#let's just say ideas are percolating...

[tonyglowheart]

"Does Shen Qiao even like Yan Wushi?"

I feel like it may be relatively easy for people to pick out "what does Yan Wushi like about Shen Qiao / what does YWS get out of yanshen." but I think a criticism/line of thought I see around is people struggling with "well what does Shen Qiao get out of all of this?" and like, "does SQ even like YWS, what with how YWS annoys him and gets him angry all the time."

But I think that actually is the crux of their relationship, lol. Because if you think about it, to everyone else, Shen Qiao is this lofty ideal, this untouchable immortal/仙, maybe even this obstacle or goal to conquer or shoot down.

Who else treats him casually and teases him and pokes at him to get emotional reactions out of him because they like that about him?

If he wants to seek people who treat him with respect and reverence, he just has to step out into the city square - hell, he just has to travel out and random people he meets are likely to treat him with that sort of dazzled awe or reverence too (we literally see this happen several times in the course of the novel).

So yeah, I think joking not joking, YWS makes him angry and feel Emotions and he likes that, YWS is enrichment for him, YWS pushes his buttons and his boundaries but reframing that it's pushing him out of his comfort zone and like hardening him off to the elements and realities of the world like a gardener with plants out of the greenhouse. But also, YWS treats him like a person, like a man, and not like Shen-daozun, Shen-daozhang, Shen-zhangjiao. To Yan Wushi, Shen Qiao is Shen Qiao. (and he loves to tease the shit out of him hehe (￣▽￣) )

CONVERSELY! This also gives Shen Qiao a space to *be* Shen Qiao. With Yan Wushi, he does not have to be Shen-daozun, Shen-daozhang, Shen-zhangjiao. He does not have to always be magnanimous and generous and a bastion of righteousness. These are in his nature, yet, but it's not ALL of his nature - he is, after all, still a man, a human, with human emotions -- including the full breadth of human emotions. Yes Yan Wushi annoys him and he shows it, but it's specifically BECAUSE of that that they are closer than him and anyone else in the world. He can "be himself" around Yan Wushi, he can get worked up and be petty and be snippy, and it's fine and won't cause catastrophes or undesired splashdown sociopolitical effects.

But also, he (lets himself?) get worked up by Yan Wushi - they HAVE that level of intimate understanding with each other where they can be like this and not have feelings hurt in any irreparable way. This isn't something that SQ does (lets himself do?) with just anyone, which we see throughout the novel reflected in his internal narration and comportment. So really, the fact that he DOES get annoyed with YWS shows that they are on a different, more "real" level with each other than SQ is with anyone else.

And like, they didn't get there in a day, sure, but imo we definitely see through the novel how they get there, so imo, the yanshen relationship is incredibly justified.

(I also say this bc I think literally every "I've connected the two dots" moments I've had in my reread, I would metaphorically flip the page only to be met with that connection I'd made spelled out on the page by MXS lmao. Like... yeah okay MXS *shakes your hand* you know your stuff. oh and also because I do think there may be some level of skepticism about yanshen esp from SQ's side floating around lol, but like... MXS did the legwork! yes chapter 45 happened, yes YWS never "apologizes" with words, but that doesn't mean that they don't share a deep mutual understanding of themselves and each other by the end, nor that they haven't moved past the events of literally 83 chapters ago, 96 if you count the extras -- a whole literal two-thirds of the novel ago. Like, I know we piss on the poor here and many educational systems around the world are in shambles these days, but work on developing reading comprehension skills, pls :') )

(lmao rip this post got long AGAIN. well, hopefully at least some people are reading all of this lol.)

[wheneverfeasible]

Because I’m terrible and the plots won’t leave me alone, I’ve now got an idea based on this post about a demon who feasts on pain and suffering being a medical practitioner for the chronically and terminally ill and the patients fully loving it. And then my brain rot had to say “make it Steddie” because I’ve lost all control of my life.

—

cw: terminal illness, minor and major character death (with a happy ending tho)

But imagine it. Eddie is a demon, a low ranking one at that originally. He gets a job at a medical facility for the chronically/terminally ill. Over time at the happy and consensual feasting he really does become one of the strongest demons because he’s constantly fed to the brim and he even has human worshippers, not that they’re traditional worshippers.

No, his followers are little old senior citizens who slip him butterscotch candies and other sweets they’re not supposed to have, which technically count as offerings. They thank him for his work, because he does actually take care of their bodies as well and even listens to their life stories, which count as praise and worship. They love and are devoted to him and they bring in their friends and family who are suffering too and Eddie’s accidental cult grows.

One day, things change. A young man, an anomaly in his youth, is brought in by parents who no longer wish to be burdened by their disabled son. Steve just shrugs it off and moves in with a smile, seemingly fine with being abandoned by his parents because he dared to be anything other than perfectly healthy.

He puts around the facility in his terry cloth robe and slippers on some days, others he dresses up in polos and slacks or even jeans when he’s feeling more casual, and always with a smile on his face. He makes those around him smile and laugh too, and his cheeks get pinched and he’s slipped candies too and he listens to others’ stories and he seems happy and content.

But Eddie feeds on his pain and suffering all the same, knows that behind that smile is a young boy who was told he probably wouldn’t live to see 30, who listens to the older folks knowing he would never get to live a life like that. Eddie knows that sometimes Steve cries himself to sleep at night.

Over time, Eddie and Steve grow closer. Steve hadn’t believed that Eddie was a demon at first, had thought it all just a joke, until one night Mr. Wozniak was laying in his bed, and Steve hadn’t meant to overhear, but he was passing by and the door was cracked open.

“Will I go to Hell now?” Mr. Wozniak was asking, but he seems peaceful all the same, like the thought wasn’t the terrifying ordeal so many people thought it was.

“No, sweetheart,” Eddie was saying, but his voice sounds a little off, huskier, like…like brimstone sat in his throat. “I’ve never claimed your soul. It’s still your own. Go find Irena. She’s been waiting for you for too long.”

Irena, Steve knew from speaking with Mr. Wozniak, was his young wife who had died decades earlier.

“Will I get to see you again?”

Eddie’s long fingers reach out, his nails long and sharp, dark in a way that was not nail polish. He lightly and gently strokes the papery skin of Mr. Wozniak’s cheek. “You will be at peace. You will find the afterlife is so much more than this Good-vs-Evil rhetoric so popular in this plane of existence. Go in peace, my child, and should you wish it, perhaps one day we might meet again.”

Mr. Wozniak smiles at that, and he closes his eyes with a softly whispered, “Irena, I’m coming…”

A moment later, he was gone.

Steve watches as Eddie seems to grow smaller, appear more normal, and though he knows he should be terrified, he isn’t. Instead he continues on his way, letting the knowledge of more percolate in his brain, though by the next morning when news of Mr. Wozniak’s passing spreads and Eddie assures everyone that he passed away peacefully and in no pain, Steve knows Eddie speaks the truth and he realizes that nothing has changed. Eddie is still Eddie.

They continue to grow closer. He spends more time with Eddie, lets Eddie in fully on how much he hurts, and tells the demon that he wished things had been different and that they could have met under better circumstances.

Eddie tells him that he never enjoyed the taste of regret. It was far too bitter.

They fall in love, encouraged by their friends in the facility new and old, who don’t seem to care that he is a mortal with a short life expectancy and Eddie is an immortal demon lord. What is all that in the face of true love?

And then it happens, and Steve is the one lying in bed, knowing his time has come. He smiles up at Eddie and decides not to regret any of it, not wanting their final moments to be flavored with bitterness.

“Stevie,” Eddie whispers mournfully, and he’s beautiful. It’s not his full true form, but his eyes are a dark blood red, his teeth elongated into sharp fangs, and his pale skin veined with reds and blacks. Horns curl out from his curly hair.

“You said once that I get to be with my loved ones after this,” Steve says, still smiling, and he reaches up to cup Eddie’s jaw with a weakened hand. Eddie nods against him, and Steve wonders if all demons can cry, or if it’s just his. “Then take my soul, darling. It already belongs to you.”

Eddie flinches back, like Steve knew he would, because souls are not little things. Eddie had explained before, after everything, that he didn’t even actually deal in souls, that that wasn’t the sort of demon he was. Steve had asked if he could, on a technicality, and Eddie had paused because saying yes, any demon could, but souls were priceless. When you gave one up to a demon, you gave up everything. You would be theirs until the end of days. Eddie had said he wasn’t that sort of demon.

“Baby, no,” Eddie breathes now, shaking his head gently enough not to dislodge Steve’s hand. “You would be—”

“Yours,” Steve interrupts. “But I already am. You already own my heart. I now willingly give you my soul. All you have to do is accept it.”

And Eddie protests, at first, because Steve is giving him complete control over him for eternity. Steve gives it freely with open arms, and in the end, Eddie can do nothing but accept it. He tells Steve that he doesn’t know if demons have souls or not, but his belongs to Steve just as assuredly as his own heart does.

Steve’s final mortal breath is gifted into Eddie’s crimson mouth, full of peace and love and the understanding that this thing between them will always beat eternal.

It turns out that, whether it was still unknown if all demons had souls, Eddie was the sort that does.

And it also turns out that, when you’re gifted a demon lord’s soul, you become a demon too.

Eddie’s cult ends soon after, disbanded into non-existence. In its place, however, rises a new one that worships not just one demon caretaker, but two as Eddie is soon joined by another with floppy brown hair and sparkling brown eyes that for once smiles without hidden pain. They take care of their charges, gently coax them into eternal rest when it’s their time, and together prove that true love is forever.

[anakinsdumb]

I'd do Anything for You |

a/n: I've had this idea percolating in my brain for what feels like years at this point, so I figured why not put it into writing, even if just for myself. if you enjoy you'll have to let me know! I plan on continuing this, but knowing if other people enjoy it too will give me more motivation haha

part one

pairing: anakin skywalker x jedi!reader (fem reader)

wc: 1,073

*22 BBY*

It was rare that Coruscant felt like anything less than the bustling city planet it was, but tonight, for once, you felt like you could take a deep breath. You hugged the baluster in front of you, your cheek resting on the side of it, below the railing, as you watched the sun began to set on the Coruscant skyline, your legs dangling over the edge of the balcony, freely swinging.

“You better not pass your Jedi trials while I’m gone.” You turn your gaze over to your friend, Anakin, who’s comment broke you out of your trance like gaze on the skyline. It wasn’t often the two of you just got to sit and relax together anymore, so you made sure to get at least one more sunset in together before he left for his first solo mission tomorrow morning, escorting Senator Amidala back to Naboo.

“Why?” You jokingly ask Anakin before adding “do you really think you’ll be able to pass them before me?” Smirking playfully at him, the setting sun casting a golden glow across his already tanned face.

Anakin scoffs and rolls his eyes, his smile betraying his attitude, “easily, if I wasn’t being sent on my first��solo mission, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

 “Uh huh, of course, you already have an excuse on why you couldn’t beat me to it” You sarcastically respond, mocking him by rolling your eyes dramatically back at him. Anakin kicks your leg playfully, trying to maintain a façade of annoyance, but he couldn’t really hide his smile when with you. You were his closest friend and one of the few people he knew he could trust fully, and would never judge him, even when others may think critically of him. 

Silence falls upon the two of you, as the sky turns from a golden glow to a vibrant orange and pink, the sun falling behind some of the skyscrapers along the Coruscant skyline, casting a halo like effect on the buildings. You happily swung your legs in the breeze, taking in the serene atmosphere once again, but you notice an unsettling energy to your left brewing.

“Any advice?” Anakin asks quietly, a rare moment of insecurity for the usually boisterous jedi padawan next to you. Your Master, Plo Koon, had already sent you on a few solo missions of your own, as you are a few years older than Anakin. You return your gaze over to Anakin with a soft smile.

“You’ll be fine, you’re already a stronger jedi than me when I left for my first solo mission, just trust the force.” You say softly, trying to snuff out the haze of insecurity, and surround him with a feeling of comfort instead.

“Obi-wan doesn’t think I can do it.”

“And yet, he didn’t forbid you from taking on this mission.” You say trying to remain positive, but he just scoffs at you, no playful smile in sight this time though.

“Obi Wan thinks I’m too unpredictable, doesn’t understand me,” you watch him solemnly as he takes a deep breath staring out to the darkening skyline. “He’s never listens, he’s overly critical… it’s like he doesn’t trust me.”

You felt for Anakin in this moment, your master challenged you and pushed you, but never once had you felt he was unfairly critically towards you, and it surprised you to hear him say those things about Obi Wan, but in reality, you didn’t spend that much time with Obi Wan and Anakin outside of training, so maybe that’s just how he always was with Anakin. 

You wanted to help Anakin see the positive though, remind him of what could be if was successful at his mission. “This will be a great opportunity to prove yourself though,” you say softly, trying to give him a smile, before adding “and if you can handle this, you’ll be ready for the trials.”

“I already am ready.” Anakin replies bluntly, with no room for questioning, and you can feel his emotional walls building back up around, ones that he very rarely uses around you.

“Fine.” You try to reply nonchalantly, looking back towards the starlit skyline now dark with dusk, your legs still swinging softly in the wind. “You’ll prove to Obi Wan you’re ready for the trials,” you pause before adding “just don’t do anything stupid.” A sly smirk splays across your lips, hoping a small tease will bring him out of his spiral.

“Stupid?” Anakin asked bluntly, his heated gaze spun to face you but melting one he saw the small smirk across your face.

“Yeah, stupid.” You jokingly respond, kicking Anakin’s leg playfully. “I know you Anakin… sometimes you do things without thinking of the consequences-“

“Hey, that’s not fair” he cuts you off, but you give him a dirty look to the side. Anakin finally smirks and playfully roles his eyes “it’s not stupid if it works, it’s just a new way of doing things… one might even say I’m a trailblazer” Anakin says smiling at you and kicking his legs a bit.

