#to 'what if someone could love you even broken. even with the myriad of things 'wrong' with you'

[friendofthecrows]

TW extremely triggering dark topic but with a positive message, I promise. I just needed to get this out somewhere.

It's not about whether you deserve to be happy. "You deserve to be happy" type messages never rung true to me, because sure, other people do. But me, I've been told I'm a monster, that I deserve to die. But very recently, as in today, I've realized it isn't about that. It's about whether you can be happy. If you can manage it. If you can scrape together moments of joy, then you should. Whether you deserve it or not, you can be happy, and you will, and that is worth it. All that matters is that it is possible.

You have to be alive to see if you can.

[kalims]

you say I love you as a goodbye accidentally | all

premise.

"okay," you smile at no one in particular, though you've got a feeling the other person on the line can feel your smile. "thanks. I love you, bye," without a single thought behind your head you hang up and emit a dreamy sigh.

wait.

your smile drops as your face shifts into panic.

completely spaces out, lowkey having a crisis. did you mean it or no? part of him wishes you were because his heart is just gonna start combusting either way. everyone is concerned why he's been staring into thin air for the past two minutes tightly gripping his phone like it's his life support. he looks like he's in a dilemma and two seconds away from suffocation because of how long his breath seems to have been caught away.

can't stop thinking about it and seems more silent when in person with you. *ascends to heaven*

riddle, deuce, azul, jamil, silver.

ㅤ

is very.. verbal about it. is either bragging to everyone who really does not want to listen to his constant nagging or proclaiming, as in busting everyone's eardrums off with his shrill screams of excitement. if he could he would practically be characterized by someone jumping around the room in a fit of joy and adrenaline. he just has to do something to tame the literal mile his heart is running.

is way more affectionate with you than normal which you don't know if you should be concerned with or happy.

cater, floyd, kalim, epel, rook (sometimes.)

ㅤ

on the more calming side. but can't help but crack a smile at your words, partially aware that it was out of habit but it didn't exactly stop the myriad of crisis you just sent his mind to. though he looks completely fine on the outside he's just teensy, tiny bit freaking out on the inside. don't worry, all you need to know that he is very pleased about it.

starts to tell you 'I love you too' by the end of your calls, making everyone assume you're dating but it's more like a married couple than a normal.

trey, jade, vil, lilia.

ㅤ

is just a big fat tsudere that can't seem to look you in the eye properly when you both meet in real life. you have no idea what he's thinking but what you do know is the words you accidentally blurted last night so.. basically two idiots who are thinking the same thing but refuse to talk due to the embarrassment. would talk about it if the other initiates first though..

wants to talk about it but also doesn't wanna talk about it?

deuce, epel, sebek, jack, idia.

ㅤ

NEVER LETS YOU FORGET ABOUT IT. having dinner? oh would you look at that, that's before you told him the words. raining? it was raining during that time too. do you just want to rest? too bad, because his face is twisting to that smug look and you know full well what's coming out of his mouth next. he's always teasing you about it.

thinks what you said was a joke but doesn't really mind if it is. an 'I love yous' an I love you and he will keep reminding you that :) playfully but uses it against you :'( *descends to hell*

ace, leona, ruggie, lilia.

ㅤ

immediately brightens up and flashes everyone with his sunshine because he's so happy. his familiar love for you just grows a thousand times bigger than before and he finds himself doing what you ask without any complaints. he just wants to help you <3 cause he just kinda considers you as a family figure now..

leaves idia in the dust lowkey haha.. he still loves him tho

ortho (platonic)

ㅤ

grins and looks immensely pleased. his giggles are a little ominous but even you can discern the clear happiness in them. it was so subtle that you didn't even notice him straying closer than usual.

can't seem to leave you alone now.

rook, jade, floyd.

ㅤ

uhm.. hello? child of man? lilia told him that this.. electronic box would make him hear your voice even through the portal of diasomnia but he can't seem to hear anything, nor see anything but a black screen. strange. is it broken? (yes malleus, you broke it because you were too excited to talk to the prefect.)

did not know but probably would have died if he ever heard it and immediately propose to you and stage a ceremony.

malleus.

note. why did I forget about some characters until the last moment lolll. I am out of ideas fr HAHA. perhaps this is the end of the posting streak?

not proofread

kofi

[doublejango]

Don't just be pretty, be present. Write with the world like it's real.

There is a lot of beautiful writing in the RPC, a myriad of wonderfully different styles and preferences, and that is an excellent thing! If this tip doesn't feel like it is for you, that is okay! Everyone has different styles and desires; it may resonate with some people and not with others and that is absolutely okay. No one needs to be an expert at anything--I'm certainly not! I almost never edit replies, sometimes I just babble pure nonsense, and I'm a tiny bean of an RPer in a sea of amazing artists. These are just thoughts that have been kicking around in my head for a while, and that I hope will help someone here and there.

Don't just be pretty, be present.

Rather than stressing over how pretty your reply is, whether that means word choice or the actual formatting of the post, consider how present your character is in that post. Are they just passively reacting to a situation or a statement? Or are they really interacting with whatever is going on? Whether it's purple prose or stripped down simplicity, for some people things will feel a little flat, a little hollow, if a reply is especially passive--if a character responds but gives nothing back.

Is one of the characters carrying something weird around in the scene, like a chunk of 2x4 or a broken trumpet? Whatever it is, consider having your character interact with that element. Since it has been introduced, it exists, and there is nothing wrong with having your character notice it. Maybe they interact verbally, by asking about it. Maybe they interact through the narrative, by thinking something about it, or having an emotional response to it if it might be something they have previous experience with. Or, hell, if it really feels too random, you can have your character think that. Just like, What the hell is Joan doing with that trumpet? I don't want to deal with any more weird shit today.

