#and like some hurt/comfort i guess

[snekdood]

There are genuinely people online that instead of actually bringing people to the left, at this point, would prefer that anyone who was previously not on the left but who tries to be *stays* outside of the left, because i guess its just easier to comprehend when the world is put into little shitty boxes you labeled for them instead of actually thinking for once and having the nuance to understand them. Like thats wild to me that theres people who would prefer you not be on the left or not try to be. Yall GENUINELY do not care about advocating for your side politically in any capacity. Its LITERALLY just a clique you've found yourself in. And theres nothing progressive about that or being exclusive, wtf do you think this shit is, a night club? Grow the fuck up, honestly.

[seventh-district]

Sam: "Look at me. Hey- look at me a second. I know. I know you're tough. I know how strong you are. You have every right to be proud of that. But being able to handle somethin' doesn't mean you should have to. Least of all when I'm right here trying to help. Please let me help. If not for you then for me, because I don't like knowin' you're hurtin', especially when there's somethin' I can do about it."

Me, shaking my head, fighting back literal tears: "B-but it's gonna give you another headache!"

[creativesplat]

Stealing/ Affection: Link steals some time with Mipha after his death, and before his spirit rejoins his body in the shrine of resurrection.

[cave-monkey]

A fic!

Summary: It's Stone Monkey's first night with his new troop. Except the troop doesn't see how this is their problem. Alternatively: The Six-Eared Macaque teaches the Little Stone Monkey how to build a nest. Some things are more than instinct; some things require a little care.

[fallout4reacts]

25 pages (10k word) into my next one shot and I’m FINALLY getting to the hurt part of my hurt/comfort brainworm… who knows how much longer it will be until the comfort part hits…

[sheepgirlmaidtummy]

i think i have this fear of being seen as a liar i think. like. everyone does it. and as a kid i stole stuff all the time and the way that was dealt with kinda just fucked with my head. do people see my kindness and my compassion as manipulation? am i read as someone trying to tear down the walls so i can get something while ur guard is down?. idk why someone thinking that of me makes me feel so miserable like. what if they were right? ive made mistakes before.. whos to say they arent right about this time? i dont want to stop being kind but it scares me to think about that.

[luvsavos]

i am once again apologizing for my lack of activity/responsiveness

my childhood cat passed away a few days ago which has just been more stuff on top of everything else for me to deal with to stress me out and upset me

i'll try to get back to stuff. Eventually. as soon as i can</3

[nexus-nebulae]

As a system based around trauma ourselves, we will always always make our blog a safe place for plurals of all forms, be it endo, willo, spiritual, proto, or anything and everything and each combination. When we were young and scared and didn't know who we were, it was not the system medicalists that took us in- it was not DID-centric communities that took us in- it was tulpamancy communities. It was those people who taught us that this did not have to be wholly scary, that we could feel comfortable in ourselves. It was those people who guided us through the experience of finding out we were never willogenic to begin with. It was those people who gave us real resources on how to move on from trauma, instead of insisting that if we were showing real evidence of healing and growth or even felt happy ever we were never really plural or traumatized to begin with.

Our whole life we have been surrounded by people who refused to believe our identities and experiences at every turn imaginable. We spent 20 years with undiagnosed physical illnesses because everyone told us we were lying about our pain. We spent 10 years being called a "theyfab" and a "straight infiltrator" because we weren't a masciline enough trans man who was open about being aromantic and asexual. We spent 8 years moving from psychiatrist to psychiatrist because each new one straight up did not believe certain disorders existed, let alone that we could have them. We spent 5 years fighting for a place to fit in, because when we were amnesiac enough to not even remember we were plural, we were called fakers.

We have never been granted the right to self-determination. We have never been believed about any of our experiences. We have never been accepted for who we actually are, not until we took matters into our own hands and forged our own safe spaces out of blood and sinew. It was draining. It was exhausting. It was traumatizing. And we will never, ever, ever dare to do that to another person on this planet. Never again. You do not deserve the pain we went through. You do not deserve to feel hated for who you are. You deserve to feel safe.

Plurals of all forms are always welcome here.

[verityblack]

Cannot believe I actually went to the hurt/comfort and angst tags the other day when I could’ve just gone to the Tim Drake centric fics for a good cry because Holy Fuck there’s some sad shit in here

[6mayhem]

anyway i need to hang out with my brother again he is the one person who i am pretty sure knows literally everything about me so he's the only person i trust that i can absolutely not disappoint. nothing i can do could be worse than the sum of everything i've been doing to that poor man (and him to me) the past 19 years

[sheltershock]

Being sick is the worst. I can’t imagine how hard it would be for a psychic…or can I? 