“Uh huh, a real trailblazer” you sarcastically add, before saying “as long as Master Plo Koon and I don’t have to come save your ass… if I’m going to pass my jedi trials I can’t be getting distracted by your immature ways” Anakin playfully kicks your leg again “relax, I’m just kidding” you pause “you know I’d do anything for you…even if it’s cleaning up one of your messes.” Your laughter filling the once quiet atmosphere, as Anakin playfully shoves your shoulder, muttering something along the lines of how annoying you are.

*Present Day*

The harsh breathing of Lord Vader’s respirator breaks you out of your meditation in the corner of the dark, cold, steel room. You could hear him before you could feel him, his stare weighing heavily on you through the two-way mirror. Even if his breathing was quieter, you still would’ve noticed him. His presence, even from the other side of the glass, stole what little warmth was left in this room. 

Often when he came to monitor you, you could feel him pressing against your mental walls, sometimes trying to dig, and sometimes pressing, just to remind you that he could try harder if he wanted to, but today it was quiet. There was no pressure on your mental walls, no digging, no poking, he was just there, looming, watching.

And that terrified you. 

divider by @/cafekitsune, thank you!!

[neil-gaiman]

Hello, Mr. Neil! If it is no imposition, I'd appreciate your thoughts or advice. No hard feelings if it is, I pinky promise.

I write and, ideally, would love to do so for a living. The trouble is, I'm highkey autistic (to an often debilitating extent) and doubt my ability to write characters that'll appeal to the overwhelming majority of people. Or who, like, allegedly "normal" people will be able to see themselves in. Essentially, the fundamentally human part of writing is what's messing with me. A lot of this is, frankly, due to trauma. Communicative-based trauma, which is common in autistic people, especially late-diagnosed autists (like me.)

Most of the time, it feels/seems like I have to convince people that I'm human, at all, before they'll take what I feel/think/say/write as anything more than some half-comprehensible oddity. Idk. I'm confident when writing just for myself, but just the idea of adding an audience into this all makes me queasy and anxious. I feel like hiding. But I'd rather not become an Emily Dickinson, y'know? That seems worse than not letting people in at all.

As it is, I write poetry and heady erotic scripts, for the most part. There's a series of humanized monster novels percolating in the back of my mind. Kinky scriptwriting is fun and has potential to become an indie kinda job if I play my cards right, which is a helpful incentive. Novels and poetry are what I prefer, but them taking a backseat is probably going to be necessary. It's easy enough to appeal to people in a kinky, sexual context. That's an easier context for others to accept me in, it seems. But otherwise? That's where I faulter and doubt myself.

How do you keep self-doubt, social anxieties and overall fear from clouding your writing? Or from inhibiting the will to write, even?

You do it or you don't. There are a million reasons not to do it and not to keep doing it but you do it anyway.

Just do it, tell your stories, a word at a time, a sentence at a time, a page at a time.

[yermes]

About to crash the fuck out 💥

Music:

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Pick a meme

123

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Feel free to stick around for a while **⋆**

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The cards 🃏 

VII of swords rev 🫐

When one is upset, generally you want to talk about it and get vengeance. Weather you’re great at hiding it or not you want to fucking tell a bitch off for making you upset. You will regret it though, most people who are well adjusted (even if it is against their will) do not like enacting malicious intentions, however, you are a a container w a finite volume ready to pop your fucking top over something that bothers you. It is festering and it will percolate up to the top. Remember what it means to be a kind human being and I will challenge you to think if A) this will actually do anything and B) if it will be worth their time and if it will be productive in any way shape or form. Generally, when you lose your shit and go freaky on em’ all they know is to villainize you because you are yelling and being abrasive and the meaning gets lost in the delivery, if you want to crash out please do it productively.

IV of cups rev 💌

You are mad but you are sitting in pensive silence bc you understand that crashing out means, you basically wreck your street cred. You need to move forward w a clear mind (as hard as that may be) and at this point you are either choosing your path to be happy and let it go or hang on and feel shitty. It is the worst place to be in, I know toxic baddie is so in right now but you need to do what is actually right for you not for persona you are fronting. You need to choose self, you need to let that cortisol slowly ease its way out of your gut, do not perpetuate it within yourself just let it go. You have to accept yourself when you are angry, accept yourself when you struggle with letting go of your anger and experience the death of the awful feelings.

VIII of cups 🪿

you will not find your sacred well of knowledge on chatGPT, you will not find clarity by succumbing to your worst habits, you will understand yourself yeah, you will not feel good, you will run away from that part of yourself more when you see yourself crash out like that. You need to look for the truth of your being in a more neutral state, you are not in the best space to confront your being at the worst of the worst, you need to ease into it. You need go leave behind your perception of yourself and embrace who you are. You just are in such a fragile state, crashing out will break you as a being. Throw axes, go to a rage room, scream into a pillow, eat ice cream and scream and cry, you are not in the right vibe to be productive with a crash out. Do not abandon yourself, do not let yourself go off the deep end.

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Extras: 🌾

Personal/ updates: midterm tomorrow 🐦‍⬛

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[queenie-ofthe-void]

Stuck

~1.5k words || rating: teen || cws: dissociation; unlabeled neurodivergencies and mental illnesses

He’s never quite sure how it happens, seeming to always sneak up on him. One minute he’s up and moving around, usually cleaning, organizing, or just meandering around the house. The next, he’s lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. He tries to move but can’t. Not because he’s physically restrained, like when the rope from the Russians cut into his wrists or how the vines constricted his neck. 

No, Steve’s just lying here on the floor, trapped in his own mind. His eyes are raw, stinging with dryness. Painful tingles pop throughout his right arm from where his head rests heavy on his bicep. His hip and shoulder ache. He can’t move or talk or blink. Can barely think. He’s not in his body. 

He’s lost. Stuck.

Getting stuck means losing time, chunks of days lost to a void. It means missing meals and unanswered phone calls. Growing up, it felt like an escape. A safe way to pass the time between eating and sleeping. He’d come back to himself, sometimes hours later, sore and hungry, mustering up energy he didn’t have. Once, his parents discovered him frozen on the ground. Mom’s yelling and Dad’s foot shoving his side brought him jolting back into his body. Like waking from a nightmare, rising from the dead chased by panic. 

It happens less now, but still catches up to him when he’s exhausted. He thinks today it was the kids– they were particularly obnoxious. Yelling excitedly about Eddie’s new campaign ideas, trucking in snow from outside after building a demo-snowman. Cooking for them, cleaning after them, getting them home safe.

Yeah, he gets how he maybe overdid it a bit. 

But with Eddie here, it’s easier. His sweetheart always knows how to help, usually checking up on him after stressful days. Hopefully he comes to check on him soon.

Because Steve can’t move. Or talk. Or even blink.

The sun is starting to set.

~~~

The Party were extra chaotic today, pushing him to the fringes of patience. He’s thrilled they’re excited about his newest campaign ideas, but god, did they have to be so unbearably loud about it? Dustin’s screeches are still rattling between his ears. Not to mention the soreness he feels from helping the kids build a snowman demo-thing and the ensuing snowball fight. 

The idea of an occult campaign has been percolating in Eddie’s brain for weeks, and after the day he’s had, he’s lost to the research. Perched on a chair upstairs in their bedroom, books are scattered across the desk and onto their bed next to him. Typically, creative deep-dives restore his energy after a long day. But when he’s well and truly exhausted, he’ll lose hours at a time to the work. Getting stuck, according to Steve. And yeah, Eddie can see how that fits.

Growing up, Eddie would lose hours throwing himself into his latest and greatest project, whether it be drawing, playing guitar, writing campaigns, reading or even the time he tried juggling. Entranced by his newest obsession, his surroundings would fade into the background. He’d forget to do his homework, to eat or drink. Hell, sometimes he’d forget to pee. Wayne’d drop a gentle hand to his shoulder– pulling him back to reality– and he’d take off like a shot to the bathroom. Every sensation hitting all at once: bladder about to burst, stomach rumbling, dry mouth, headache, body stiff and achy. 

As he gets older, it’s still a frequent occurrence. So Robin had given him the idea of setting alarms, saying it helps her remember to take breaks while studying. And he’s thankful, because it works like a charm when he actually remembers. But when he forgets, his Stevie takes care of him. 

He’ll find Eddie crouched awkwardly by the desk, eyes manic, only seeing what’s in front of him. Eddie will eat or drink anything Steve gives him, barely tasting whatever it is, just as long as he can see it. And Steve lets him be for at least a few hours so he can burn energy into whatever project he's lost himself in. All Steve cares is that he’s fed and hydrated. Usually, Eddie comes to slowly, with Steve’s fingers gently carding through his hair, or soft strokes up and down his spine.

Now Eddie breaks his own musings, eyes strained, hungry, and needing to stretch. He can’t help but wonder why his sweetheart hasn’t checked on him. 

Moonlight is shining through the window.

~~~

It’s eerily quiet as Eddie makes his way down the stairs. He half expects to find Steve stress-baking, but the kitchen is dark. 

So he checks the garage– the car is still here. And the backyard– he never sits by the pool alone. Then the front porch– maybe he went out for a smoke.

Guilt eats at Eddie as he finds his beautiful boy on the living room floor, curled into himself.

Stuck. 

He hates finding Steve like this– stuck and lost like Eddie’s engrossed fantasies. Yet so, so different. 

The first time Eddie found him, unresponsive and immovable, he spiraled into a panic so strong Steve had broken free of his own melancholy, finding Eddie hyperventilating and sobbing in the midst of a flashback. Too much like Chrissy. Like Patrick and Nancy. 

They'd talked about it. And Eddie had appreciated afterwards how Steve struggled to describe what being stuck feels like, why it happens, what to do about it. It'd helped. 

So on grey days, long nights, the holidays, or when the kids are extra rowdy, Eddie looks for the signs. He's been good about getting Steve to slow down before it's too late. 

But on rare occasions, there will be a day like today. When it’s too much for both of them.

Eddie doesn't know how long his baby’s been lying here. Doesn't know when he ate or drank or even blinked. Because he’d holed himself up, desperate for time alone to just think. To be with himself after spending all day surrounded by people. But he forgot to set an alarm, assuming Steve would be there.

He focuses on his sweetheart, slowly kneeling down next to him so as not to startle him. Remembers all of the tips and tricks Steve needs. 

"Hey honey," Eddie whispers, close enough to be present but not overwhelming. "Don't worry baby we'll get you unstuck I promise. I'm going to reach out and grab your hand now ok?" 

He continues to whisper gentle praises and reassurances as he holds Steve's hand. It's limp for a time, and Eddie is hungry, but he doesn't stop. Time is lost to them both again, until he feels a slight squeeze on his fingers. Steve finally blinks, slow and hard. 

"Hey big boy, love to see those pretty, long eyelashes.” He smiles down at his baby, honeyed hazel eyes slowly refocusing. “Alright, once for no and two for yes: do you want me to help you onto the couch?" 

A full minute passes before Eddie feels two gentle squeezes to his fingers. 

"That's great sweetheart. I'm gonna tilt you to sit up and we'll get you settled. Then I'm going to ask if you want anything. Ready?" Two squeezes.

They finally get to the couch, and Eddie can already feel a strong sense of relief at just seeing his baby move off the floor. He hears Steve's back pop as they stand, decides he'll give him a massage later. 

It goes on. And on and on. Eddie follows the process of squeezes until Steve is unstuck and back in his body. 

"Water?" Two squeezes.

"Food?" One squeeze.

"Blanket?" Two squeezes. 