React to what is around you in the scene. Interact with the world. If you're in a castle, maybe consider having your character touch the wall and make note of the texture. If something horrible is happening, don't just repeat a list of the events that happened, but show how your character reacts. You can show reactions internally or show reactions externally, and you can absolutely do both! Showing internally could mean demonstrating through their narrative or their thoughts how they feel about whatever just happened. Does it terrify them? Is their heart pounding? Do they want to run? Are they struggling to continue to stand next to their best friend? An external response might be describing their actions without touching on what's happening in their head--like taking a few steps back, a sudden gasp, stepping in front of their loved one--or even just describing how they look. Maybe they go pale, maybe their hands shake or their voice shakes. You don't have to state everything, you can show them however you want to, but for a lot of people, an RP experience is going to feel much more interactive, much more immersive, when you have the scene get to your character.

A beautiful character standing there and observing events is great, and it can be absolutely in character for them to be completely bored about whatever it happening, to show no reactions whatsoever... but that can be boring for your writing partners, especially in an action scene, and not leave them feeling inspired or feeling they have any sort of a hook to respond to. There's a line from an old song that always comes to mind when I think about this: If you're bored then you're boring. Not necessarily always true, there are ways to keep a bored character engaging, but it can be true. It can be very true. If a character has no more reactions than a plank of wood, then the other characters in the scene might as well walk away and go find an actual plank of wood.

A beautifully written reply that ultimately says nothing of significance to the situation can be wonderful, a gorgeous bit of almost poetry--but for some, it may leave your partner feeling like their efforts to create or support an important moment in the plot have fallen flat.

[Adding: Vivid descriptions are interacting. You're interacting with the world when you do that, you're making it more real. Flashbacks are interacting, you're showing how the events affected your character and what is happening in their mind suddenly. Try to give something for your partner to work with, of course, but don't hold yourself back. Chase your inspiration!]

Write like actions have consequences; play with the world like it's real.

I know a lot of people can be unsure how to react, because they don't want their characters to fail, but that is a trap that may lead to a stagnated scene. Your character doesn't need to win all the time. Let them be imperfect, let them fuck up, let them make mistakes, let them fall on their face, let them be in danger, let them risk it all, let them need help sometimes--

Let them be alive. (Or, you know, whatever passes for alive in their particular canon!)

It's RP. It's okay to take risks. It's okay to not be sure what the perfect response would be, it's okay to experiment, to go with what you feel your character would really do--even if that means they drop everything and bolt out of there, even if it means party members don't see eye to eye on something. It can be daunting to write a character with significant flaws, and it's not for everyone, but for a lot of us? I think it can be super rewarding to go through those little arcs and moments, the ups and downs, the times when your character is doing well and the times when they're just--lost. Flailing.

Write like everything matters. Even if you just do it in tiny little ways, use the scene around your character; let the weather affect them, let them idly pick at some grass if they're sitting in a meadow, let them be sore from a particularly chafed feeling spot because they've been sweating in their armor in an arena all day. Let them be cranky. Let them have headaches. Let their intentions, thoughts, preferences, and vibes not always match their lover's in any given moment; there's a lot to be said for characters who aren't always in perfect harmony with each other. Maybe one wakes up cranky and the other wakes up wanting to burst into song, bathe in coffee, and tackle ten new projects before the birds even start singing. Let them clash, let their love show through how they both respond to those little clashes.

And don't be afraid for your actions to have consequences. Write knowing that your character might be absolutely saying the wrong thing and digging themselves an ever-deeper hole here. Write as if your partner's reply has consequences: if the other character is a dick to yours, don't feel like your character must remain unaffected. Maybe they have the kind of personality where that can roll off their back, but then again, maybe they don't. Let your character be affected by things. Let them be hurt, let them be angry, let them be confused. Let them laugh. Let their minds wander.

Let the world, and the people in it, affect them.

If a bus goes by, maybe your character misses a few words of what the other said. Maybe those words are important.

Maybe it's a hot day and your characters have been out and on the go nonstop; it's okay to let your character be cranky, overheated, and dehydrated and just need to get somewhere cooler and quiet to decompress.

And then for big plot moments? If something terrifying happens, or something amazing, don't pretend it isn't happening, don't ignore it in favor of just replying point-by-point to every bit of dialog from your partner's last post. Conversations aren't always perfect. They ebb and flow--and they can absolutely be interrupted. Have fun. Talk with your partners. Don't try to control them, and don't use "it's what my character would do" as a way to trash a plot or ensure someone else has a bad time. Don't use RP replies to punish them. Keep it genuine in-character, whatever that means for your muses, and keep it kind out of character...

But don't keep your writing or your characters behind glass.

Let the world interrupt your character. Let the world move your character. Let the person with them have an impact on them, for better or for worse. Let them be hurt. Let them do the hurting. Let little things annoy them. Let them be distracted. Let the world matter. Let their emotions and reactions show.

They don't need to be a pretty, perfect, porcelain doll to be an incredible roleplay character. They just need to be present in their own scenes, in their own stories <3

[endless-ineffabilities]

this world was never meant for a fire like yours (part 3/5)

Daemon Targaryen x modern-f!reader / nurse!reader

word count: 5.6k

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

series synopsis: After a fatal injury on the battefield, Daemon wakes up in a foreign land - our world (where GoT / HoTD does not exist). He meets the reader, a nurse who tends to him and helps him navigate everything. They grow close, and slowly, but unequivocally, fall in love.

themes/warnings: separation, Daemon in his New Moon Bella Swan era, reader in full/overly hectic nurse mode, Viserys losing (even more) hair because of Daemon, Daemon is severely whipped, language

August 2023 / the 8th Moon, 113 AC

A flash of bright red passes by, your peripheral vision drawn to it as if on instinct. You don’t look back as you turn a corner, not wanting to see if it is a similar vehicle.

If it is, then that’s just fucking cruel. As if the universe itself is mocking you.

Because no matter how much you deny it, every single thing reminds you of him. 

Cars. Broken laptops. Your worn-out couch. Old movies. Pizza. Burnt food in your kitchen. Helicopters. The dog-eared paperbacks on your shelf. 

Damn him. Damn him to his ridiculous seven hells.

It has been weeks since Daemon Targaryen disappeared from your life, as easily and as abruptly as he had entered it.