Sasha already has a canon aversion to germs. I wouldn’t say he’s a hypochondriac, but he’d probably consider getting sick one of the worst things that can happen to him. The most dreadful part is the removal of his bodily autonomy. He's fine with smoking cigarettes, and is aware that they’re bad, but that’s a choice he’s making about his body. He did not choose for someone to come into his shared space sick, spread their germs around, and now he has the suffer the painful consequences of their actions. Absolutely not. Since he can’t really police sick people though he’s really conscious about germs and sanitation. He probably casually has boxes of disposable face masks just in case he has to encounter a sick person, and his aesthetic lets him get away with it for the most part without anyone suspecting anything offensive. But when he does get sick it’s him drifting in and out of consciousness trying to work from home, failing, and then succumbing to exhaustion. Lots of loss of productivity guilt.  

Sasha never thought he’d have to take care of anyone while they’re sick, after all that’s what hospitals are for, and he chose to not work in a hospital. But then at some point after they moved in together, Milla eventually got sick. Honestly his first thought was to leave and stay in a hotel until she got better. She said she’d be fine and that she can take care of herself anyway. But they’re together, and seeing Milla upset/unwell makes him…uncomfortable. Plus, he’s probably already been exposed anyway so…he chose to stay. He moved into the living space  for the foreseeable future, keeping everything as disinfected as possible and left the bedroom to serve as a quarantine. Milla was initially surprised to wake up to see Sasha still there, knowing what he’s like, but was ultimately happy by it. 

As a caretaker, Milla is used to germs. She’s pretty much ready to be a nurse to whoever for however long it takes for them to recover from their sickness. She keeps track of medicine and administration times, food and drinks, cleanliness, even just being nearby and available for emotional needs. She’s got everything under control, so there’s nothing to worry about. She applies the same philosophy as herself being sick: you just need to slow down and rest up, darling.

Milla, however, was not expecting that she wouldn’t really receive the same level of care from Sasha she gives to everyone else when they’re sick. He’d almost never be in the room with her, no matter how many times she’d try to convince him. He’d happily talk to her through telepathy but it wasn’t really the same to her. She had the romantic idea of her feverishly speaking her mind as her lover grasped her hand from her bedside, like in romantic comedies. And even if they both ended up catching the same illness at least they could stay with each other in painful solidarity. Sasha did not find this fantasy funny nor romantic. Whenever he was in the room with her, he always had a medical mask and disposable gloves on. But that was a rare sight after she kept trying to grasp his wrist to convince him to stay with her. She completely understands why he wouldn’t, but it still hurt. 

Instead of bringing out food or drinks, Milla would wake up to bowls on the bedside table and glasses of water. It initially took her a few hours and several micro naps to realize the glass hadn’t actually become empty despite how much she’d drink. Medicine would be laid out nicely with handwritten notes with instructions and timecards which listed out the previous times she’d woken up to take them. The washcloths on her forehead, around her neck and wrapped around her wrists hadn’t dried out yet.

Milla considers getting sick as a sign from the universe or just her body that she needs to slow down and take care of herself. Her body is looking for her! And since she’s pretty active and generally healthy, Milla doesn’t get sick very often, which only serves to prove her own mindset. She doesn’t have any problems with taking those sick days off, sleeping most of the day, watching TV, having soup and warm drinks…she just wishes she felt like doing any of those things. The aches and pains just make her really clingy to anyone willing to give her the time of day, willing to talk their ear off. She doesn't enjoy being alone for long periods of time when she’s well, and she especially doesn't like it when she’s sick. And in the delirium that comes with a fever, her control over her own mind slips.

Fever dreams mock her pain as the Nightmares twist and tangle her past and present emotions into a living hell. While technically someone could go in there and defeat all her Nightmares, they’d just reform quicker than it’s worth to get rid of them. Her fatigue from the illness has her subconscious mostly taking the reins rather than her waking mind. And as a result,  the regeneration time is insane as her memories fire off in jumbled slideshows some people would refer to as dreams. As much as she’d like to spend all her time sick staying up with the hypnotic static of a TV screen, the stable pages of a book or the allure of a new conversation, she has to return to that world eventually. There are few things that can alleviate her Nightmares on good days, and even less on her worst ones. But sometimes, despite her illness, Sasha will climb in with Milla and hold her while she sleeps. 

She’d stir amongst feverish dreams where party guests shrink and don the distorted screaming faces of people long lost. Beside frigid, hissing flames she’d feel sheets and blankets she’s under shift, and hear mumbles about how sticky the linen is with lukewarm sweat. And as she opens her eyes she’d see her upper body and head be moved so a pair of arms securely wrap themselves around her shoulders and waist. Another shiver would slide down her spine. Boiling parts of her body that were locked away under the blankets would be exposed to the cruel air conditioned exterior. 

