted to use his position as a loan shark to be selfish and to get revenge, but got disgusted with himself after seeing some humanity and principles in the former boss.

So, here finally comes self-awareness about his actions. Interesting tidbit.

Another big part of the character building we see now: when he is alone in Osaka, without Hana around, he's a complete mess. His new office is dirty, he barely eats some instant ramen and clearly just uses the place to escape Tokyo and the responsibilities he created himself. If in Y4 we saw him within his element, managing Elise and doing loan business (with a messy table because he's just soooo quirky and lazyyy \s), then in Y5 we get to see a bit of what's inside his head. And it's not pretty.

He's clearly distancing himself - from Hana and his new yakuza friends, because they have their own lives to care about. (Tanimura too mayhaps, but this is a separate friendship that I also like to talk about a lot)

Aaand he escapes to his ugly nook to have his ugly depressive thoughts. Can't let them witness it, can he? They'd lose all the respect for him.

At the same time, he throws himself into helping Haruka with passion, because that's the thing he actually cares about, for the first time in a couple years. (He also provides her with some much-needed parenting about the importance of being selfish, because, being raised by Kiryu, she's entirely too self-sacrificing.)

And suddenly - he's lively and energetic again, he's bouncing off other characters, he risks his life for what he deems right, he's helpful, organizing, charming. He's everywhere.

(But he's also afraid to acknowledge that he's got too close to people again. So he's ready to literally die for them and Haruka's dream, but avoids calling them friends, settling for "acquaintances")

Not much needed to imagine that, after everything settles down, he falls apart again. Because in his head he's never really needed or too important for the people around. They carry on with their life and plans. Such as Eri, Arai, Yasuko. Even Hana got fed up and left at some point, and has been keeping him at an arm's length since. (Good for her, that was unhealthy)

He's not only not that interesting, his trauma is "ugly" (by his self-admission). It's not heroic and it's very mundane. There's no clear villains to blame, like with Majima's torture in Y0.

It's just - waking up is hard. Akiyama can't see the point in much of what he's doing anymore. Money is just paper for him now, they might have bought him the freedom of choice, but somehow it didn't help. Even with all the financial help to struggling people he can't buy healing for himself. Most alive he felt actually was when he lost the money briefly in Y4 - it made him work to get them back again.

Now it gets a bit tricky, hence the TW.

I think that a lot of things about him actually make sense, if while living on the streets, he had it bad enough to the point of selling himself for food. Like, I don't want to make it into torture porn or downplay the traumatic experience of homelessness overall, but something for sure ruined him and his self-perception. That's why he's bouncing between playing a self-righteous entity and hating himself.

Aside from his crippling depression from all this being shunned deep inside and not addressed, there's the attitude about sex work I've mentioned he has in Y4. He is distancing himself from the situation yet again. A little bit of a trick to calm his mind: "If I treat it like every other job, it won't feel as dehumanizing applied to myself". And also: "Well, I was not above doing that! I was not too proud to do it! Why should anyone else be?"

Now, of course he doesn't want to subject his former boss (and, by extension, Eri) to the same hardships. Even though he is, actually, a bit of a cruel person.

So here's Akiyama in Y4-5. Not super pretty and kind of greasy, but nevertheless charming, gallant and crazy smart. Fighting and dancing and singing and networking equally well. VERY annoying, because he considers himself an expert in all things he read about even once (I also hc him eidetic memory, which makes it worse). And with every year getting more secluded and miserable.

That being said, fem ryuaki has slightly different tone even in all-fem AU because of gender expectations. Akiyama's upbringing for example.

I hc his parents seeing him as this very "proper" son, encouraging his risk-taking neurodivergent activity ONLY when it helped to build onto that image. They happily bragged about their son - with prestigious business degree, good banking job and pretty fiancée. But ofc, when it's all came crashing down, they didn't want to hear about him anymore. Nowadays they acknowledge his existance with some disdain, because they care about reputation more then about him or his wealth. And he has some "disgusting jobs, no respectable friends and no wife".

(It's all kinda complicated from both sides, mb I'll get deeper into it in fanfic that I'm writing)

(And forgive me for saying this, but fem Akiyama is more interesting for me to write in this narrative, because she needed to balance fitting "proper little quiet Japanese woman" with her loud banking career, and while she was always openly feminine, she was never proper or quiet "enough". And now she's "not enough" among actual living legends.)

Well, that's all I have to say for now!

I'm always open for further questions and discussions 😊

[seshaudio]

Reviving this tumblr page 10 years down the line, to post some updates on my upcoming Omnidirectional speaker project

In brief: I want to design and build a set of speakers that play high-fidelity, omnidirectional sound, for the primary purpose of running UK/Jah Shaka style dub and reggae sessions.

I'm currently most set on Awassa Sound System, but really like the relevance and cheekiness of Omniscience Sound/Hifi. I think Awassa has a better ring to it, and an air of mystique, even.