Without a trace, as if you plucked him from your imagination. Except he did leave a mark so indelible it cannot be denied. He left his mark alright, in the form of constant sleepless nights. In how you space out each time his memory hits you. In how nothing in your little apartment seems to be yours anymore. Every corner, every inch of the space screams his name. He has made your world his own. He had claimed your heart… and then left. And now you’re here to pick up the pieces.

You remember the torture reflected in his face, the rage, when his brother came to take him away. You knew how badly he wanted to go home, so you made his choice for him.

You told him to leave. 

Stupid girl. You want to go back to that very moment, and tell yourself to make him stay. You know you should have held him in your arms, keeping him rooted in place. In this world, with you. 

But you opted for selflessness. You chose to have your heart broken, so that Daemon can go home. You know that he would have stayed if you only asked.

Fuck, I should have asked.

The Rogue Prince has been unpleasant and volatile ever since he returned from that strange other world. He has been made welcome, feted and tended to, day and night. Everyone was initially glad to have their Targaryen prince again. Until they realized how much he had changed.

Daemon quickly went back to his roguish ways, but it seems as if these tendencies increased tenfold. Something was severely wrong with the Rogue Prince. Something other than his usual myriad of dangerous flaws. Only a handful knew of his predicament, of his loss.

When the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, chooses to make some remark about how you were just some woman, and an unknowable outsider at that, someone who might never fit in the Seven Kingdoms, Daemon says nothing at first. 

For an entire minute, he sits at the council table, his mind stirring. 

Some of the small council members think the conundrum solved. Their prince must have finally realized that what he wants – who he wants – is an impossibility. But the more discerning of them, those more familiar with Daemon, know otherwise. 

Lord Corlys could have all but predicted what came next, after a grievous line from Ser Otto that goes, “Perhaps we should finally arrange for a union between the Prince and one of the Ladies of the Kingdom. Lord Baratheon’s eldest daughter might be – ”

Of course, he does not get to finish imparting this idea, as Daemon rises in a flash, Dark Sister drawn across the table and directed to Ser Otto’s sternum. 

The Kingsguard springs into action. Any harm conducted during the small council meeting, could of course also extend to their King. 

“Daemon!” Viserys growls, his patience having run out. 

The prince simply warns, “I will not have this snivelling sycophant make decisions about who and when I am to wed. And I will not hear any more slander about the woman whom I love, do I make myself clear?”

Ser Otto merely stands his guard, hands half raised by his sides as a gesture to the Kingsguard to not make any sudden attempts to remove the prince from the room, lest he should suffer any grievous harm to his person as a result.

“Daemon,” Viserys implores again, “Ser Otto was merely making a suggestion. What else is the small council for if not to freely discuss matters of import for ourselves and for the Seven Kingdoms? You are their prince, after all. Whom you wed will be most crucial, indeed.”

Daemon begins to relent. Slowly lowering Dark Sister, a sly smirk materializes on his lips, as if to show just how little this perceived threat to Ser Otto means to him. It isn't even enough to warrant an apology. 

Daemon seats himself once more, appearing to look unfazed as he inspects the calluses on his hands. “There is only one reason as to why I even deigned to participate in today’s council meeting. I wish to know if we have finally received word back from those bloody witches who had me returned… the ones who can apparently travel through our realm and the other.”

Viserys sighs, knowing his brother is not there for anything else. Not for his duties. Not for the realm. But for you. “Nothing yet, Daemon. But we are trying – ”

He stands abruptly, without any mind to formalities. “Then it appears there is no reason for my presence here.” 

In a moment, before any plea could be spoken, the Prince was gone from the council chambers.

Lord Beesbury, confused, addresses the table, “Was the Prince not meant to report on the recent dealings of his Gold Cloaks with – ”

“Oh, what does it matter, my Lord?” Ser Tyland interjects, with a scornful whip of his hair. “Prince Daemon would not be aware of all the goings on in the Red Keep, seeing as he is either holed up in his chambers or too busy hunting down those shameless heretics who can miraculously send him back to – ”

“Ser Tyland,” Viserys commands, his voice clear for once. “I shall ask that you leave that matter alone. Unless you can be of any help, which I highly fucking doubt.”

A hush falls over the small council. Their King has never been prone to swear freely like a drunken Lyseni, unlike his younger brother. 

“Perhaps,” Ser Otto says, “we should convene this council meeting for another day, my King.”

Viserys merely huffs in response. “Very well.”

As he departs the room with the Kingsguard, he wonders if things will ever be even just an infinitesimal amount of simple when it concerns his brother.

His conclusion comes swiftly – no, it never will be.

You lower your clipboard on the nurses station, leaning against it in exhaustion.

“Ms. Carlson is stable now, thankfully.” You address Dessa, an older colleague who has been newly stationed at the desk. “We just need to monitor her blood pressure from time to time.”

“Sure thing.” Dessa gives you a once over, clearly not approving your current state. “But sweetheart, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You’ve been taking way too many extra shifts just out of the blue like this, and you have to give yourself a break.”

Taking a deep breath, you roll out the tension in your neck and shoulders. The bright wash of hospital lighting makes you feel slightly nauseous, so you shut your eyes tight. Briefly. 

But not brief enough. In the recesses of your mind, in your memories, you can almost feel him. Hear him.

Leaving this world for but a moment, and gently slipping from consciousness, is enough to make you remember. 

And you remember everything.

My love. Come lie with me, he would say. 

Your mind reels from exhaustion, and from the perpetual echo of his voice. Leave me alone.

Come back, is what you meant. It’s what you’ll always mean. But his desire to return to his Westeros, to his Seven Kingdoms, was too strong for you to ignore. He swore he wanted to stay with you, so you had to make the choice for him.

This measly world was never meant for Daemon, whose fire can set everything ablaze. And there surely were plenty of times when he almost let his rage and his usual ways get the better of him, if it weren’t for you. His anchor.

You know that he would be too much to bear, and this world would try to quell him. 

It was the right decision. So why did you have to feel so wretched about it?

Because you love him, you big idiot.

“Fuck.” You mutter under your breath, opening your eyes.

“Sorry, what was that?” Dessa’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, the expletive taking her aback. Poor girl just expressed concern, and here I am over her desk, eyes glazed over like a zombie.