Eddie's patience always pays off. He's got Steve set up on the couch, hydrated and relaxed, with his favorite movie playing softly. He’s managed to grab a bowl of cereal for himself. They're cuddled and warm with Steve’s head in his lap. Eddie glides his fingers up and down the sore side of Steve’s body, gently squeezing as he goes.

~~~

Steve comes back to himself surrounded by love. 

His eyes sting and his mouth is dry. He doesn't know what time it is, but notices the sun has long set, moonlight shining through the curtains. The bones in his neck crack and his joints pop as he stretches.

But he's warm under the blankets, tucked into his boyfriend's chest as they watch the teddy bear Star Wars. Eddie's loosely twirling the hairs at the nape of his neck, lightly tugging and sending tingles down his spine. There's a glass of water and crackers on the table in front of him. 

Getting stuck inside his head terrifies him, something he dreads as much as the night terrors. 

But with Eddie, it's easier, happens less often. And when it does, he always wakes up to love.

~~

This was a pure self-indulgence fic. An exact recreation of my relationship with my partner. It fits my headcanon for the boys perfectly (though I'm obviously biased haha)

[gullemec]

Growth and Decay

Bitten - Part V

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: For the first time since your attack, you and Joel venture into civilization. But instead of salvation, you find your nightmares reflected back on you.

Warnings: canon-typical violence (but it gets pretty graphic/descriptive in this chapter), gun use, angst as always!, reader is experiencing some pretty significant PTSD, description of injuries and treating injuries

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.4k

A/N: I am sooo very sorry about the delay in getting this out. School has been bonkers for me and then I decided to start playing RDR2 and you can imagine how that's going. On the upside—I already have some Arthur fic ideas percolating. Stay tuned!

Laurel, Montana is a ghost town gripped in the verdant fist of nature.

Once a bustling stretch of streets and businesses now sits empty and seemingly untouched by the claws of winter that found you up in the mountains. You think this must be a testament to the fragility of human creation, the determination of Earth reclaiming what was always hers.

You and Joel move cautiously through the outskirts, weaving between thickets of tall grass that stretch past your knees and weeds that break through the cracked remains of sidewalks. Past the crumbling brick facades that once held stores, their faded signs obscured beneath layers of debris and dirt. Convenience, one reads, the word barely visible through the ivy crawling up its face.

Your eyes sweep across the barren street, muscles taut, senses straining for anything amiss. Movement, sound, the telltale signs of recent activity, human or otherwise. But there’s nothing, only silence and decay, that familiar yet eerie absence of life. Your fingers tighten around your pistol, the familiar weight grounding you. It’s not your weapon of choice, you're much handier with a blade, but Joel insisted.

The world feels paused here, frozen in the moment it all ended, save for the steady advance of green swallowing grey.

Grass and wildflowers spill from wide cracks in the pavement, the shoots vibrant and defiant against the grey of the asphalt. Lush vines twist their way up the fractured brickwork, some reaching all the way to the roofs of buildings that sag under the weight of years gone by. Thick carpets of moss coat piles of rubble, softening thor jagged edges.

Just ahead, an overturned car sits on what used to be the main road. The windows are rimmed with shards of broken glass, yawning open to the sky. The tires hang in tattered strips of rubber, the steel belts exposed and rusted. A bird’s nest, now long abandoned, is tucked inside a wheel well. Your lip curls at the small reminder that even destruction can become a home for something.

The sound of your boots crunching against gravel and weeds feels too loud, intrusive against the quiet. Joel moves a few steps ahead, his head moving side to side and he does a visual sweep, his rifle held low but ready. He pauses at the intersection of two streets, glancing back at you.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says firmly.

You nod, stepping closer, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end despite the stillness around you. There’s a strange feeling to this place, like walking through a graveyard where the world has mourned and moved on, leaving a veil of green to cover the scars.

The remnants of the town tell a story, just like the house did, pieced together in fragments. A little red bicycle, resting against a lamp post, its training wheels still clinging on. A storefront window shattered, the jagged shards framing a display of dusty mannequins dressed in tattered clothes. A faded Help Wanted sign still clings to the wall behind them.

And yet, it isn’t just the destruction that strikes you.

It’s the life threading its way through decay. It’s the way the trees grow through where buildings once stood, their roots breaking through foundations and upending what little remains of the structures. It’s the shadows of the birds as they flit between empty shells of buildings, their singsong too bright and cheery.

Joel rounds on the overturned car, crouching low and tucking himself behind it. His movements are practiced and purposeful, every inch the survivor you’ve come to know over the past year. He doesn’t spare you a glance, just nods toward the car, a silent command for you to follow. You obey, your body moving instinctively even as your mind churns with a thousand thoughts.

The tension between you feels suffocating, thicker than the silence that settled over you both in those early days after the bite. Back then, the weight of what had happened hung heavy in the air, too vast and terrible to put into words. Now, it feels like something else entirely, a chasm carved between you, widened by every unanswered question, every conversation Joel refuses to have. It’s almost worse than the silence of those days because now you know what’s been lost.

This morning had been no different. You ate in silence, sharing a can of beans you’d found tucked in the very back of a cupboard in that old house. Joel had barely looked at you as he ate, his focus fixed on somewhere far away before you’d even left, his words clipped and brief. He’s always been like that, focused on the task ahead, too practical for sentimentality, but it wasn’t always this cold. There used to be warmth in the silences, a kind of understanding. Now there’s only a void, and it’s swallowing you whole.

As you crouch behind the car, you let your fingers drift over the cool metal, its surface rough and mottled with rust. It’s a strange thing to fixate on, but you can’t help it. The car, like the town, like you, is a proof of what time and destruction can do. 

What was once something whole, something purposeful, now just a shell, picked to pieces by the world, its life spark long gone.

Maybe the bite hadn’t killed you, but it changed you in ways you still don’t fully understand. Joel can say he doesn’t see it, but you feel it in your bones, in your blood. Some part of you died that day, and what’s left is something you don’t recognize.

Joel shifts forward, peering out from behind the car, his eyes scanning the street for movement. His face is a mask of focus, but you can see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He’s always on edge now, always waiting for the next threat. You wonder if it’s because of you. If he’s waiting for the day you prove him right, prove that you’re not the same, that you’re something else entirely.

The thought eats at you, gnawing at the edges of your already rapidly dissolving calm. 

In those quiet moments before sleep takes you, you try to tell yourself that you’re still you, try to convince your brain that what happened doesn't define you now. But it’s hard to believe it when Joel, the man who’s saved you more times than you can count, who’s seen more devastation than you could ever try to understand, won’t meet your eyes. It’s hard not to feel like a burden, like a mistake he doesn’t have the strength to correct.

You toss a glance around you, at the town that looks like it’s being swallowed by nature. It should be beautiful, this reclamation of life, but all you see is decay. All you see is what’s been lost. The town, for all its creeping green and vibrant wildflowers, is still dead at its core. It’s a lie nature tells, dressing up ruins in the trappings of new life.

You think it disturbs you because it’s what you see in your reflection. 

A lie. 

Something that looks human on the outside but isn’t, not really. You’re not sure what you are anymore. Not alive, not dead. Just… something in between. 

Something that doesn’t belong.

Joel’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “C’mon,” he says, low and gruff. “Clear ahead.”

You nod, even though your body feels heavy, like it might refuse to move. You push yourself to your feet and follow him, keeping your distance, letting him take the lead. He doesn’t look back, and you don’t expect him to. 

You glance down at your hands, at the fingers that feel colder than they used to, as though the blood running through them isn’t yours anymore. You wonder if this is what it feels like to decay from the inside out. To look alive but feel like something rotting beneath the surface.

Joel stops suddenly, turning back to you with that permanent furrow in his brow. “You good?”

It’s the first time he’s asked you that all day, and the sound of it landslike a blow. You want to tell him the truth, to spill everything that’s been building inside you. But the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the fear that he’ll shut you out again. That he’ll look at you the way he did when he first saw the bite, that mixture of fear and regret that you can’t bear to see again.

“Yeah,” you say, and even you can tell your words fall flat. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t press you. He just nods and keeps moving, his boots crunching against the broken pavement. You follow, your eyes on the ground, your thoughts heavier than ever.

Twenty feet ahead, Joel spots an old supermarket, its awnings drooping in jagged tatters that flutter in the breeze. The building looks like it’s been frozen mid-collapse, its cinder block walls cracked but still standing. Vines climb the walls, their green fingers threading through the broken mortar and curling around the faded, flaking letters of the store’s name. The small parking lot out front is a graveyard of rusted shopping carts, their frames twisted and mangled, pushed into a haphazard pile near the entrance, like they were once used as a barricade.

Yet compared to the surrounding ruins, skeletons of buildings swallowed by nature and time, the supermarket looks remarkably intact. Its boarded windows and sagging door give the illusion of quiet sanctuary, but you’ve been out here long enough to know better. 

Joel pauses at the edge of the lot, his sharp gaze sweeping over the building and the rusted debris around it. He tightens his grip on his rifle, his expression hardening into that look he gets when he’s bracing for trouble.

“Over there,” he says, his tone low, all authority. That voice, the one that warms against argument, pulls you into focus, instinct taking over. “We’ll clear it and take whatever we can find. I’ll lead. You watch our six. You got it?”

You nod without hesitation, the weight of your pistol heavy in your hand as you fall in step behind him. This is something you know how to do, a ritual you’ve repeated so many times it can only come naturally. A chance to prove to Joel you’re still useful, still his teammate.

The air inside is thick, suffocating, heavy with the smell of damp rot and decay. Broken glass crunches under your boots as you follow Joel inside, the sound uncomfortably loud in the damning quiet. Dust hangs in the air like a cloud, swirling dreamily in the dim light filtering through the boarded windows.

The shelves, once overstuffed with a bounty of foods you haven’t tasted in years, now stand empty, their dusty metal frames bent and bare. Here and there, a forgotten can or crushed box clings stubbornly to the past, but even these remnants are battered, their labels faded or peeling away.

Oh, the things you’d do to have a bowl of Lucky Charms again.

Joel moves ahead of you, his footsteps measured and deliberate, his rifle sweeping the aisles like a predator sniffing for prey. His broad shoulders are tense, his movements precise, as if each step could be his last. You’ve seen him like this before, his body language screaming that something is off even if he hasn’t said it aloud yet.

“It’s too quiet,” you mutter under your breath, almost to yourself, but Joel catches it. He doesn’t reply, just gives the smallest tilt of his head, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows.

The silence here feels wrong in here, unnatural, like something is holding its breath. Every sound you make, every crunch of glass or shuffle of debris, feels like a shout into the void. Your pulse jumps, and you force yourself to stay focused, to match Joel’s movements.

“You see anything?” you whisper, keeping your voice low.

“No. That’s what’s botherin’ me.” His eyes dart toward the far end of the store, where the light fades into deeper darkness.

You both continue down the aisles, your hand darting out occasionally to grab whatever looks salvageable. A dented can of beans, a half-empty bag of rice, a plastic water bottle caked in grime. You tuck it all away in your pack. But your unease grows with each step. The place feels too untouched, too convenient. Like bait left out in the open.

Then you see it.

Near the far end of the store, where the light fades into deeper shadows, a cluster of empty cans sits in an otherwise barren aisle. The sight stops you cold. Unlike the thick layer of dust that coats everything else in this place, the cans are clean, gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. Too clean.

“Joel,” you whisper sharply, reaching out to grab his shoulder.

But before you can say more, you hear it.

A sound. Whisper quiet at first, just the barest scrape of movement, but unmistakable. Footsteps.

Then voices.

Low, murmured words drift through the aisles, growing closer. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Joel freezes, his posture shifting immediately, instinctively, into one of readiness. His rifle comes up, his head tilting to his good side to locate the sound.

“Get down,” he murmurs, and you know by the tone of his voice to listen.

You duck behind a nearby shelf, the metal frame cold and sharp against your back. Your heart pounds in your ears as the voices draw nearer. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but your instincts tell you it’s nothing good. 

Your fingers tighten around your pistol, your breath shallow as you glance at Joel. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp and calculating as he motions for you to stay put. And then the voices stop.

The silence that follows is louder than any gunshot, pressing in on you from all sides.

And you realize that they know you’re here.

The first gunshot shatters the silence.

It’s loud, too loud, and it jolts through you like a live wire. Before you can even register what’s happening, Joel is already moving, the crack of his rifle filling the air as he ducks behind an overturned shelf and fires.

The raiders pour out of the shadows like wolves circling their prey. There aren’t many—four, maybe five—but desperation radiates off of them in waves. Their clothes hang loose from thin frames, their skin sallow and smudged with dirt. You make eye contact with one, his eyes burning with a frenzied, unhinged light.

These aren’t trained killers. They’re wild animals backed into a corner. You’re not sure which is worse.

Joel takes two down in seconds, all ruthless precision. 

He yells something. Your name, maybe? An order? But the words are lost in the roar of gunfire and the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

You try to move. You want to move. But your legs feel rooted to the floor, the soles of your boots glued to the linoleum.

The world narrows to a pinprick, every sound muffled by a deafening roar of white noise. Your breathing is shallow, frantic, but it doesn’t feel like you’re getting any air. Your hands shake uncontrollably, your fingers clumsy as they fumble for the pistol in your grip.

Why can’t you move?

You’ve done this before. So many times. Joel always said you had a knack for it, that you were quick, reliable, a hell of a shot when it counted. So why now, in this moment, do you feel like you’re crumbling from the inside out?

A shout cuts through the haze. Joel’s voice.