But she’d feel the warmth wrapped around her upper body from the new embrace and yawn. Tears would well in her eyes from the pulsating rhythm down her neck, and her lover would shudder, being all too knowledgeable about the germs being released as she opened her mouth. A shaky hand would find its way to the side of her head. She coughed, quickly grasping onto the much cleaner fabric of her lover’s clothes. But as she eased her breathing she’d feel a slow, soothing stroking sensation ever so lightly on the surface of her scalp, through her hair, and to the bare skin of her neck. 

Her eyelids would grow heavy again. But unwilling to return the fiery hellscape currently commandeering her own party, she’d forcibly grasp them open again. She’d yawn again, and feel the hand combing through her hair twitch– just for a second. But Sasha is here. She allows her vision to fall to black, and just focuses on feeling the rise and fall of his chest and the slightly faster heart rate. Like the lull of a moving train, she’d drift off and her dreams would be a little less worse. Faces become transparent. Frostbitten, charred wallpaper is more vibrant. The vocals of the music fall to murmurs. The real world still calls. Still hearing the hum of the air conditioner, feeling the rise and fall akin to warm ocean waves and the scent of something she can’t quite put her finger on through her stuffy nose, but she knows smells good. 

She hums lightly, about to say something, but the vibrations only make the soreness worse. She opens her mouth, before closing it and burying her face farther into his chest. She swallows and her throat burns. A weight from the back of her head tilts towards her face and everything starts to feel more distant. She clutches the fabric harder. It twists in her grimy fingers. 

The arm around her waist shifts as a hand reaches up to cusp the side of her jawline. With one arm around her back and the other resting over her breast, she sighs into another yawn. Exhaling softly, her grip loosens as her fingers relax and rests into the mild heat of a warm body. And her mind does too. 

For a brief moment she looks through her eyes again. The blankets bear different patterns. Her arms are wrapped around a pillow, but it’s just as soft. Light pours into the hallway from a widening door frame. The mirror inside the hallway bathroom is completely fogged up. An arm stretches into view as the light disappears with a click. Milla’s eyes close and she can hear the kettle hiss as she drifts off again. 

[moonsfantasyworld]

dont mind me

mourning again the train wrack poppy playtime became

[iwakuraz]

everytime I think even just a little bit that I'm starting to sort of get better at speaking aloud, somebody will say something horrible to me about my voice and ruin everything

[moonchild-in-blue]

Why are box braids so damn hard to do it yourself. I have a renewed and greater respect for my DIY people 💙

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia

So looking forward to Tradewinds. Just curious, does it end on a cliffhanger? And it does will there be a sequel? Because I tend to feel less anxious when I know beforehand before going into a fic. Thank you!

Hi anon!

Tradewinds doesn't end on a cliffhanger, the main storyline is resolved.

There are some open endings for some of the other characters, which suggest that it can definitely have a sequel or other parts to the series, but it will mostly depend on how people feel about the first book!

But yeah, no cliffhanger! It has a happy/hopeful ending. :)

[dandelion-wings]

Kaeya and Diluc any of them?

"Any of them" provided far too many choices, so I rolled on a random number generator and got 36! Which leads very easily into one of my favorite tropes. :> Warnings for torture, in generalities, and drowning (and some burning), in specific!

ETA: Now archived, with edits, on AO3.

---

It should have been the branding that made Diluc break.

But the thing is, he knows that Kaeya can *take* burns. He can still remember it all too well: Kaeya, sprawled on the wet cobblestones, his breathing harsh with pain but not a sound but its rattle escaping. He'd looked up at Diluc and all the agony in that gaze had been at the fact of the flames, that Diluc had raised them in the first place, not at the touch of them licking against his skin. He hadn't made a sound the entire time Adelinde had been bandaging him.

He hadn't made a sound when the hot iron touched his skin, either, not the first time, nor the second, not even when they'd come around hours later and laid it cross-wise across the old burns. Diluc had watched through the bars as he breathed slow and hoarse and bit through his lip and refused to scream for his tormentors. There was a strange, terrible pride at knowing they couldn't do worse to Kaeya than he himself had done.

It wasn't the branding. It was the water.

The ice on the water, more to the point. Kaeya's Vision is locked away somewhere else in this hellish little pit of Fatui villainy, likely with Diluc's own. Neither of them have any chance of using them, at that distance. But Diluc's breath still steams in the air when he watches them brand Kaeya, sniggering together about more and more profane suggestions of what marks to leave on him and where. And the tub of water they haul in afterward ices over when they shove Kaeya's head in there.