“Oh, it’s just… you’re right, I do need some rest. My shift ends in an hour and I plan to sleep for the next 24 hours. At least.” That isn’t the truth, but you don’t feel it necessary to deepen her concern. You could be upfront and admit that you find it hard to fall into slumber, because almost every time, without fail, Daemon is there to welcome you.

His voice. His touch. His burning gaze. Your dreams could be there to offer a sense of comfort, a safe haven that can temporarily ease you out of heartbreak, but all you can feel is a painful loss. 

You don’t think it right to lose yourself in what was, or what could have been. Where would be the point in that? It isn’t as if this is a typical long-distance relationship, and Daemon simply went off to live in another city. 

No. The damn bastard had to go off to an actual other dimension, didn’t he?

How can anyone expect any less from someone like Daemon?

Dessa relaxes, and sighs audibly. “That’s good. Go do that, hon. If you want, I can cover for your next rounds, whenever that’ll be. You’ve been taking up all the extra shifts around here as it is.”

“Thank you, Dessa,” you say genuinely. “I think I’ll go check on 517 one last time before I go.”

You start to push yourself off of the counter and get your bearings, but Dessa reaches out for your hand, keeping you in place for a moment longer.

She smiles, and you can’t help but notice something lingering underneath her expression of comfort. As if she knows. 

“It’s going to be alright,” she says, and the sentiment quickly takes root in you, a sense of warmth wrapping around you like a warm hug. Too soon though, she lets go, and you are snapped back into reality. 

Until she adds, still smiling, “Those we love tend to find their way back to us, ñuha riña, if that is truly what is meant to be.”

Everything stops. It feels as if ice has infiltrated your veins, like some sudden shock. That sounds like…

“What… what did you call me?” you croak.

She merely tilts her head, her smile dropping only slightly, taking on a new emotion. Something like pity. Does she know?

“I don’t know what you mean. I merely gave you a piece of advice, my child.”

You slowly look around, trying to shake some sense back into yourself. Shaking your head, you say, “Right, I must have misheard things. It’s just… I thought I heard you speak…” High Valyrian. His native tongue. 

“Speak what?” She asks, a hint of confusion visible on her face.

“Nothing,” you shake your head quickly, stepping away from the nurses’ station. “Thanks for the advice, Dessa. I’m just… a little out of the loop is all. I’m definitely going to rest after this. I’ll go do some final rounds, and check back with you in 5 minutes?”

“Of course, darling.” She smiles again, and you think of how welcoming the sight is. How genuine. Dessa has this seemingly maternal quality to her, and you feel grateful to be at the receiving end of it. 

You mirror her smile, before finally turning and sauntering towards the rooms.

When you finally reach your apartment, you have to drag yourself up the flight of steps, your legs feeling like jell-o underneath you.

Dessa is absolutely right. All those extra shifts are taking their toll. In your defense, you believe them to be necessary. Your own messed-up version of therapy. Cooping yourself up in your flat would be torture, when Daemon has left his mark on every inch of the space.

The kitchen where he kept trying to make dishes, only for them to end up charred at the bottom of your trusty IKEA pot. The couch where you spent most nights, curled up in each other’s arms, boxes of takeaway shared between the two of you.

You would dramatically relay your worries about your patients in the ICU, and he would muse about the 'peculiar sort of idiots' he had to deal with at the auto shop. By that, he meant irate customers and even women who took a liking to him. So much so that they would deliberately lose small parts of their car engines, only to specifically request Daemon’s assistance. 

He would pull you onto his lap and cage you in his arms, smirking at the poorly masked envy in your expression. Soon after, your worries would dissipate in a haze, his lips snaking smoothly all over your skin.

I’m clearly upset now. Where’s my comforting embrace, huh?

Sullen, you make your way to the kitchen. Upon quick inspection of the fridge, it becomes evident that you desperately need to make a grocery run.

“I’m officially a peasant. No wonder the great Prince of Westeros didn’t want to stay with me.” You rack your brain for other alternatives, taking note to push away the thought of what Daemon would suggest. Freshly made pizza, with all his preferred trappings – spicy salami, heaps of cheese, nduja, and basil. Conveniently delivered straight to your door in a jiff. 

No. Definitely not that. 

The thought of Daemon not having access to such a glorious thing as pizza anymore made you spiteful. Take that. That’s what you get for leaving. 

You drag yourself onto the couch, slumping atop the worn out cushions. Silly girl. Do you think he would care? That world has everything he could ever wish for. 

The sound of knocking on the door pulls you out of your thoughts. Thankfully. Two sure raps on the wood to pull you out of your misery, for who knows how long.

“Hi.” Tom stands on the other side, a sheepish smile on his face. “Care for some company?”

This would be the fourth time since Daemon’s departure that he’s shown up at your door, out of the blue, simply asking to spend time with you. And this would also be the fourth time that you acquiesce, and let him in. 

Any and all distractions are welcome. Even in the form of your neighbour, with his puppy-dog eyes and suggestive remarks that clearly indicate that he still has not gotten over you. Despite being rudely confronted with the reality of you and Daemon, many months ago. 

But the reality is… there is no more you and Daemon, is there? Once Tom grew aware of that, his eagerness returned twofold. 

You did not show the same interest. Not in that way, at least. You made sure of that by saying “I’m glad we’re friends again.” when he first came over. Friends. Only that.

Still, there was some part of you that felt as if you were leading Tom on. By letting him in again, being his friend, you were giving him hope that it could turn into something more. Especially now that you badly needed a shoulder to lean on. 

Before you could let guilt rip through you, you force a smile up at him. “Sure, come in.”

I might pay for this later. 

For now, his carefree laugh and animated talk of everything that’s going on in this world might just help piece together the remains of your heart. 

*flashback* March 2023 / the 3rd Moon, 113 AC 

It was no easy feat to summon a priestess of the old gods to King’s Landing, but when Prince Daemon disappeared, his brother the King Viserys spared no effort in seeing his brother safely returned. 

Every sept of every religion was consulted. The Maesters of the Citadel. What remains of the water-wizards in Dorne. The magisters of the Free Cities. 