“Move! Goddamn it, move!”

You force your head to turn, your eyes locking onto him for half a second. He’s crouched behind a shelf, his rifle raised, taking aim at a man trying to flank him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but even from here, you can see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes when he looks at you.

Joel’s never seen you freeze before. Not like this.

“Do something!” he yells, strained with the effort of splitting his focus between you and the attackers.

But you can’t. Your legs refuse to listen, your arms too weak to lift the pistol with any sense of control. Your vision tunnels as you stare at the scene unfolding in front of you, the raiders scrambling for cover, Joel firing round after round, the way the bullet casings ricochet through the smoke-filled air.

Your breath catches as a third man crumples to the ground, taken out by Joel’s unrelenting fire. But then Joel disappears from view, ducking behind another aisle to reload, out of your sight.

And that’s when it happens.

Strong arms wrap around you from behind, locking you in place, your arms pinned to your sides like a vise. Your breath catches in your throat, your body stiffening as your mind scrambles to react. Your hand tightens instinctively around your pistol, but it’s useless, frozen in your trembling grip.

For a second, it feels like time slows. The heat of the man’s breath on your neck is overwhelming, rancid, the sound of his low grunt echoing in your ears as he adjusts his grip to pull you tighter. Your vision blurs, and the supermarket—the shelves, the dust, the smoky light filtering through broken windows—all of it begins to dissolve.

And then you’re not in the supermarket at all anymore.

You’re at the river.

The roar of the swollen water drowns out everything else, pounding in your ears like a war drum. Your back hits the cold, slick ground with a heavy thud, knocking the air from your lungs. And it’s there, on top of you.

That thing. That fucking thing.

Its mottled, decaying face hanging inches from yours, teeth gnashing as it screeches, a sound that cuts straight through you like a blade. Its hands claw at you, filthy nails raking against your skin as it pins you down. Its weight is crushing, its stench unbearable, overwhelming rot and blood and evil.

You’re screaming. You’re begging. You’re thrashing against it, every ounce of your strength pouring into this desperate, animalistic fight for your life.

Your arms slip free from its grip, adrenaline burning through your veins like fire. You twist, throwing your weight into the motion, and suddenly you’re on top of it, straddling its chest. The slick, wet ground beneath you fades into nothingness. There’s only this thing and your need to destroy it.

Your pistol is gone, vanished into the ether, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the overwhelming urge to end it.

You pull your arm back, your fist trembling with fury and desperation, and then you bring it down with all your strength.

The impact sends a shockwave up your arm. You feel a wet crack beneath your knuckles, the way its face collapses under the force of the blow. Blood spatters across your hand, warm and slick, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

You pull your arm back again and slam your fist down, harder this time. Another crunch, another sickening wet sound. Its head jerks to the side, but you grab a fistful of its shirt to keep it in place, your breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

Again.

The edges of your vision blur and darken, narrowing until there’s nothing but the thing beneath you and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Again.

Your knuckles split, skin tearing against bone and cartilage, but the pain doesn’t register. All you feel is rage, fear, and the desperate, consuming need to destroy.

Again.

The thing’s face is unrecognizable now, a mess of blood and shattered bone, but it doesn’t matter. Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, a voice whispers that it’s already dead, that you’ve already won, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

Again. 

Again. 

Again.

A voice cuts through the fog, deep and desperate.

“Stop!”

You don’t stop. You can’t.

“Goddamn it, stop!”

A pair of hands grab your shoulders, jerking you backward. The sudden force pulls you out of your frenzy, the world around you snapping back into focus like a rubber band.

You blink, gasping for air as the sound of the river fades, replaced by the quiet of the supermarket, the ringing in your ears. The thing that was beneath you is no longer the creature that attacked you. It’s the raider, his face a bloody, mangled mess, his body limp and motionless.

Joel is crouched beside you, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly, his eyes wide and brimming with shock and concern.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, smooth, like a balm. “You’re all right. It’s over. Look at me—it’s over.”

But it’s not over. Not for you. The river, the creature, the blood, it all lingers in the back of your mind, travelling through your bloodstream, settling in your bones. Your chest heaves, and your hands are trembling, still curled into fists stained with blood that isn’t yours.

Joel’s voice anchors you, pulling you back piece by piece.

“Breathe,” he commands, his tone softening just enough to cut through the haze. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You try to obey. You really do. But the air feels thin, your lungs refusing to expand. You blink at him, trying to focus on the lines of his face, the familiar weight of his presence, anything to steady yourself. But it’s like the world around you has lost its clarity, dissolving into a smear of color and sound that won’t settle.

And then there’s the blood.

It’s everywhere. Thick, congealing streaks of crimson cling to your hands, your sleeves, the cracked linoleum beneath you. Your knuckles are raw, split wide open, the skin peeling back to expose pale flashes of bone. 

You should be in agony, but there’s nothing. Just a buzzing numbness that makes everything feel unreal.

Your breath hitches as your stomach churns, bile rising to the back of your throat. Joel’s voice fades to background noise, his steady presence eclipsed by the smell, the coppery tang of fresh blood mingled with the sharp, sour stench of fear and sweat.

Your eyes dart frantically, searching for something to hold on to. That’s when you see it.

An overturned sunglass display lies a few feet away, one of its mirrored panels catching a slant of dim light. The reflection is murky at first, fractured by scratches and smudges. But you can make out your form, crouched on the ground, shaking, your arms slick with gore.

You crawl toward it, drawn by some morbid compulsion, even as every cell in your body screams for you to look away.

And then you see your face.

Only, it isn’t your face.

The features are wrong, distorted. The hollow eyes that stare back at you gleam with a feral light. The streaks of blood across your cheeks look like war paint, and your mouth is twisted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque snarl frozen in time.

The creature staring back at you is the one from your nightmares. The one that wore your face. 

You scramble back, nearly slipping on the blood pooling beneath you. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts now, and your head aches with the effort of trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

“No,” you rasp, a tremor in the silence. “No, no, no.”

You claw at your own face, desperate to wipe away the blood, to erase the reflection burned into your vision. But when you look back at the mirror, it’s still there. The monster, the thing, staring back at you with the same horrified recognition.

Joel watches you, the way your breathing has turned erratic, your hands trembling even more violently than before.

“Hey.” He says, moving closer, placing a firm hand on your shoulder, trying to anchor you again. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”

But you can’t.

Because how do you explain it to him? How do you tell Joel that the thing you saw wasn’t just in your head? That you’ve become something else, something wrong?

“I’m…” You falter, voice barely more than a croak. You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence.

Joel kneels in front of you now, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression hard to read, somewhere between frustration and worry. “You’re what?” he presses.

Your fingers clench into fists, nails digging into the raw flesh of your palms, but you don’t feel that either.

“I’m not—” The words catch in your throat, a strangled sob threatening to break free. “I’m not me anymore.”

Joel’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. You can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say, trying to piece together the puzzle of your unraveling.

But you don’t need his reassurance. You don’t deserve it.

The image from the mirror is seared into your brain, a truth too visceral to push away. 

You’re not human anymore. Whatever you were before the bite, before the changes, before all this…

She’s gone. 

What’s left is decay wrapped in skin, rot hiding behind bloodshot eyes.

And maybe Joel knows it, too. Maybe that’s why he looks at you the way he does. Not with hatred, not with anger, but with that guarded distance that tells you he doesn’t quite know what to make of you anymore.

You’re not a person anymore. Not really.

You’re just another broken thing he’s lugging along, too stubborn to leave behind.

…

“Alright, how’s that feel?”

Joel’s voice is clipped, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. He pulls the gauze taut around your hand, gently tugging the ends into a knot. His hands are steady, sure, but yours are trembling.

The pain has set in now that the adrenaline’s burned away, sharp and relentless, digging into the broken skin of your knuckles and radiating up your arm. You barely register it. Pain feels distant, muted, like it belongs to someone else.

You hadn’t made a sound while he cleaned the wounds. Hadn’t winced, hadn’t cried out. Not even when the antiseptic burned like fire. All you’d done was sit there, staring at the wall, silent tears streaking your face as he worked.

Joel had noticed, of course. You’re certain he had. But he hadn’t said anything about it. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was something else entirely, that you didn’t want to name because it would be too painful.

You pull your hand back when he finishes, flexing your fingers experimentally. Blood is already seeping through the gauze, fresh spots of red blooming against the stark white. The movement sends a bolt of pain shooting up your arm, but you don’t flinch.

You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub in the dilapidated house you found last night. The room reeks of mildew and old rot, the tiles cracked and stained. Joel’s First Aid kit lies open on the floor beside him, its contents scattered. You glance at it and take stock.

The antiseptic bottle is nearly empty. The gauze roll is down to its last few feet. The last pack of sterile wipes lies crumpled near the sink. Joel leans over, grabbing the bottle of antibiotics, the pills rattling as he shoves it into your hands.

“Take a couple now and—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “No, that’s fine.” You hold the bottle out to him, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The hell do you mean?” His brow furrows.

“I-I’ve used up enough of this already.” You gesture vaguely to the dwindling supplies. “I’ll be fine.”

Joel huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh, leaning back on his heels as he stares at you. The weight of his gaze feels unbearable, like it’s peeling back every layer of you, exposing every raw nerve.

“You tryin’ to get an infection?”

“I’ll just… wash them in the river,” you whisper, shaking your head. “It’ll be fine.”

Joel exhales hard through his nose, his frustration palpable. If this were any other day, you might have smiled, might have teased him for how easily you could get under his skin. His sighs, his grumbles, his sharp comments, they’d become so familiar, almost comforting in their constancy.

But this isn’t any other day, and you aren’t that person anymore. 

Joel doesn’t take the bottle back. He stays crouched there in front of you, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw working as he stares at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, but there’s something else beneath it, heavy and quiet and damning.

"Take the damn pills," he says, and his tone leaves no room for arguments.

You shake your head, your hand curling painfully into the edge of the bathtub as if you need the anchor. "You’ve already wasted too much on me. I’ll be fine."

“Fine?” He’s exasperated now, exhaling harshly through his nose. “You call this fine?” He gestures at your bloodied hands, the bruises blooming across your skin, the half-empty first-aid kit scattered around you both.

You turn your head, eyes still refusing to meet his. Your eyes fall on the blood streaked floor, your own blood mixing with the dried, years-old stains of the previous occupants. 

“You wanna talk about what happened back there?” He asks.

That gets your attention. Your head snaps up, quick as a slap, eyes searching his face.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” you say, mimicking his words to you last night. “Isn’t that right, Joel?”

Joel’s jaw clenches at your words, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans back, his hands braced on his knees, as if trying to steady himself. His eyes flick over your face, searching, but for what, you don’t know.

"You think you’re funny?" he mutters, his tone edged with frustration. "You think throwin’ my words back at me means somethin’?"

You shrug, forcing yourself to look at him now, though your chest feels tight and pinched. "It means you don’t get to ask questions you don’t want answered."

Joel’s brow furrows, his eyes narrowing. “This ain’t about me, kid. You froze back there. You could’ve gotten yourself killed—could’ve gotten me killed. You don’t wanna talk about that? Fine. But don’t sit here actin’ like you’re fine, ’cause we both know that’s a goddamn lie.”

The air between you feels suffocating, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. You don’t have the words to explain what happened back in the supermarket, the way your mind had turned against you, dragging you back to that moment by the river. The way the raider’s hands on you had felt like the infected all over again, the cold terror flooding your veins until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

“I froze,” you admit, the words brittle and sharp, like broken glass. “I know that. I know I could’ve gotten us both killed. You don’t have to remind me.”

Joel’s expression softens, but only a bit. He sits back on his heels, his posture shifting as if he’s trying to rein himself in. "I’m not remindin’ you to make you feel bad. I’m remindin’ you ’cause we can’t afford for it to happen again. You hear me?"

You nod mutely, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you’ll regret. The truth is, you don’t trust yourself anymore. You’ve been through countless fights before, stared down dangers that should’ve broken you, and yet this — this had stopped you cold.

Joel watches you for a long moment, his gaze heavy. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Look,” he says, quieter now, “I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your head. But whatever it is, you don’t gotta carry it alone. You don’t gotta sit there and pretend like you’re some lost cause, either. You ain’t.”

The words hit you square in the chest, lungs constricting painfully. You don’t deserve them, not after what you’ve cost him, not after the way you froze.

“I don’t get why you’re doing this,” you say softly. “Why you’re wasting all this on me.”

Joel frowns, leaning forward. “Wastin’ it? What makes you think this is a waste?”

You don’t respond, can’t respond, because what is there to say? Of course it’s a waste. After what just happened, after the mess you’ve made of everything, what else could it be, if not a waste?

“Why do you even care, Joel?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Joel’s jaw tightens, and he shifts his weight, sitting back on his heels as he stares at you.

“Why do I care?” he repeats. “You think I patch people up for fun? Think I’d travel with someone across the goddamn country ‘cause I don’t care?”

You flinch at the edge in his tone, guilt twisting in your gut. “You shouldn’t have to,” you murmur. “Not for me.”

Joel freezes, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lower your gaze to your lap, where your bandaged hands rest, trembling.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You don’t move.