Here's a breakdown of the plan so far:

As for order of operations: Step 1:

Make a cheap and cheerful prototype of the MBL drivers. I just want to cut my teeth on the hardest part, to start building familiarity with the materials, principles, and manufacturing processes that will be involved in the build of the larger, final version.

If my friend who's into CAD and CNCing is willing, have him whip up some test lenses.

Use recycled drivers from old, cheap speakers as much as I can to keep initial exploratory costs down.

Find an active cossover unit that I can use to test different crossover frequencies with the different driver designs

Step 1 will be considered finished when I either have a working, not-awful-sounding radialstrahler, or have decided to abandon that aspect and am comfortable focusing on other methods for making omnidirectional sound.

Step 2:

Work on the other parts of the tower, namely the horn-loaded lens tweeter, the mid-bass lens, and the lower cabinet (lots of flexibility for internal design with the cabinet).

The cabinet (and maybe the horn lenses) will require learning to use a speaker simulation software

The bass scoops can come later, as there's not a lot of point building small/low-power scoops

As soon as I have a sense of what the appropriate crossover frequencies will be, order a custom dub preamp such as the RasFX Mini Pre

Get a set of relatively affordable power amps to drive the whole thing. 4 channels for a single tower to start with

Step 2 will be considered complete when I can gift (for cost of materials) a MK1 pair of these speakers to a friend of mine who's into sound system too - and of course build a set for myself!

Step 3:

Assuming everything goes smoothly in Step 2, work on scaling everything up. Size, power levels, etc. The rough goal is to be able to power a party with around 100-200 people. Maybe more, eventually

Try to figure out a way to be able to retain the functionality of a dub preamp for playing reggae, but also run the system in stereo for when I want to play

Build a set of scoop style subwoofers. The more, the bigger, the better!

Step 3, and thus the main body of the project will be considered complete when I have a fully functional, high-power sound system able to at least impress, though maybe not directly 'compete with', the current generation of younger sound systems like Indica Dubs, Ital Power, Creation Rebel, King Majesty, Sinai, and other such outfits.

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Step 4:

If everything up until this point has gone very well, and I feel confident with the various technologies, try to develop the designs to a point where it can stand as a single 'totem pole' style tower that can play to a decently-sized crowd of people.

I picture taking something like that to e.g. Boomtown Festival, and decorating it in all sorts of wacky space-age or mystical art. I think the fung shui of a single, central sound source would be really unique in a festival setting.

The big barrier is that omnis, when places inside, rely on walls and surfaces to create the feeling of 'omnipresence'. Outside, I'm not sure that'd work at all, let alone

Step 4 being complete would inherently require my sound to be powerful enough, high-enough-fidelity, and well-known enough to be included when people talk about "well-established" sound systems. The totem pole thing is a bit of a gimmick, let's be honest.

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Imaginary step 5: If my work on this project can inspire more people to think outside the proverbial speakerbox when it comes to building reggae sound systems, I'd be a happy camper!

[antiantiantiantiantiantianti]

I cannot believe this is still going on. I really thought when the fake ex drama dropped that it will only last for few weeks and people will move on. Actually what am I talking about people on these tea blogs keep bringing up years old stale tea like any of that matters all the time. Regardless of that, harassing people over this drama is absolutely insane behaviour. I don’t like any of those three anymore but enough is enough. Wtf do people get from continuing harassing them? Leave them alone, they are actually trying to move on from this, let them. Sending someone death threats over petty tumblr drama (or over anything tbh) should give you vip ticket to the nuthouse, wtf is wrong with people. I mean those three deserved to be called out at first, call them out for their hypocrisy and add some other choice words and move on or just block them but that’s were it should’ve ended. They are no innocent victims, we saw those private messages (I agree those should have never been posted though) they are bunch of catty bitches but that doesn’t excuse what people have been doing to them. This is so insane. What’s especially insane is constantly harassing those three (or it seems mostly Diva), doxxing them, blaming them for everything, lying and then threatening THEM with police????

Unrelated to this but funny thing is even with all the fake exes, maybe some real ones, crazy tea blogs and weird stalkers, this isn’t even close to being the most insane fandoms I’ve been part of. Hell it’s not even in top 5. Looks like I only enjoy things that attracts lunatic fandoms lmao.

What stands out most in this entire debacle is the clear inconsistency in how personal information was handled. Despite being part of the same trio, only Halo had her full name, address, and phone number leaked - repeatedly - across multiple blogs.

There’s no excuse for that level of doxxing, especially when the individual in question wasn’t even responsible for the issue at hand. Her only “crime” was extending politeness to someone the fandom had collectively decided to ostracize due to a fanfiction.

The fact that this behavior was either ignored or excused by several tea blogs is deeply troubling. It suggests that accountability within this space is more about politics than principle. Until that changes, this corner of the fandom will remain fractured - not because of one person, but because of a culture that rewards cruelty over clarity.

^