Many of the common folk surmised that perhaps, the volatile Prince Daemon simply took off without any word of warning.

However, that supposition may be easily debated with the fact of Caraxes’ presence on Dragonstone. Daemon would not have left Caraxes behind. If anything, he would have almost certainly ridden on dragonback to wherever he planned to go.

It further complicated matters when some of the soldiers present on the battlefield wherein Daemon was last seen profusely swear that their Prince simply vanished into thin air. 

The Maester were quick to dissuade their King of supposed foolhardy lies. One does not simply vanish. It is unheard of, a mere calumny. Their advice had been near unanimous - the Prince left, or was in hiding. Likely he did not wish to be found, which is why he left his dragon behind, the creature inevitably drawing attention wherever it goes. 

Just when the commotion around his disappearance had somewhat dissipated, a triad of self-proclaimed members of an outer sect, an adjunct to the priestesses of the old gods, made themselves known in the Red Keep. Accompanied by the elder priestess, they asked for an audience with the King, who eagerly welcomed them. His council members, on the other hand, were wrought with suspicion.

The women, three close-knit sisters, introduced themselves as Treesa, Verness, and Dessa.

They claimed to be part of a covert sect that sprung from the Old Religion. One that remains largely unknown in Westeros, which warranted the suspicion of the small council. 

“Realmwalkers.” Verness declared in a proud tone. “That is what we call ourselves, borne out of the fact that we can jump from this realm, my King, to another strange yet equally fascinating one. The very same realm that Prince Daemon finds himself trapped in.”

“Trapped? And in another realm, you say?” Viserys’ fury was rising to the surface. “I charge you to speak plainly, and do not offer me such calumnies. Where is my brother?”

Treesa smiled wryly, unperturbed by the King’s growing wrath. “He has been sent to the realm of Korzion. The realm of steel, if you please. Largely inhibited by men. Like us, but not quite. They are somewhat more… connected to these… these machines.” There was a faraway look in her eyes, rendering her expression almost vacant. Her gaze met that of the King’s, but it appeared as though she did not really see him. Her mind was elsewhere, her skirts moving alongside her gently swaying figure. 

Upon hearing this, Otto Hightower leaned in to whisper to the King, “These so-called priestesses must only be devising some trickery, my King. Perhaps we should adjourn – ”

Dessa interjected, “We can prove it to you, King Viserys. We are the only ones who can ensure that your brother is safely returned to this realm. Whether you trust us or not, that does not alter this truth.”

Viserys stiffened, a decision forming in his mind. Ignoring the look of reproach from his Hand, he took a deep breath and responded, “Tell me everything.”

September 2023 / the 9th Moon, 113 AC

“It took you a long while to allow yourselves to be found again.” Daemon’s voice, while low and controlled, maintains an underlying impatience. As if he could not be bothered, and is only going through everything for the hope of seeing you again. Sitting casually, partially covered by the shadows, he briefly thinks of how you would definitely make a remark of how much he resembles a ‘Bond villain’ from those movies you love. 

You once ran your fingers repeatedly over his hair, mussing it completely, after a couple of glasses of wine white. Daemon sat there, half in surprise and half in adoration. “Mystery man,” you slurred, smiling sleepily, “you’re someone straight out of a book, or a movie, or… or… my dreams.” Your eyes widened at that, at the incredulity of it all.

“You have dreamt about me, haven't you?” He cheekily responded. This was quite some time before the two of you finally dropped all the pretence and acted on your desires. Before the two of you allowed yourselves to fall completely in love.

“Mmm,” you giggled, “Strange how I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.”

Daemon, for all his brazenness and devil-may-care behaviour, found himself feeling disheartened at your words. Bad boy, you said. But that had a different, softer meaning for you. You were not aware how bad, how malevolent, he actually is. You did not know how he had dismembered enemies in battle, in his blind rage. You did not know how he had selfishly manipulated and lied his way purely to get what he wanted. You did not know that he would kill anyone who tried to hurt you, without reservation, in a heartbeat. 

He thought of how you were too good for him. Sitting there, after hours upon hours of your daily work as a healer, still managing to offer him a meal and spend time with him after near exhaustion, your smile was still whole and true and good. And it was being directed at him. The strange, angry man who infiltrated your little world and did not seem to want to leave. 

He thought, determinedly, that he did not deserve any of it. He did not deserve you.

Treesa’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. “I think I have lost you, my prince. You are no longer in this world, as you were.” Sitting across from him in his chambers, she has half a mind to become irate at how Prince Daemon is regarding her as if she is nothing more than the mud on the sole of his princely boots. A mere inconvenience. But her annoyance is restrained by her understanding of how he must be feeling. 

He regains himself, ignoring her remark, and continues, “Where are the others?” Then he flippantly waves his hand. “Never mind that. You said you will help me. Then can you transport me back to her world? Or her to mine? How soon can this be done?”

Treesa smiles slyly, “So many questions. How powerless you must feel against the tides of fate. What if your story has already been determined by the gods? That you meet your love, stay together briefly, only so that she may change you forever?”

“Careful now, witch.”

“Realmwalker.” 

“Whatever you call yourselves. Make no mistake, I am not asking for your help. I demand it, as your prince.”

Treesa just laughs, the shrill sound as light as air. “Do not take us so lightly, Rogue Prince. The one you claim to love is also one of us.”

“What?” 

“Your love from Korzion? Oh yes. She is a Realmwalker too.”

“Impossible.” Daemon says, shaking his head, but he is already running through his memories of you. Was there something that he might have missed? Were there any telltale signs? Had you deceived him?

“It is the truth.” Treesa shrugs. “Only she does not know it yet. My elder sister, Dessa, is currently in her world and she is going to make herself known to her very soon. Then Dessa may also let her know who she truly is.”

“But she…” For the first time since he was tongue-tied around your presence, Daemon struggles to find the right words. “She is not from Westeros, is she?”

“No,” Treesa explains, “but she is a descendant of a woman who was. A Realmwalker of old, who chose to live her life in Korzion.”

“Well then,” Daemon stands, as if prepared to jump through a portal that very moment, “if she is of this world, then she can surely come here, can she not? There is nothing that can hinder this. You claim she is a Realmwalker like you. Bring her to me. Or… bring me to her. You have done it before.”