“Look at me,” he repeats, and this time, there’s something dark in his tone that makes you lift your head despite yourself.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think he might see right through you, see the plan already forming in your mind, the way you’ve been counting down the hours until dawn.

“You’re not doin’ this,” he says firmly. “You’re not givin’ up, not on my watch.”

“I’m not giving up,” you lie, forcing a weak smile. “I just… I’m not worth all this, Joel. The supplies, the effort—you could’ve used them on yourself. You should’ve.”

His expression darkens, his jaw clenching hard enough that you can see the muscle twitch in his cheek. “You don’t get to decide that,” he says roughly. “If I don’t get to make decisions for you, then you sure as hell don’t get to make ‘em for me. You think I’d be doin’ all this if I didn’t think you were worth it?”

You blink, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“You deserve better,” you whisper, barely audible.

Joel’s expression shifts, his frustration giving way to something softer, like hurt. “Better than what? Someone who’s still here, still fightin’, even after everything?”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill over. “You don’t understand—”

“You’re right,” he cuts you off, his tone sharper now. “I don’t. I don’t understand why you’re sittin’ here actin’ like you don’t matter, like you’re some kinda burden. You think that’s your call to make? It’s not. Not to me.”

The conviction in his voice sends a crack through the wall you’ve been building around yourself. You open your mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. Instead, you just sit there, staring at him, the weight of his care pressing down on you in a way that feels unbearable.

“Get some rest,” Joel says finally, standing and gathering the scattered supplies. His voice is quieter now,softer. “I don’t know when we’ll have a place like this to rest our heads again.”

You nod silently, but your decision is already made.

As he leaves the room, you let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the edge of the bathtub. There’s an ache in your gut, a strangled cry desperate to break free. But you push it down, deep into that darkness inside of you that swallows things whole.

…

You and Joel settle into your sleeping bags in the master bedroom, the rain beginning as a soft pattering against the cracked window pane.

The light drizzle quickens into a steady downpour, and somewhere above, water begins to drip through a crack in the ceiling, the rhythm regular and almost hypnotic. Joel is already asleep, his breathing deep and even, broken only by soft, rumbling snores.

You shift up, glancing at him. Snoring was a sound you hardly ever heard from Joel. He wasn’t one to sleep deeply, wasn’t one to sleep much at all. In all the time you’d been traveling together, Joel had always taken the lion’s share of the watch, insisting on staying awake while you slept.

No matter how many times you argued about it, told him he needed to rest, Joel would just shrug it off like it was nothing. Like he could keep pushing himself forever. You’d wake to sunlight creeping through the heavy tree cover, rested and groggy, only to find him perched under the same tree he was sitting under when you fell asleep, shotgun resting in his lap like a newborn, his dark eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk.

“Don’t know how you expect me to pull my weight if you don’t let me take a shift,” you’d grumble at him, stretching out stiff muscles.

He’d just grunt in response, the corners of his mouth tugging downward, as if the very idea of letting someone else carry part of the burden was offensive. But that was Joel. Ever the protector, ever the watchdog.

Ever the giver.

It wasn’t that you took advantage of him. God, no. Joel wasn’t a man you could manipulate, not even if you tried. He wasn’t stupid. He had this uncanny ability to sniff out selfishness in people, to see through whatever mask someone wore. You pulled your weight. You scavenged, fought, and bled for the both of you, and Joel knew that. He trusted you to do your part.

But Joel… he just couldn’t help himself. He gave, over and over, like it was written into the fabric of who he was. Like he didn’t know how to be any other way. He had to protect, had to provide. It was as much a part of him as the scars on his hands or the weight in his eyes.

When you met him, he’d been gruff, reluctant to involve you on smuggling runs, keeping you at arm’s length like you still carried some unspoken threat. But somewhere along the way, his walls cracked. You didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but you could see it in the small things. The extra food he’d quietly save for you, the way he’d give you his coat on cold nights even when he was freezing himself, the way his shoulders would relax a little when he caught you smiling.

Once Joel decided you were worth saving, it was over. He was in it for the long haul, no matter how much it cost him.

And for a while, you had been the luckiest person in what was left of the world to be on the receiving end of that.

You lie there, listening to the rain hammering against the roof, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Joel’s face, even in sleep, carries the weight of the world, the lines carved deep into his brow and around his mouth. You wonder how many years he’s shaved off his life just by taking so much of the load onto himself. You wonder how much more he’ll let himself give before he has nothing left.

And then there’s you.

Was it any wonder you fell for the man? How could you not? Joel Miller could be infuriating, stubborn, and guarded to the point of madness, but beneath all of that was something so rare, so utterly good, that it made you feel things you didn’t think you had the capacity for anymore.

He’d never see himself that way, of course. Joel didn’t do anything for thanks or recognition. He didn’t even seem to realize how much of himself he gave away to the people he let in.

And that’s what made it harder, what made it unbearable to stay.

Because while Joel gave and gave, you took. Not intentionally, not maliciously, but you’d taken all the same. And in the quiet moments like this, lying awake while he slept for once, you can’t shake the feeling that one day, he’ll realize you weren’t worth what he’d given.

That’s why you have to leave. Before he wakes, before you can see the hurt in his eyes. Because if Joel knew what you were planning, he’d never let you go. And you’re not sure you’d have the strength to leave if he asked you to stay.

The first peals of thunder rumble low in the distance, rolling closer, shaking the house’s already unstable foundation. The storm has settled in for the night now, and the rain pounds against the windows, dripping steadily through the crack in the ceiling. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in bursts of pale light.

Your eyes flick to Joel, stretched out on his sleeping bag, his head tilted a little to the side. He stirs as the thunder rolls again, a quiet grumble slipping from his lips before he settles back into a deep sleep.

For a moment, you falter. Your resolve weakens under the weight of it all. How many times has he protected you? Stood between you and danger, taken hits meant for you? How many times has he let you into the parts of himself he keeps hidden from the world? And now you’re about to repay all of that by leaving him in the middle of the night, slipping away like a thief.

You force the thoughts away, swallowing the lump in your throat. You have to do this.

Moving as quietly as you can, you rise from your sleeping bag, the damp chill of the house settling into your bones. You wince as your knees crack, freezing in place as Joel shifts again. His breathing evens out a second later, and you exhale shakily.

You gently place the flannel he gave you that day at the river by his feet, carefully folded. A gesture of goodwill, a thanks for all the help he gave you in your time together. A compensation for all that you took.

The mattress against the door is your next hurdle. Joel had shoved it there earlier, pressing it tight against the warped wood to keep the two of you safe. Now, as you grip the edge and begin to slide it away, you realize just how heavy it is. You move it inch by inch, pausing every few seconds to glance back at Joel, your heart pounding every time the mattress lets out a low scrape against the floor.

Finally, you’ve cleared enough space to open the door. You reach for the knob, turning it carefully, slowly, until it gives. The hinges groan as the door swings open just enough for you to slip through.

Before you leave, you glance back one last time. Joel is still asleep, his face lit briefly by another flash of lightning. He looks peaceful now. It’s a rare sight, one you’ve only seen a handful of times, and you try to commit it to memory. This has to be enough, you tell yourself. It has to be enough to know that he’ll be okay without you. Better off, really.

You pull the door closed behind you, muffling the sound as best you can. Deliberately, you step over the creaky floorboards in the hall, each step measured and cautious. The house feels colder now, emptier somehow. The storm outside is deafening in comparison to the muted quiet inside.

When you reach the front door, the chill of the night air seeps through the cracks. You pause for a moment, your hand on the handle, as the rain lashes against the windows. You hesitate, something pulling at you, urging you to turn back.

But you don’t. Or can’t, or won’t, you don’t quite know.

You step out into the rain-soaked, unforgiving world, letting the door close softly behind you. The cold rain hits you instantly, soaking through your clothes, clinging to your skin. You pull your jacket tighter around you and press forward into the darkness.

Every step feels heavier than the last, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because if you do, you’ll lose what little strength you have left.

Behind you, the house grows smaller and smaller, until it disappears completely into the shadows of the storm. And with it, you leave behind the only safety you’ve known in a long, long time.

Taglist:

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

[therainscene]

I think I might have figured out what the Mind Flayer really is.

This theory has been percolating in my brain for a while now; it hasn't really finished baking yet but I wanted to get the gist of it down before The First Shadow debuts.

Let’s begin at the Hawkins National Lab, 6th November 1983. For the second time in her young life, El faces terrifying and deeply traumatic circumstances which cause her powers to lash out and rip a gash in the fabric of reality.

Meanwhile, across town, Will is doing what every queer 12 year-old has done and finds an excuse to spend an extra moment alone with his crush.

His little gay heart is as aflutter as the garage lights.

(Strange, that. The lights, I mean -- considering that he's on the other side of town from the lab. Do you suppose the Demogorgon trekked all the way to Mike's house and quietly followed him home again?)

Will heads home, lost in thought as he cycles past the lab. Is he thinking about how sweet his new X-Men #134 is gonna be? Or is he thinking about something even sweeter? The lights flutter again.

And something in front of him notices.

Will has always been noticeable: his clothes, his mannerisms, his interests -- they've always attracted the attentions of bullies. Now something new -- or maybe something that was always there and is only now making itself known -- has attracted the attentions of a monster.

He runs home, he calls for help, but he's alone, there's no escape. He races to the shed and loads a gun like his father taught him -- but it's not in his nature to be violent. He freezes, petrified.

The lights surge as his terror wrestles control of his powers and uses them to puncture an escape route in the fabric of reality.

Why were we so quick to believe that the Demogorgon -- a minion of the guy whose whole thing is his inability to open gates -- was able to open its own temporary portals in S1 and then never again?

Will could plausibly have been responsible for every temporary portal in S1: he’s at the Byers house when the Demogorgon pushes through its walls; he's on the run to Castle Byers when Nancy stumbles across that portal in the woods; and he's plugged in to one of Vecna's vines during the finale -- something we see Vecna plug himself into when he remotely opens gates in S4.

There’s one exception though.

Barb likely slipped through a gate in Steve's pool, but how could Will have opened that one when he was in his bedroom at the time, talking to his mother through the lights?

Let me ask you this: isn't it interesting that of all the injuries Barb could have obtained in her passage to the Upside Down, she got a nosebleed?

I think powers are more common than we’ve been led to believe, and gates are a last-ditch self-defense mechanism for anyone with powers.

This is why the four curse victims’ deaths opened a gate: Vecna pushed them to their breaking point to artificially trigger the self-defense response. Those headaches and nosebleeds weren't caused by Vecna directly, but by their own powers acting up as they inched towards oblivion.

[Shoutout to @givehimthemedicine's underrated powers and blood theory for the idea of Vecna's Curse being the overcharging of his victims' own powers.]

It was already pretty obvious that Vecna's Curse is a metaphor for suicide, and this theory reinforces it: every kid who gets targeted by the horrors of Hawkins for being "different" tries to find some way to escape.

Willel's misfortune is that their powers are considerably more easily manifested than the average person's. Byler tells the story of visible vs invisible queerness, but that's just a reflection of the larger theme at play in the show: the visible and invisible ways kids are othered and abused.

Max's trauma was a quiet thing that came from within and festered until it was almost too late to save her... but Willel's trauma manifests as a giant monster that openly hunts them down.

And I'm being literal when I say the Mind Flayer is a manifestation of their trauma.

We know that Vecna fashioned the Mind Flayer from a cloud of black particles he found in the Upside Down, but where did that cloud come from? The Upside Down is a mysterious enough place that it's easy to assume the Shadow is native to that realm... but what if it isn't?

The Mind Flayer is heavily associated with repression -- Will gradually lost his memories while he was possessed, and El lost her powers when the sliver of Flesh Flayer wormed its way into her leg.

But Will has mysteriously been without powers ever since leaving the Upside Down, and we've seen El lose memories too: her memories of surviving the lab massacre, in which she didn't simply escape by opening up a gate, but by disintegrating her attacker into black particles.

The Mind Flayer doesn't cause repression -- it is repression.

There must have been countless generations worth of traumatized children who took the extra step El did and sent their abusers -- or at least their memories of abuse -- into that hidden realm beyond the gate.

(There's also the possibility that Mr. Time-is-Just-a-Social-Construct is stuck in a time loop of some sort -- maybe the massacre has repeated hundreds of times, and Dimension X is a timeless graveyard of El's attempts to repress her trauma. This would explain why Henry seems to have both disintegrated and survived: we were watching at least two different iterations of the massacre all along.)

Whichever way you slice it, it's a perfect fit: the tool Vecna uses to perpetuate the cycle of abuse isn't some bizarro alien from an alternate dimension, but a direct consequence of the cycle itself.

The Mind Flayer tells us that escape alone doesn't work as a long-term solution: it might help you survive the initial abuse, but if you don't address the effect it had on you...

...it will come back to wreck havok.

[Edit: Click here for post-TFS thoughts on this theory]

[babyboywilson]

loving on island time

Kiss #24 - Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer.

Birthday Prompts: Country music, lover, beach kiss, purple, “Will you accept this rose?”, Dr. Sexy, sharks

Summary: Cas slipped a note into the handle of Dean’s coffee mug, set it on the bedside table, and placed a kiss against Dean’s temple. 'Let’s go on a road trip. I’ll drive.’

Word Count: 2,015 (continued under the read more). Also posted on ao3.

It had been an idea created out of something unexpected, sparked by Dean pointing out a piña colada at a bar, saying, “Not as fun without the umbrella in it.”

Cas cocked his head, stirring his own drink with a straw. “Where did you get a drink with an umbrella in it?”