He fights that, too, the way he hadn't fought the branding, and not just because they have to loosen his bindings more to shove his head under. Diluc watches him struggle fruitlessly under the Vanguard's gauntlet as the hulking Fatuus digs fingers into his hair and pushes down. Diluc watches with his heart in his throat as Kaeya rolls his shoulders, jerks against the ties on his wrists, tries to surge up onto his knees and gets slammed brutally back down and under the water. Ice crackles over the surface of the water with such speed that the Vanguard yelps in surprise.

Yelps and yanks Kaeya's head back up to break it, then shoves him under again. But it's enough time for Diluc to catch his wide eye and his open mouth, the way he'd been gasping for breath in those few seconds before he went back under. He might still have been breathing in on that second shove. Diluc imagines him choking under the merciless pressure of the Vanguard's hand and feels ill.

The branding had hurt him. This could *kill* him, and they might not even mean to do it.

Every second they hold Kaeya's head under feels like a year. Diluc measures it out in heartbeats, coming quicker and quicker as they keep him under. He's trained himself to hold his own breath for a long time under adverse conditions, to endure the growing ache in his lungs past when most people break and gasp for air whether it's there or not. Can Kaeya come anywhere close to matching him? Is he still struggling not to breathe, or is he starting to aspirate water?

Could it freeze there, in his throat or lungs, his Vision's distant response to his panic only killing him faster?

After a breathless eternity, the Vanguard starts to straighten, grunts in annoyance, and brings his other fist down to smash the ice before yanking Kaeya's head up again. There's icicles wound into his hair, a thin sheen of frost on his cheeks, and he's gasping for air, a horrible, wheezing sound, between hollow coughing. Half-melted ice slides from his mouth.

"What do you think, Darknight Hero?" the Bracer who'd been watching this asks, turning to Diluc for the first time since he and his friend brought the tub into the room. Diluc can't see it under his mask, but the sneer is audible. "Does he need a little longer next time?"

Diluc watches Kaeya swallow, draw in another breath, and try to suppress the coughing long enough to give him a look of warning. He'd given Diluc that look yesterday, when the hot iron came out. Or maybe he's even going for the devil-may-care smile from the first day, when it had just been a pair of Cincin Mages with some paltry knives. He can't manage either; he swallows and then doubles over as best as he can with the Vanguard's hand still in his hair, that awful cough rattling out of him again.

Water in his lungs, Diluc thinks grimly, if it *is* water and not still ice. Which means he'll be even less able to hold his breath through a second time around.

"You'll kill him," he warns them.

The Bracer shrugs. "We'll take that risk," he says, flicking a hand at the Vanguard.

Who shoves Kaeya under again. Ice crackles as it refreezes, and Diluc's own breath catches. He bites back his roar of protest--they know from past encounters that he'll bend more for another's sake than his own, but they don't need to know how close he is to breaking right now. His own studious neutrality had put an end to the first day's torture, and the second, once they knew it wasn't creating the leverage they wanted. If he shows that this is affecting him, they'll double down.

He holds his own breath. Counting seconds is impossible with his heartbeat rabbiting in his ears, but if Kaeya *has* trained himself (and anyone who lives on a lake should; he'd discussed with Jean once, in their years as captains together, the thought of mandatory training), then he may well be able to hold out as long as Diluc would. He holds his breath and watches as ice crawls up the Vanguard's now-soaked gauntlet and freezes over the water on the floor. He holds his breath and keeps himself still and tells himself his lungs aren't aching, that Kaeya's twitching under the Vanguard's grip isn't becoming more and more fitful.

They'll pull him out any time now. They have to.

Diluc gasps for breath. He has no choice; he can't hold his breath a second longer. And he *has* trained for that, and he doesn't have water, or ice, in his lungs.

"I'll give you what you want," he growls at the Bracer, hoarse and breathless, surging to his feet and gripping the bars. "Anything at all. But *let him go*."

"Fine by me," the Vanguard says, hauling Kaeya up. He dangles limply from the Vanguard's hand, ominously still.

"If he's dead-"

"See for yourself." In three quick strides the Vanguard is in front of Diluc's cell. He tosses Kaeya into the one beside it, flinging him up against the bars that separate them.

Kaeya tumbles down at the foot of the bars like a ragdoll tossed against a wall. His head cracks audibly against the floor, the sound made all the worse by the ice in his hair shattering. His breath is thin and wheezing, but he *is* breathing. Diluc scrambles over to kneel down where he can reach through the bars and put his hands on Kaeya's chest, feeling its faint rise and fall, pushing as much of the faint heat of his own distant Vision as he can through his hands into that rubbery, cold skin.

Now the Fatui know exactly where to twist his arm to get whatever it is they want. On the other hand, Diluc tells himself, now they have a reason to keep Kaeya alive. He can work with that.