“It was Dessa who transported you to Korzion, my prince. And, it is no easy feat to bring another non-walker to Korzion. It can take a heavy toll on any of us. Much was needed to be orchestrated for the King to momentarily travel realms just to coax you back with him.”

Daemon merely petulantly tilts his head, and clenches his jaw, as if to say, ‘how does that help me?’.

The very first Realmwalker or Vyzh-agon was a priestess of the old Religion.

“Sit down, my prince,” Treesa sighs. “You will know of everything soon enough.”

Aesdella, believed to be originally from Old Valyria, and eventually settling in the North of Westeros, was the very first to travel to the realm of Korzion. Our realm. It remains unclear when she was born and when she perished, but she lived well before Aegon’s Conquest. Another source of speculation is how her abilities came to be, but from her bloodline came those with similar abilities. And so forth. Until this very day. 

Only Aesdella’s female descendants inherited this very nature of being a Realmwalker. This power can remain dormant, hidden under the surface, or it can be practiced and essentially turned into a way of living. Such as with the sect of Treesa, Verness, and Dessa, as well as their other sisters and cousins. 

She was believed to be a formidable woman, garnering respect from even those of other religions, and other lands. Though she made sure that her abilities would not be known by others, seeing as she did not trust the nature of men.  These powers, if in the wrong hands, could bring strife to both Korzion and her realm. It has been said that this is why she made sure that only her daughters and their daughters after them would receive her power, but this is mere conjecture.

There are many peculiarities which concern travelling between realms. The Realmwalker would have to envision her precise destination, lest she should accidentally end up in the middle of some remote part of Amazonia. She would require some tools, if she was not necessarily raised in the practice of realm walking. She would need to prick her fingers or her palm with a sharp sliver of moonstone, let her blood meet the raches of a raven’s feather, and recite a chant in High Valyrian. This is enough to awaken the power passed down to her through Aesdella’s bloodline. The feather will turn to ash in her hands, and swirl around her form, multiplying a thousand fold, and in a moment, this daughter of Aesdella will have travelled realms.

Those with immense power resting inside them would eventually not need the moonstone, nor the raven’s feather, after a while. The chanting matched with pure will is enough. 

A Realmwalker may also transport another to Korzion, and vice versa, but this can exact a heavy toll on both parties if done incorrectly. Which is why Viserys’ jump to Korzion could not be done in a haste, and also why Dessa was rendered unconscious for an entire moon’s turn after having to quickly transport Daemon to Korzion following his fatal injury.

“Dessa saved you by transporting you to Korzion, as realm travel can sometimes have regenerative effects on one’s person. Luckily, your jump proved to be so.” Treesa reveals, the dancing firelight casting shadows on her angular face. “She did this because, and I am certain that you do not remember at all, but you once saved her son’s life, Prince Daemon.”

“You will have to be more particular, as I cannot recall every – ”

“Like I said, you do not remember and it does not matter. What matters is that he is alive and well. Dessa is estranged from this son of hers, but will never cease to care for him. It is a mother’s curse.” Treesa shakes her head in disapproval. Daemon feels inclined to think that she has no children of her own. “You saved her son in battle many moons ago, and so Dessa found a spell that ensured you had blood moonstone on your person, wherever you went. This is one way we can maintain a connection to someone, keep an eye out for them. When she sensed you had been grievously harmed, she immediately triggered the moonstone with a spell that would cause you to walk between realms.”

Daemon listens, not because he is especially intrigued by the entire story. He simply sits, waiting for Treesa to speak about you. Who you truly are, and how this expanse between the both of you can be eliminated.

“Did you know, it was by accident… well, somehow at least… that your lady was in the vicinity after you arrived in Korzion?” Treesa laughs dryly. “Realmwalkers can send another individual such as yourself to Korzion so long as there is a beacon there for you to go to. Another Realmwalker, you see. Dessa meant to send you close to Verness who had been visiting with her… Korzioni lover.” Distaste flashes again across Treesa's face, which goes to show that she does not share the same affinity for having lovers, much less children with such lovers, unlike her sisters.

Daemon turns and meets her gaze straight on. “And yet, I was sent to… close to…”

“Yes.” Tressa nods. “Dessa did not know she existed until then. Her great-grandmother was one of us. When she disappeared ages ago, it was believed that she chose to spend the rest of her days in Korzion. Little was known of whether she fell in love, or whether she eventually had Korzioni children. Daughters that would also carry her ability. But apparently, she has.”

A scoff of disbelief and amazement escapes Daemon’s lips.

In Korzion, you sit once again on your couch after another long shift at the hospital. Only this time – and perhaps it has grown out of being a rarity at this point – Tom sits beside you, comfortably slouched a mere few inches away.

“Now, my Rogue prince,” Treesa leans forward on her elbows, the tone having shifted to something much lighter. “Now do you believe in fate?”

You lean away from him, opting to stick close to the armrest, hoping he would take this little hint. But he’s chosen to ignore it, ambling closer to you the first chance he got. 

Your laptop is in the low table in front of you, a new flick playing on the screen. Some new Netflix production that Tom chose, which you weren’t so keen on. But what did it matter?

Company is company. A distraction is a distraction. You probably should head straight to sleep, but you didn’t want to risk having yet another dream of Daemon. Another dream that will end abruptly and wrench you back into this grim reality. 

Remnants of takeout sushi containers are scattered on the kitchen counter. When Tom suggested pizza, you were quick to protest. Daemon loved pizza, and he loathed sushi. So, why not have sushi on this fine evening?

“So when will you get to reading it?” Tom asks, referring to the book he lent you. He initially wanted to give it to you as a gift, but you said you didn’t want a gift if there was no occasion. When he responded with, “I don’t need some special occasion to give a gift to a beautiful girl I care about,” you struggled so very hard to maintain a straight face and not roll your eyes. 

Daemon would hate this. If he still cared.

“I guess I’ll start tonight.” You lie, picking the book from your lap, pretending to peruse the back cover. “Seems like quite the read. I don’t think it will be like any of the other books I’ve read.” Of course it won’t. Because I would never purchase this myself.