Humming, Dean took a sip of his beer and his lip curled up into a half-smile. “I haven’t. It’s just the cliché beach drink in all the movies,” Dean chuckled. He changed the subject after that, directing Cas’ attention to the menu, and how Cas’ reflection in the condensation of the glass made him look even more devastatingly handsome. A fact that was ridiculously untrue yet made Cas fall even more in love with his husband.

No matter where Dean steered the conversation during their date night, though, Cas couldn’t stop thinking about Dean’s earlier answer about the tropical drinks with umbrellas in them. And now the seed had been planted and an idea was percolating in Cas’ mind.

~

A week later, Cas slipped a note into the handle of Dean’s coffee mug and set it on the bedside table. He placed a kiss against Dean’s temple before making his way back to the kitchen to get his tea. By the time he made it back to their bedroom, Dean had his back pressed to the headboard of the bed with an old rerun of Dr. Sexy playing quietly on the TV. The note was in his hand.

“What is this?” Dean asked, gesturing at Cas with the note. 

Cas quirked a smile at Dean and shrugged his shoulders. “An anniversary gift?”

Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas in response. “Our anniversary was almost 2 months ago.”

Cas sat on the edge of the mattress, his hand settling on Dean’s thigh. “Okay, just a regular gift. But someone once told me you accept gifts when they’re given to you.”

“Must’ve been a wise person.”

Cas smiled warmly at Dean. “For once, let me take you somewhere.”

Dean leaned into Cas’ space, brushing his lips against Cas’. “You’re not going to tell me where you’re taking me, are you?”

Shaking his head, Cas murmured, “My lips are sealed.”

“Does that mean no more kisses?” Dean asked. 

Closing the gap, Cas pressed his mouth against Dean’s softly. “I’ll make an exception for kisses.”

The note fluttered to the ground as Cas let Dean pull him down, down, down onto the mattress. 

‘Let’s go on a road trip. I’ll drive.’

~

Cas made sure they took his pickup for the roadtrip and insisted he do all the driving to ensure it remained a surprise. 

Anytime Dean picked up a map, trying to plot points to see what roads Cas was taking, Cas leaned over and tugged the map from Dean’s hands. “Nice try, Dean.”

After that, Cas made sure to change up the roads he was taking so that Dean couldn’t extrapolate anything from the route they were taking.

They alternated playing classic rock music and country music. Cas liked it because he knew Dean pretended he didn’t want to listen to country music, then he’d catch Dean tapping his along to the music against the window as they drove. 

They spent days on the road, and somehow it felt like every other road trip Cas had done with Dean, and yet completely different. This was just them and the open road. Cas driving Dean instead of Dean driving Cas. Something old and something new all at once. And looking over at Dean as the sunlight lit up his face through the window, so beautiful and breathtaking, Cas never wanted this road trip to end. 

~

The way Dean reacts when he gets his first glimpse of the beach is nothing short of stunning. A soft gasp, followed by a surprised chuckle, and then a grin spreading across his lips as his hand finds Cas’ thigh and squeezes so fondly it makes Cas’ heart ache. 

“You’re kidding me? Is that–?”

Cas nodded, tilting his head to offer Dean a warm smile. “Is this okay?”

Dean met Cas’ gaze and replied, “If you weren’t driving right now, I’d kiss you senseless.”

“I can pull over if you’d prefer?” Cas asked.

The laugh that slipped from Dean’s lips filled the truck. “Just drive. I’ll kiss you on the beach.”

Twenty minutes later, Cas stood where the sand met the concrete of the pathway. His eyes were on Dean.

Dean. Who had his feet in the sand. Even from a hundred feet away, Cas could see the way Dean’s head was tipped back with his eyes closed, sun bathing his skin in golden gleams.

Serenity.

It was written in the downward slope of Dean’s shoulders and the way his lips tilted up.

So beautiful that Cas was captivated. 

A throat cleared, and Cas tore his eyes away from Dean. “You said you wanted umbrellas in your drinks, right?”

“Yes, two umbrellas…” Cas trailed off, his gaze moving to something on the counter at the back of the bar. “Could I have one of those too, please?”

The bartender offered Cas a knowing smile and nodded his head towards Dean. “Trying to make an impression, huh?” 

Letting his eyes wander back to Dean, Cas shook his head. “I’m already his lover,” Cas replied, his wedding ring glinting in the sun as he picked up the drinks that the bartender had completed. 

By the time Cas had stepped up next to Dean with the drinks, the sun was starting to dip beyond the horizon; a purple dye stained the sky and the water below.

“Hey handsome,” Dean said, turning his gaze from the waves on the shore to Cas. 

The look in Dean’s eyes took Cas’ breath away. 

“What’s that?” Dean asked, gesturing to the drinks. There was a crinkle in the creases by Dean’s eyes as he smiled at Cas, and Cas ached to press his lips against those lines. 

Shaking the thought from his head, Cas gently offered the drink with the splash of color to Dean. “Will you accept this rose?”

Dean’s eyes flickered from the rose perched against the rim of the drink, to the matching red umbrella in the center of the drink, to Cas, and then back to the rose. “Castiel Winchester, you really are something,” Dean murmured, plucking the rose from the drink and twisting the stem back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Is that a yes?”

In a deliberately slow motion, Dean plucked the drink from Cas’ hand and crouched to wedge both drinks into the sand. Then, he stood up and stepped into Cas’ space. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ neck, and Cas immediately leaned into the touch. “The answer is always yes. To marrying you. To being your husband. To the rose. Yes, Cas.”

A moment passed between them, Dean staring into Cas’ eyes, and Cas reaching out with his Grace to feel the warmth of Dean’s soul. And then they were kissing.

Cas let out a hushed breath as his lips traced the curve of Dean’s mouth. The taste of salt air transferred from Dean to Cas, and it sent a shiver down Cas’ spine. 

It was so easy to get lost in the way Dean licked his way into Cas’ mouth. The way Dean let out these stuttered little gasps against Cas’ lips that melted into the kiss.

Settling his hands on Dean’s hips, Cas rucked up the corner of Dean’s shirt, letting his fingers graze against Dean’s skin. 

Dean let out another quiet groan, his hands moving up into Cas’ hair, instinctively pulling the angel closer as he deepened the kiss. Their tongues grazed against each other, and Cas chased that intimate touch again and again.

When Dean kissed him like this, hurried and desperate as if he couldn’t bear to spend a second not kissing Cas, it felt like Cas was drawing from a live wire every time their mouths brushed against each other. Intoxicating, overwhelming, and utterly addictive.

It was Dean who pulled back from the kiss, shaking as he drew in a deep breath. 

But that wasn’t enough for Cas. He needed more. Needed to let everything that Dean was consume every molecule of his being.

With one hand on Dean’s waist, Cas mimicked Dean’s earlier touch by sliding his other hand into the hair at the back of Dean’s neck, bringing Dean back into the kiss. And Dean went willingly, his fingers tugging at the strands of Cas’ hair as he teasingly traced his tongue over Cas’ bottom lip.

Cas opened his mouth, letting Dean lick his way across Cas’ tongue and the roof of his mouth as he focused on the way their lips fit perfectly together. 

Each time they broke apart for a breath, they dove back in, trading deep kisses back and forth as if it were their air supply. The sand beneath their feet, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the wind whipping around their bodies. It all faded into the background as Cas chased the taste of his husband’s lips.

Finally, Cas eased back from the kiss, nudging his nose against Dean’s before pressing their foreheads together. They were both puffing quick fast breaths against each other’s cheeks. 

It didn’t matter that Cas didn’t need to breathe to live, Dean still had the ability to steal all their air from Cas’ lungs.

Dean let out a breathless laugh, tracing his fingertips across Cas’ neck and down to his shoulder blades. “God, I love you.”

A flush creeped up Cas’ cheeks and he dropped his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. He peeked out across the water, realizing there were stars glimmering above their heads and the moon had replaced the sun. They’d spent far too long and yet not long enough kissing on the beach.

“Our drinks have melted,” Cas mumbled against the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Looks like we need more then,” Dean said, and even without seeing Dean’s face, Cas knew that he was grinning.

Dean pulled back, his hand sliding down Cas’ arm and entangling their fingers together as he started to guide them away from the ocean and back towards the beach bar. They’d only walked a few steps when Dean stopped their movement. “Oh, wait, I forgot. Found this washed up on the beach and thought you’d like it for your collection.”

When Dean reached into his pocket he pulled out a black fossilized shark tooth and placed it into Cas’ hand. Cas turned the tooth over in his palm several times. It was beautiful; smooth and shiny and perfectly preserved. “Thank you,” he murmured, running his thumb across the edge of the tooth before tucking it into his own pocket for safe keeping.

As they started walking again, their hands linked, Cas nodded his head up to the bar. “The bartender saw me staring at you when you were watching the waves earlier. He thought I was trying to flirt with you by buying you a drink.”

Dean laughed again, bringing Cas’ hand up to his lips so he could place a kiss against Cas’ knuckles. “And here I was thinking it was me trying to flirt with you all those years ago.”

Humming, Cas turned his gaze towards Dean, “And yet, it was me who kissed you first.”

Dean pulled them to a stop just short of the bar. “Hang on, I kissed you first when I rescued you from the Empty.”

Cas felt a laugh bubble up from his chest. “Fine, I’ll give you that one. But I was the one to propose to you.”

“Only because you beat me to it by one day,” Dean said as they both sat down at the bar, their hands still linked together.

“Gotta be quicker than that, Winchester,” Cas teased. 

Dean leaned over and pressed a kiss to Cas’ cheek.  “Two can play at that game,” Dean murmured against Cas’ jaw. Turning his attention to the bartender, Dean said, “Two piña coladas with umbrellas in them for my husband and I.”

[plusultraetc]

I'm gonna NEED you to go on that rant about Shinsou's epilogue look. I'm gonna need that right this minute. (When you get a minute.)

THANK YOU BECAUSE TBH I ALSO NEEDED TO GO ON THIS RANT. It's been percolating for days at this point. I apologize if this is a little (okay a lot) chaotic and disorganized, but I worry that if I nitpick it too much I'll never post it. Hard side-eye @ my inbox, etc.

I should start by saying: I really love Shinsou's epilogue look. Like, enough that I'm already making plans for a second, post-canon shinsou hitoshi expansion pack (current name ideas include: shinsou hitoshi expansion pack ii, 2 shinsou hitoshi 2 expansion pack, and shinsou hitoshi dlc). I love the long hair (he does look darling!! I personally always imaged his older self with shorter hair, but after the first image of him as a pro came out back in August I was sold); his eyebags + eyebrows remain immediately recognizable; and tbh I didn't even realize that he might indeed be wearing some kind of eye mask in that group panel but if he is I love that so much. I know that opinion isn't universal, and that's totally okay!! This is just an emo little ramble about why I personally enjoy a lot of the character design choices made for Pro Hero Nighthide.

Side note: I still can't believe we know his hero name. It was one of the only (realistic) things on my second epilogue wishlist, but honestly I was 50/50 on whether or not we would ever have it confirmed. And yet!! Not only do we know his hero name, but much like @greenhappyseed said in her post, 'Nighthide' reminds me very much of 'Nightwing,' who happens to be my Favorite Superhero Of All Time. So like. That item got two checkmarks on the wishlist. I'm obsessed.

OKAY NOW LET'S TALK ABOUT THE LOOK ITSELF.

The thing is, it should be gimmicky, shouldn't it? Not only does Shinsou have the same support item as Aizawa, and use the same combat style, and have a similar costume, but the hair? At this point, it feels like the story is leaning hard on The Dadzawa Of It All for a near-comedic effect. And it can be comedic! And also adorable! But it can also reinforce not only a recurring theme throughout MHA, but also Shinsou's own character arc at the same time.

There's a post--or possibly tags of a post--buried somewhere on this blog about how Shinsou's original hero costume is a really interesting combination of elements from both Aizawa's and Midoriya's suits. I've seen & loved posts about how his costume is, like, the perfect 'child of erasermic' costume, but as much as I love a good Mentor Mic moment, he and Shinsou don't really interact in canon. Aizawa and Midoriya are the characters who canonically have had the greatest influence on Shinsou's journey to the Hero Course and beyond. The similarities between his original costume and theirs is in keeping with the MHA tradition of creating a visual link between characters who inspire and characters who are inspired by them--Shirakumo and Aizawa, All Might and Midoriya, and Crimson Riot and Kirishima are just a few examples. That being said, having Shinsou's final hero design lean even harder into the visual similarities with Aizawa just makes sense. It continues the inspiration/homage trend, but it also serves as a reminder of Shinsou's series arc.

A few days ago, I saw some posts on another platform that essentially said that Shinsou's original purpose as a character--to draw attention to and subvert expectations surrounding so-called 'villainous' quirks--had been watered down while he himself was reduced to a mini-Aizawa. And I totally get where op was coming from--there were a lot of potential directions MHA could have taken Shinsou's character, and all of them could have been really interesting, but they all would also have required Shinsou to not be a side character, especially in a show with, like. More side characters than episodes. If we wanted to really delve into quirk discrimination via brainwashing, for example, Shinsou would have needed way more focus that he was just never going to get. THAT BEING SAID, I don't think this means his original purpose was forgotten, or that his taking after Aizawa watered his character down in any way. In fact, I would argue that the exact opposite is true.

Because here's the thing about Shinsou's infamous-to-me, largely-off-screen character arc: it's over in season 5. Obviously, Shinsou continues to be an impactful, important part of the story after the Joint Training Arc, but if you want to get technical about it, Shinsou achieves his aforementioned purpose/goal in as much depth as it will ever be afforded in season 5 when he is accepted into the Hero Course and set to transfer at the start of his second year. Shinsou's motivation is to prove that he can be a hero with a 'villainous' quirk; the concrete way for him to get there is to transfer into the Hero Course, graduate from UA, and become a pro. And in that arc, he takes that first, most important step, from which it is safe to assume that he will continue down the path to success. If we had never seen him again after the training exercise with 1-B aside from the occasional panel to remind us that he's still out there somewhere, waiting to transfer, it would have been both a huge bummer and a waste of his character and quirk, but he still would have had a complete arc. His purpose was never forgotten. It was just fulfilled.

AND YET X2. Shinsou sticks around, big yay, etc. He shows up again with a cool new costume, and then he shows up again again with a new haircut and a cool name post-timeskip. And yes, it's all very Aizawa-inspired, but that's because following in Aizawa's footsteps is exactly how Shinsou achieved his goal!! He wasn't turned into a mini-Aizawa for no reason, or for The Dadzawa Of It All--he was turned into a mini-Aizawa deliberately because that's how he becomes a hero. Shinsou has to approach his goals differently than his peers (see: the Hero Course entrance exam, which they passed & he failed) because his quirk is both viewed differently from theirs and must be used differently, much like Aizawa's. So those visual links hit twice as hard, because not only is Shinsou inspired by Aizawa, but he is quite literally and necessarily following the path Aizawa forged. (The capture cloth is actually a very literal manifestation of this--it took Aizawa five years to master, but he tells Shinsou that it will take him less time because he has someone to teach him. It's the same for every aspect of his hero career--including the social aspect. @bfire92 made a really sweet post about this as well, and I have Many Thoughts and Like Four Drafts about it, but that's a different rant lol)

TL;DR Shinsou looks a lot like a mini-Aizawa, but imo it's a natural continuation of both his character arc and MHA's thematic and visual trends. Also, he just looks cute. That's my son & I'm very proud.

[piarelei]

Date Night

Can be read as a sequel to Bullseye, but doesn't have to be.

Jake slid onto the passenger seat and the leather gave a squeak of protest under him. Bradley gave him a bordering-on-nervous smile. Jake was too floored with how out of character it felt that he barely reacted when he was greeted with a kiss. This was incredibly unusual. 

“Ready?” asked Bradley. 

Jake hummed, trying to settle in his seat. He refused to feel nervous. 

“Right. Let’s go, I made a reservation for 7:30.”  

Jake affiliated the noose that tightened around his throat to hunger. There was no other reason for it. 

The restaurant was beyond nice. Jake was always impeccably dressed, but he felt decidedly out of place trailing after Bradley. Their waiter brought them to a linen-draped table and handed them menus printed on a single sheet of paper. Jake looked up with some alarm, only to find Bradley already mesmerized into his own potential order. 

The table between them was akin to a sea of loneliness. 

“This is not working.”

Bradley looked at him with a bone deep shock. 

“I’m not talking about our relationship. I’m talking about this,” he twirled his finger around, designating the room at large. “I’m missing something.” 

Anger rose on Rooster’s face like a bloom at dawn. “This is a date.”

“Yes. But this is not the sort of date we go on. Honestly, I’m surprised you would choose something like that. Feels awfully heteronormative coming from you.”

Bradley pulled a face. It didn’t hide the sudden blush heating on his neck. “I suck your dick. There’s nothing heteronormative about it.”

Their waiter popped over at this exact moment. He was too polite to say anything, but his gaze held multitudes. “Have you chosen what you would like to start with?” 

“We’ll take two Old Fashioned, thank you.” 

Bradley frowned but didn’t correct him. Once the waiter left with their orders, he leaned over. “I don’t even like Old Fashioneds.” 

“Both are for me. You prefer to drink with your meal anyway.” 

Bradley sighed. “This was not what I envisioned.”

“And what did you envision?” 

“I don’t know. I thought you would be pleased. Less aggressive.” 

Jake crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, feeling too defensive. “Listen, I struggle to understand why we’re not making out on my couch right now.” 

The waiter dropped off their drinks and offered to take their order. Jake let Bradley take charge of his meal. 

Bradley stared at him. “Is it so awful for me to do something…” He winced. “A bit romantic?”

Jake did his hardest to keep his face neutral. It didn’t work, Bradley frowned at whatever he saw in his eyes. 

“Right. This was fucking stupid. Come on, I’ll pay, let’s go.” 

Jake couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t relieved by that, but he also knew that he couldn’t afford any broken china in their relationship after a five-months-long distance.

“Bradshaw, sit down. We’ve been dating for nearly a year. We don’t do this sort of thing.”

Bradley shrugged. “Maybe we should.” 

“Well, I wasn’t under the impression that there was anything wrong with the way we were.” 

Bradley kept quiet. His expression remained stiff. 

Jake leaned back, an idea percolating suddenly. “Are you about to propose?” 

The immediate panic was a relief. “Jesus, no. That would be fucking crazy.” 

“Right. Okay. Well?” 

Bradley looked away, toying with one of the Old Fashion he had appropriated. He sighed, giving in. “It’s just a thing my parents did. Mav told me he used to babysit me all the time so that my Dad could bring my mom to this semi-fancy restaurant she loved. I just thought it would be nice to have this with you.”

Jake softened, then felt a thick surge of guilt take place up in his throat. It felt incredibly selfish to have opposed Bradley every step of the way when he had wanted to do something nice, even if it was different from what they were used to. To what Jake needed. 

“I’m…” He battled with it a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to this sort of dating.” 

“That’s my fault too, then.” 

“Fuck off, Bradshaw, you’re not my first boyfriend.” 

“Hopefully, I’m your last.” 

Jake’s words were robbed from his mouth for a good second. “Sounds a lot like you're proposing to me.” 

Bradley leaned back, familiarly smug. “Maybe I should.” 

Jake was grateful to see their waiter coming to keep him from having to say anything incriminating, like yes.

Didn't really have any time before today and worked up a quick thing, more of a character study than anything else. Hoped you enjoyed. Show some love with a reblog baby ♥

[docholligay]

Reminder of your discovery of the moment Roy and Hawkeye took over your mind

Yes thank you!!

Okay I think I figured it out, I reserve the right to be wrong. But I was rewatching some stuff last night and trying to figure out the moment it went from "Oh, I really enjoy Hawkeye! I love an extremely capable woman who is allowed to be a little distant," and, "Oh by god, I do sometimes love a magnificent bastard. Way to go, Roy." Where I was basically just having fun with them while dealing with Ed's magical special boy times*. I like an adult character that I'm allowed to have all kinds of feelings about.

I HAVE ONLY SEEN TO EPISODE 15 PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT SPOIL ME

But while I enjoyed them, it was only fairly recently that I basically got lit on fire, and when you asked me, I realized I hadn't really THOUGHT about it that much.

So I think the beginning of it all was the end of episode 13. I mean, I liked them before, I was delighted to have Ed come back but mostly I was excited to have Roy fucking rag on him again, because, well, i think it's funny. I have some nascent feelings about Roy's relationship to Ed and what I think about all that, but I'm going to let them percolate a little bit. Anyway.

So we have this at the end of episode 13:

and this is what I said:

Also, I really love how we have who I would consider to be their seconds, their right hands, side by side holding their coats. I never really thought about how, different as they are, Hawkeye is to Al as Roy is to Ed. I had one brief moment where I wondered if Hawkeye knew why Roy stopped but of course she fucking did, she’s just the kind of loyal who would never say anything.

So this got me starting to turn their relationship in my head, because in this episode, she also basically tells him to shut the fuck about wanting the be Fuhrer, the walls have ears. She's sitting here holding his coat instead of just letting him deal with the problem his own damn self. And it got me thinking about this heady sort of loyalty, and how when he's exiled to Eastern, he or she or both of them make sure that Hawkeye goes with him, and not even the powers that be are willing to punish them both harshly by splitting them up. (and it WOULD be a punishment). I've thought about this quite a bit since then, how Al and Hawkeye are both much steadier and more reliable people, and the movements of their lives are determined by a couple of blustering arrogant disasters they can't walk away from. Who love them, but are...sometimes just kinda self-absorbed assholes.

Anyway, it made me really start thinking about the two of them.

REMINDER NOT TO TIP MY HAND TOWARD ANYTHING IN ANY WAY

But what really did it? @morkaischosen prompting me to write something about them. I think I've spoken before about the monologue at the end of HIll House, with Leah and Steve, and how I think a lot of writers, and certainly me, worry that might be true. That no one or nothing is real until you've written about it. Writing about things forces me to turn things over in my head, roll them around in my hands, it makes me think more intensely about people and events and ideas. My feelings about things and people become deeply ingrained in how and if I write about them.

Couple that with the fact that I actually started that fic from Roy's perspective, so getting into his head and how he thought about things, and I got like...75% of the way done before I decided to try from Hawkeye's view. I do this sometimes with those kind of prompts, just write a bit as both until I figure out who feels right for the bit. I normally don't get so FAR into one, though, I just took it for granted I knew Roy better. So now I had a real thought about they both think and function and how they fit together.

That set it on fire. All of a sudden, I was just, there. The encouragement helped in the way of writing about it out loud, but I mean, there are things I think about all the time that I don't publish because I know people aren't really interested, and they could easily become that, but it would have always been something from that moment.

It sucks in some ways to be watching this the way I am and to feel about them the way I do, because I am ass-deep in thinking about them, and wondering how do you 'make' a Roy or a Hawkeye, and I'm sure that at some point the show will hand me their tragic anime backstory and I don't want to be like, "well I like mine better so there' ahahah.

PLEASE DO NOT SPOIL ME FOR ANYTHING OR CONFIRM OR DENY OR ANYTHING

*which seem to be...and god I'm afraid to hope...waning? Him getting his whole ass handed to him, without question, outgunned, outrun, and/or outwitted, twice in quick succession, has made me put some trust pieces back on the board

[markantonys]

okay, letting some potential s3 travel plans percolate.......the facts (and safe-feeling assumptions) are these:

the girls start at the white tower, and it seems everyone else is in tar valon as well (moiraine and rand are per a description of the opening scene shown at the con, and the cast have said in multiple interviews that everyone's together at the start of the season)

showverse has already established a waygate near tar valon, and there's a set report of a waygate near the two rivers for s3

rand is in the waste by 3x04, as that's his big rhuidean episode

rhuidean is just about the first thing that happens upon arrival in the waste in the books; not to say the same will definitely be true in the show, but it's a fair guess that rand might not reach the waste until 3x03

the other scene shown at the con included egwene in a desert-y location with moiraine, rand, and lan, so feels safe to say egwene will join their trip to the waste, as she does in the books

jorin the sea folk windfinder appears in block 3 (eps 5 and/or 6) per a leak on the actress's CV

i'm guessing perrin is set up nicely to take a waygate from tar valon to the two rivers. and he doesn't really have any dependencies on the other main characters' activities since he's flying solo this season, so he can head out anytime - we'll leave him aside in this speculation.

unsure what means the waste gang will use to travel there from tar valon, but a waygate feels likely as a replacement for the portal stone.

i have to assume that jorin's presence somewhere in ep5 and/or 6 indicates that's when elayne and nynaeve (and likely mat, perhaps also min) are voyaging from tar valon to tanchico on a sea folk ship. at first it puzzled me that they would remain in tar valon so late after everyone else has left, but i have an idea now!

so, i'm thinking the waste gang + tanchico gang have 2 full episodes in tar valon (relationship-building, prophecy research, bubbles of evil, accepted tests, tower politics, meeting elaida and the brothers G, egwene discovering dreaming abilities and being summoned by amys, rand learning more about the car'a'carn from the aiel trio, rand giving mat cpr if i'm lucky, etc). then episode 3 is when they decide they have to split up, with rand & egwene needed in the waste and the others heading off to chase rumors of liandrin in tanchico.

this way, they all leave at the same time and the tanchico crew is on their way by the end of ep3, but then perhaps their plotline is left out of ep4 (with the massive rhuidean A plot and maybe a small perrin B plot, this could be an offscreen travel episode for the tanchico crew), so we catch up with them again in ep5 on the ship with jorin and approaching tanchico.

alternately, everyone heads out in 3x02, and 3x03 features the tanchico crew doing something narratively valuable during a journey from tar valon to an ocean port city. alternately alternately, waste crew heads out in 3x02 and tanchico crew sticks around tar valon 1 extra episode before heading out in 3x03. regardless, with the info we have now, i think it makes the most sense for the tanchico crew to head out pre-3x04, sit out 3x04, and reach tanchico in 3x05 (with their first scene(s) in the episode being the girls learning from jorin as the ship is still en route). but who knows how much these speculations might change as we learn more!

[himluv]

A New Home (if you want)

Chapter 38 of Say My Name (Say it Twice) is here! In which Lucanis and Rook return to the Lighthouse, and Lucanis learns more about her past.

Read it below, or find it on AO3

Back in the Lighthouse, Bellara scurried off to her room, but not before giving Lucanis a pained smile. It seemed to say ‘good luck!’ before leaving him alone with Rook. 

They said nothing on their way out of the eluvian room, and when her silence persisted into the library, Lucanis sighed. Then he took her hand and hauled her after him into the music room. 

“Lucanis,” she started, voice heavy and irritated. 

Once the door rolled closed behind them, he pulled her into a hug, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, their bodies pressed together. For just a moment, she resisted. Then her arms snaked around his neck and her face burrowed into his chest. Her body shuddered against his as she cried, and Lucanis just held her. He didn’t shush her or try to convince her that everything would be all right. They simply stood in the music room, and he held Embria as she let out all the day’s rage and fear.

She would never know it, but Lucanis cried a little, too. For all the heartache she carried, that he wished to carve out a space in his chest where she could stow her pain. He would gladly carry it for her if he only could. 

By the time her tears subsided, his face was dry and his eyes clear. She sighed into his chest. “Thank you.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Think nothing of it.”

She squeezed him a little tighter, and then released him. “I could really go for a cup of coffee right now.”

Lucanis smiled at her. “I think I can make that happen.”

Her smile was fragile, but true. “I’ll meet you down there?”

He didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone, but he didn’t let the concern show. He merely nodded and dropped his face to hers for a quick kiss. 

They walked out of the music room together, then separated at the stairwell. It was becoming a routine, walking together after returning from wherever they’d gone. Splitting up to change and clean up, only to reunite in the dining hall. 

Lucanis often found comfort in routines, but today this one ached. Why should they part at all? Surely, he should go with her. He wanted to. Wanted to help her change out of her leathers and into something comfortable. Wanted to check for himself that she wasn’t injured. Wanted to know with eyes, hands, and heart that she was whole and his.

But then he remembered that damn aquarium. Just thinking of it made his fingers feel cold, made his blood roar like tides in his ears. So, he went to the pantry and changed alone. 

Rook. Hurts, Spite whispered. 

That didn’t surprise Lucanis. It had been a very stressful day. 

Thoughts. And FEELINGS. Knots. Tangled tight.

Lucanis sighed as he buttoned up his waistcoat. “I know, Spite.”

The demon watched him with wary eyes. Lucanis. Helps?

“I hope so.”

Spite sneered at him. Doesn’t want help. Thinks she shouldn’t. NEED it.

Lucanis hummed at that. While he understood that feeling well, he also knew he couldn’t let her face this pain on her own. He would be beside her the whole way, just as she’d been for him. 

Rook. Lucanis. Spite. TOGETHER!

Lucanis nodded and gave the demon a small smile. “Together.”