“That’s great! You’ll love it, it’s a New York Times bestseller. I found it on BookTok.” He says, as if to reassure you, though it doesn’t really do the job.

You sense his arm snaking behind you on the seat, and before you can make some excuse about having to get some water, an unexpected knock echoes from the front door. 

Thank you. Whoever you are.

You rush toward it, finding Dessa on the other side.

“Nuha riña,” she says, a wide smile on her face. “It’s time.”

She said it again. I knew it.  “What the fu-”

She looks over your shoulder, noticing Tom standing close behind, as if in protection. “What about Daemon?” She asks sincerely.

Daemon? You feel your heartbeat falter, taken aback by someone else saying his name out loud. 

“H-how? You never met him. He was gone before you even came to work at…” you pause, choosing your next words carefully. “Who are you?”

She takes your hands in hers, a firm yet gentle hold. 

“The question, my dear, is who are you?”

end of part three.

______________________

*preview* of part 4

October 2023 / the 10th Moon, 113 AC

“This is real?” Your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel somewhat floaty, as if you’re nowhere at all. Perhaps, you are nowhere, not in your realm and not in Daemon’s, but somewhere in the middle. “Am I doing this? Is it working?”

Daemon, who was frozen at the sight of you,  immediately strides forward. Desperate to feel you, his hands hold onto whatever he can. Your face, your hips, your hands. “My darling, all of this is fucking astonishing, and we can certainly marvel at what you can do to no end, but quite frankly, right this moment I could hardly bring myself to care.”

He smashes his lips to yours. They move relentlessly, as if on their own accord, their master groaning like a starved beast. You feel him, or you think you do, his familiar scent engulfing you, and he feels like home. You feel his silver hair sliding between your fingertips, his sharp teeth gnawing gently at your lips, his fingernails digging into your backside and melding your torso onto his.

Daemon is not one to waste time, that’s for sure.

“I miss you,” you breathe, as he kisses down the hollow of your throat.

“As I you, my love.” Daemon purrs, nipping at your collarbone, breathing you in. “You simply have no idea…”

You feel him, but only just… and it’s not enough. But it’ll have to do.

“Daemon… this is…” You try to voice out your concern, despite the moment. Dessa was right, your corporeal forms cannot meet through your projection; the two of you stand in your bedroom, but everything seems to be enveloped in a thick fog. If you press hard enough, you think your fingers will simply pass through Daemon as if he were a spectre. You realize that he knows this, too, but chooses to ignore it. 

“This is the closest we’ve been in far too fucking long, my love. It would have been sooner if those cunts made greater effort to – ”

You snort, confronted once more with how brash he can be. “Daemon, those cunts? Really? I am one of them, you know. Besides, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” His lips form a desperate, wanting smile, as he connects his forehead to yours. “Let me have this. Have you. I need you.”

He’s right. In physical form or otherwise, he is still your Daemon. And you have craved each other too much to be denied any kind of reunion.

“Okay.” Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, and he leans into it. He then looks around, appraising your chambers, as he used to say.

“Nothing has changed.” He hums, while holding you tightly to him, as if he’s afraid that you might dissolve into air. “What is this now? Ever the reader, my heart.” He reaches for the crisp, new paperback novel atop your dresser. 

“Oh, that’s… yeah, someone lent it to me.”

“It certainly does not seem too suited to your tastes.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “Astute observation. It’s my neighbour’s. He apparently thought I needed something new to read.” When he gave you the book, Tom happily explained how he thought you should, “...expose yourself to other things. Things you possibly haven’t tried out before. New films, books, friends. You know to help you forget all about…”

“Your neighbour – what was he called? Tim?” Daemon’s lips curl in distaste.

“You remember his name, Daemon.” You roll your eyes at your lover, and his poorly-veiled jealousy. You were one and the same.

“You have been letting him inside your house?” He inquires, voice dropping an entire octave. If looks could kill…

You nod slowly, carefully. “He’s been visiting every now and then. It’s not a big deal.”

Daemon tilts his head, a sinister look appearing on his face. Smirking, he leans in and whispers, “Has that mongrel taken my place, dearest?”

You swallow thickly, his darkened gaze doing much and more to break your self-control. If he doesn’t stand down… well.

“Has any lady taken mine? In that amazing, grand realm of yours, Prince Daemon?” You respond, rising to his challenge. Your fingers snake in between the low-collar of his white tunic. Only Daemon has ever been able to elicit this out of you.

He enjoys the way you directly meet his eyes, unwavering in your stead. No one ever looked at him in such a way; not one has ever seen him as you do. Daemon has always inspired fear and intimidation in others. Those who find themselves comfortable enough to hold a conversation with the Rogue Prince tend to feel ill at ease or on their guard. As if he might turn on them at any moment. 

People usually mosey up to him because of a favour. Because of his status, his reputation. Because they want something out of him. 

But not you. No. Daemon knows that he has only ever inspired love in you.

Well, that and what might have been absolute surprise followed by wariness, when he was suddenly sprung into your world, injured and in a coat of full armour.

He kisses you passionately in response. Once, then pulling away only to breathe, and again, and again.

“No one can ever replace you.” He swears. He has never been a devout man, but in that moment, he curses all the gods that you two are apart. Meeting in this middle-realm is insufficient. He feels you, somehow. But he does not feel your warmth, nor the goosebumps on your skin from his touch. You are there, but you are not. 

But it will have to do. For now.

“Is this ailing you? Sustaining a connection like this, in this place?” Daemon asks.

“Not really,” you admit. “Dessa says I’ll feel quite exhausted afterward, but it shouldn’t take too big of a toll on me. I’m learning the ropes, and there’s a lot to learn. I mean… this is fucking insane.”

“And here you thought me extraordinary. When it was you all along.”

“Hardly.” You smile in return. If you could feel warmth right now, you would certainly feel it blooming across your face. “I’m not the only one, it seems. And, my great-grandmother… she was from your world.” Your smile stretches twofold in awe. 

He brushes a stray strand from your face.