He stepped out into the dining hall and fell into the routine of brewing coffee. The door opened behind him before the percolator finished hissing. Lucanis didn’t need to look, didn’t need Spite’s eager announcement – Rook! – to know it was her. 

The soft and steady slap of bare feet on stone was all he needed to hear. 

She joined him at the coffee hutch, leaned one hip against it, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

She wore a fresh tunic and leggings, her hair down in damp waves. Her skin glowed, fresh and dewy from the bath. Embria sighed. “Today was… a lot.”

He nodded. “An understatement.”

She winced. “I never–” she stopped, shook her head.

“What?” He didn’t want to push, to demand. But he knew Embria – she needed to talk about this. 

She frowned down at the floor between them. “I never expected to see Erewhen again.”

Lucanis hummed at that, watching the coffee brew, then frowned. “Not even when you went home?”

Rook blinked at him. “When would I go home?”

He shrugged. “After this is over?”

For a moment she just stared at him, and Lucanis’s stomach dropped with a sudden fear. 

Then she said, “Right. Yeah. Of course, after.” She shook her head. “I just haven’t thought much about what comes at the end of all this, I guess.”

Lying, Spite hissed.

“Embria–”

“What did Bellara say to you when we were in Arlathan?” She didn’t look at him. “It seemed to upset Spite.”

Lucanis didn’t answer right away, unsure if he wanted to let her change the subject. He poured them each a cup of coffee in the tense silence, then sighed. “She mentioned something about Erewhen that she thought I knew.”

“Oh.” Rook took her coffee, staring into the dark liquid. “I’m sorry, Lucanis. I should have told you.”

He leaned with his back against the hutch. “I understand why you didn’t.”

She looked up at him. “You do?”

He snorted. “Spite wanted to kill her when he found out.”

“Huh,” she said. “I didn’t think he was the jealous type.”

Lucanis frowned at her. “What?”

She frowned back at him. “Why else would Spite be upset that Erewhen and I were…” she blinked at him. “Wait. What did Bellara tell you?”

He stood and turned to face her. “She told me Erewhen left you in the middle of the night.” He tilted his head slightly to one side. “What did you think she told me?”

Embria looked away from him and covered her face with one hand. “Fuck.”

“Rook.”

She peered out at him from between her fingers. 

He took a deep breath. “You can tell me,” he said. 

Her voice was tiny when she finally spoke. “We were bondmates.”

“Bondmates…” he didn’t know what that meant, but if he had to guess –

“Married,” she whispered.

Lucanis’s mind went blank as the word bounced around his skull. 

Spite had the opposite reaction. Rook and HER? Together? FOREVER?!

He waited for the panic to cinch his chest, for that roaring water sound in his ears. But, they never came. This news didn’t upset him the way she seemed to think it would. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made his heart ache. Embria and Erewhen had been married. 

And Erewhen had still left without a word.

Lucanis shook his head, then reached out to take Embria’s hand down from her face. “I cannot believe she left you,” he said.

Her eyes welled up, but she blinked back the tears. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

“She HURT you,” he and Spite growled, their vision flickering violet and then back. “And unless you intend to return to her, I don’t care that you were married.”

Embria shook her head. “Never.”

Gooooood, Spite hissed. 

“But,” she continued. Her hand shook in his. “To the Dalish, bondmates are for life.”

Lucanis’s voice was low and lethal when he said, “Then she shouldn’t have left.”

She smiled at him, but it was pained. “That’s why I won’t go home,” she said. “To the clans, we will always be bonded.”

He remembered suddenly her words when she spoke to Spite in the music room. ‘I don’t belong to anyone.’ How adamant she’d sounded. Lucanis had thought she’d meant they weren’t really together, but now he wondered if Erewhen had destroyed Rook’s view of marriage? Would she marry him, if he asked one day? Was that something he even wanted?

He shook his head to banish those questions. They could be answered later, after they killed the gods. Instead, he brushed her hair back behind one ear and cupped her cheek in his palm. “That is their loss, Embria.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. Her chin wobbled and a single tear escaped down her cheek. “They’re my people, Lucanis. My mom–” her voice broke. 

“We will save them,” he said. He licked his lips, bracing himself for the words he was about to say. “And when this is done, you will have a new home.”

Embria opened her eyes and stared at him. The longer he looked into those crystal grace eyes, the more he worried he might have overstepped. He was just a man, an Antivan Crow whose House had just tried to eat itself alive. 

And Spite, the demon growled.

And Spite. A demon, a failing House, and a man still so damaged that he couldn’t look at a wall of water without panicking. Hardly an adequate substitute for her entire clan, her culture. 

He looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “If you want it.”

Her hands on each side of his face startled him. Before he could say anything, Embria hauled him  down into a fierce kiss. Lucanis stepped into her space, setting his cup down on the hutch, and then pulled her flush against him. 

Her mouth was fire on his, her tongue tracing his lips until he opened to her. He moaned, his fingers digging into her hips as he pushed her back toward the hutch. She followed his guidance, jumped a little as he lifted her to sit on the counter. 

The cups and steel brewing equipment rattled as she settled onto the cabinet, but Lucanis couldn’t care less. He stood between her legs, her chest pressed to his, and their tongues entwined in a feverish dance. Rook’s arms wrapped around his neck, keeping him close, and his hand climbed up to twine his fingers through her hair. 

She moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating from her tongue to his, and Lucanis pulled back to catch his breath. He panted, his eyes roving over her as he tried to settle his pulse. 

“Okay?” She asked. Mierda, her lips were so pink and full. 

“Yes,” he said, knew she needed him to say it. That he needed to be able to say it. He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m just… easily overwhelmed.”

Embria blinked at him, then blushed as she caught his meaning. She pressed a hand to his chest. “That’ll get better with practice,” she assured him.

He huffed at that, at the mischievous glint in her eyes. He leaned into her again, his mouth a whisper away from hers. “I am a firm believer in practice.”

She hummed at that, her fingers curling at his lapel to pull him the rest of the way to her. Lucanis lost track of time after that. His life was measured in breaths, heartbeats, and the little sounds Rook made as they kissed. Tangled together like this, the day felt endless, as eternal as the Fadelight beyond the dining hall walls. 

But it was, in fact, late afternoon, and the team would need dinner soon. 

The door opened behind them, and yet they didn’t immediately part. Their kiss wound down naturally, leaving Lucanis breathless once they did separate. 

“And I’m the one banned from the percolator?” Neve tsked at them. 

Lucanis took a deep breath through his nose, willing his body to calm. Then Rook gently pushed him away, her blush an intense crimson. He leaned against the hutch beside Rook once more, his hip brushing her knee. He took up his coffee cup and pointedly ignored Neve’s gaze.

Embria sighed. “Hey, Neve.”

She smirked. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, then looked at Lucanis. “But, I’ve finally got my hands on those cheeses.”

He sighed. “So, khachapuri for dinner, then?”

Neve’s smile glinted in the firelight. “I’ll go get Bel,” she said. “She could use the distraction.”

He glanced at Rook, but she said nothing until Neve turned and left the room. 

“Lucanis?”

“Yes?” He glanced at her, expecting to be met with that mischievous glint once again, but her violet-tinged eyes were serious. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

He looked at her and tried desperately not to let his panic show. She said she wouldn’t push, and she hadn’t so far. He trusted her to keep her word. So, she didn’t mean that. And yet… Lucanis looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. 

“Rook.”

Her hand on his arm was warm and reassuring. “Not like that,” she said. “I just…” she shrugged. “Don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Mierda. How was he supposed to say ‘no’ to that?

Say. YES! Spite said. 

He wanted to. Maker knew, he wanted to. But Lucanis couldn’t bear the thought of spending the entire night in the glow of that aquarium wall. Even if he did manage to sleep, surely it’d be plagued by nightmares. 

“Embria,” he said softly. “I don’t think I can.”

He watched her tamp down her disappointment, saw the crestfallen look in her eyes come and then go in a flash of hurt before she looked down at her feet. He hated to be the cause of her suffering.

Nooooooooo! Spite howled. 

Lucanis brushed his fingers along her jaw, guiding her face to look at him again. “But,” he started. “If you don’t mind sharing a tiny, uncomfortable cot…”

She frowned at him, confused. But, then she smiled. “I don’t mind at all,” she said. 

YES! Spite crowed, grinning at them both. 

“Then I will see you tonight,” Lucanis said. He bent to kiss Embria with just a little heat. She returned it, making a disappointed noise when he pulled away. “Right now,” he said. “I need to start on dinner.”

“Fine,” she huffed. And while her desire was genuine, Lucanis recognized the glimmer of fear in her eyes. It seemed Embria was in desperate need of a distraction, too. As he turned away from her, he vowed to do whatever it took to ease her fears tonight. 

[tickfleato]

oh my god ive finally had a breakthrough that lets me have my cake and eat it too with the various problematic lunarian tech in the hnk fixit postcanon au. Because like. let's be real. my real reasons for all of this is that i just want to draw the gems as gems for as long as possible. But i also want to keep the lunarian conversion machine development time not completely ridiculous (the 1000 year idea for my cairn fic was waaaay too long). so ive figured out a great way to slow down the conversions: make the machine take decades to do its thing instead of the length of one (1) pop song

1) this means that the number of gems that are able to get converted over a given time period goes down drastically (if only one can be in at a time. Which is the case both in canon and in my au)

2) this means that there would probably be more hesitance And more deliberation over making the decision to do so.

the Other decision i have is that the recovery/resurrection process with all the powdered gems takes way way way longer. not sure if the deus ice machina still exists or not but if it does it takes a lot longer to find and utilize.

i have several events and stories percolating at year 550 postwar, one that follows the dynamics of the new generation of gems (focusing on citrine & smoky who are kind of just starting to be seen as adults by people) and then the admirabilis stuff that i just came up with under the influence of powerful iced coffee, which is definitely going to need reworking and refining. i'm definitively saying that at this point in the timeline the conversion machine has been functional for at least a couple centuries.

the gems i know that are for sure lunarians by this point are new goshe, amethyst 84, yellow diamond, alexandrite and cinnabar. goshe for the same reason as in the manga (impulsively choosing to be the first person to test it out), amethyst 84 also for the same reason (wanting to test and also bc it would help with their research) and the latter three for medical reasons. Cairngorm is a maybe strongly in the yes direction. but i have Many ideas for their story. And then there are probably a few more i just haven't decided who yet.

Wait i should put all this in fucking google docs. well enjoy tumblr readers

[gaiaseyes451]

2024 Fic Roundup / AO3 Ask Game

Oi, so many tags! Thank you @nosferatini, @kotias and @cheeseplants!

What fandoms do you write in?

Good Omens

How many words have you published in 2024?

Not including collaborative works: 129,329. Good grief, that feels like a lot.

What is your greatest achievement this year?

Honestly, I'm proud of myself for writing to deadlines this year. A lot of my writing was for events and I'm always terrified I won't make it but I did! I also art'd for the first time for @the-literal-kj

What are your favourite top three fics you've written this year?

Ostinato - Pianist Crowley summons Aziraphale back from Heaven. This let me lean into my pianist background, I loved writing this for the High Pollen Count event.

Breathless - The breath play kink fic that was never planned but @sixbynine-da demanded. I've never had a scene flow out of me like this and it isn't angst!

A Little Life - My first long fic. Folks say it's sad and it is, but to me it also... isn't... Forever indebted to @fuzzygoblin for the music prompt for the Good Omens Song and Poetry exchange and for gamely agreeing despite all the trigger warnings (before they knew it was me writing it). <3

What was your biggest pit of despair moment?

Truthfully, I'm in my lowest point of the year right now. Haven't written a word since finishing Breathless. But I've got amazing friends in this community who have my back. I'll be okay.

What have you learned?

Tell the story you want to tell. Better to write for yourself and the handful of people the story will resonate with than to force a story you think will appeal to the masses. If it's pulling at you, it's pulling for a reason.

Reach out to your idols, I've yet to find one of the people I perceive as BNF's to be anything but kind and encouraging.

I'm pretty sure I can HTML just about anything with a general guide now.

What fic did you want to do but never made it off the ground?

I still have a roughly 20k draft of 1941 that I wanted to finish. It needs to be rewritten, but I will finish it.

Did you beta any fics? Any favs you want to shout out?

I beta for a lot of folks! I'm going to miss people, I'm so sorry. @adverbian's Is This Desire?

@kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon's Sins of Knowledge

@sixbynine-da's A Tricky Situation

@spectrallydistracted's If I Loved You Less ... We Could Have Coffee

Most everything by @the-literal-kj and @hakunahistata but particularly KJ's Show the Way and Haku's 21 Grams

What three fics have you read this year that you love?

Someone is Calling Him Shorewards by @harlotofupdog - The first fic that made me break my "I don't read WIPs" rule. Gorgeous and atmospheric and sexy and heartwrenching and mysterious. I don't know how I got the title of angst queen in our little group when Harlot wrote Shorewards.

Quite Contrary by @gingiekittycat - Poor Gingie has listened to me write honest to someone literary analysis of this fic as well as beg for multiple historical prequels. This one lives rent free in my head and will for a long time.

Play for Me the Music of Your Heart by @leviosally - There is one chapter left to go that I (and everyone else) am waiting for with baited breath, but now is a perfect time to start a read if you haven't yet. This is, in my opinion, the quintessential musician AU written by someone with a deep love and understanding of music. Spellbinding.

What ideas are percolating for next year?

@the-literal-kj and I are already working on our Heaven before the Fall story that we've been calling Bitter Things! The other big fic I'd like to get out is a Human AU where Peter Pan collides with Peaky Blinders. And, in January, expect.... wait for it... fluff

Who do you want to thank?

@hakunahistata, @the-literal-kj and @adverbian - You three cheer and challenge and cackle and cry and you make things better, both my writing and my day to day life. I'm grateful for you as beta's and I'm humbled to call you my friends.

@kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon, @dbacklot99 and @sixbynine-da - Y'all are the first real collaborators I've worked with on an as of yet unspoken project. I have so enjoyed working with you three and also becoming friends! Thank you for the randomness and the wonderful angst spirals and that utterly AMAZING Lucicrow birthday gift - Changing Keys

@goodomensafterdark community and all the wonderful folks who are following me here or have taken the time to kudos and/or comment on my work. Seeing what y'all create and hearing from you brightens my day immensely! I'm so grateful for this amazing, welcoming, exuberant fandom!

No pressure tags: I have no idea who hasn't been tagged yet, if you're mentioned above please take it as a tag. If you see this and want to play, please do and tag me!