“The Rogue Prince and his Realmwalker. We were always meant to find each other.”

series taglist: @omgsuperstarg @sebastian025 @iilsenewman @padfootsvixen @teapartydreams @lucytheripper @kindaslightlyacidic @naelys-the-aster @zoleea-exultant @vainillasmil157 @llovinjoonie @outundertheocean @grimistangel @ladespedidas @nanabarnes @pineappleandro @luckythirtxn97 @knockemdeadgirl @stella-cadante @milber32 @canvashearts @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @kryzeria @selahstars @captainweirdo42 @nitimurinvetitumsposts @aemondmyl0ve @eternallyvenus @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @itscheybaby @my-dark-prince @moonmaiden1996 @mukduk-not-murder @partypoison00 @cookielovesbook-akie @borikenlove @avadakadabra93 @luloveseddie @katsav17

Here we are - it's been a LONG time coming.

Grateful to all of yous for struggling through this wait. I know how much of a pain it is when a fic I'm reading just can't get updated soon enough. You guys deserve Daemon Targaryen at his very best 🖤

Oh and fire like yours isn't losing the somewhat lighthearted tone it might have had. The next part is when mayhem ensues, involving denim, vintage leather jackets, pizza!!!, etc. in Westeros. I just had to get through all this explaining as to how Daemon somehow ended up in our world (Korzion).

Maroon part three up next!

[hellsingmongrel]

I can't help but think about how Vash, after the trauma of having Rem killed when he was so young and then learning to expect the humans he grew to love to grow old and die or be killed in so many myriad ways and even having them betray him for the bounty money or just out of fear, must have developed so many difficulties allowing himself to get close to people.

Abandonment issues SUCK. You want to be close to people, you want to love people and develop connections and have friends and loved ones you can spend time with and be happy with, but you become so sure that anyone you get close to will just end up leaving you for one reason or another, and nothing you do will ever make them stay, so you just...stop trying. Stop letting yourself get attached. Stop letting yourself hope these will still be there or even reach out to bridge the gaps.

You can be friendly and outgoing and happy in the moment, but that's all it is; momentary. So you just let yourself be happy with the little glimpses if friendliness that you get from time to time and never hope for anything more. It's easier that way, you won't get your hopes up, and you're alright being alone, you've always been alone, it's ok. It's ok.

Except it's really not, and sometimes the loneliness just eats away at you, and you wonder why you were so wrong, why you were so bad or broken or a problem, or not made right to live like other people did, and why you have to be so Different that you're best hope is to just be allowed to exist Around other people, not With other people.

It's no wonder he has so much trouble never settling down, or why he only lets himself be happy for small spells between the downward spirals. He wants SO MUCH to be human, just like everyone else, worthy of love and companionship and the kinds of connections everyone else on the planet shares. He just wants to fit in and be loved, and the more his abandonment issues are reinforced, the worse it makes him feel about himself.

And then, he finds the one human who refuses to abandon him, even if he should, even if it means it puts him in danger, even if at first it's just because he HAS to, and maybe Vash feels like someone finally wants him to be around, and makes him feel a little more Human, and like maybe he can finally have a friend. Or a partner. Maybe he can let himself try to be loved.

And then he's Abandoned all over again, except it's not like every other time. It's not because he's not worthy of having someone next to him, and if he just catches up, then he can save him from the things his brother is doing, and he can be happy for a little bit longer! He doesn't have to say good bye all over again so soon, just let him be on time!

But no. It was never going to work out, was it? He should have known better. So much of what's happening has to be his own fault in one way or anotuer, so it's just his fault that this happened, too, wasn't it? It was his own fault for letting himself get his hopes up, anyway. He knew better. He doesn't get to have people who love him. It's his own fault that his world feels like it's breaking all around him while he digs a solitary grave out behind the orphanage. He's a blight on everything around him. Everything he loves ends up leaving him, eventually. He just wishes everyone he gets close to could stop dying in horrible ways. At least the betrayals mean the people will still get to live their own lives, happy and safe, once he's moved on to the next path on his neverending road.

[shuamorollss]

drop-tower crisis — k.sy x gn!reader

after a whole hour of gushing about your fear of the drop tower ride while on a date with your boyfriend, you suddenly felt the urge to try and ride it... just to face your fears and have fun, right?

fluff, established relationship, reader doesn't have fear of heights, just has the fear of the ride alone. warnings/notes— none ... <1k wc + reblogs are greatly appreciated!

note— literally just a drabble i wrote under 15 minutes... only bc I'm so love deprived from the book i currently finished 😴 wrote this as like a moment in my head to my own WesLiz happy ever after anyway hehe that's all g'night or g'morning wherever u are!!!?!

"Do you think mom would mind?" You asked curiously. Somehow, Kwon Soonyoung perks up a light grin in amusement on how you were suddenly shaky as you finally take a grasp this whole thing.

a.k.a your whole idea.

"That was out of nowhere." He raised a brow.

"I'm just saying!—like, you know... if I do this, will my mom be alright with it? Will she worry the hell out? or—" You let out an exaggerated gasp, squeezing your eyes shut as your seat finally secures itself in place. Keeping you from ever standing up or escaping as your now bethrothed to this god-damned drop-tower ride.

Soonyoung lets out a loud chuckle, his eyes never leaving to look at you as you lowly squeal in terror. And the ride hasn't even started yet.

"You pushed me to try this ride, I just ag—"

"You agreed yes, yes!" you nod repeatedly, myriads of questions wandering in your mind as to how and why you even thought of this in the first place.

Whenever you go to amusement parks, this was the very ride you avoid your gaze to.

Just by looking at a distance, having the seats suddenly raising up and acceleratng back down—and up again, has your stomach churning.

And now you're going to be experiencing it in real time.

Real. Fucking. Time.

"Soonyoung." you loudly call out in pure fear as the seat lightly shook, and up it finally went.

You took a glance at your boyfriend beside you to see him watching your very reaction. His face plastering an awful smirk and low breathy chuckles that were running along with the swift breeze of the wind as it continues higher.

And higher...

"Soonyoung." You squealed, squeezing your eyes tightly shut once more as you could see a whole mountain from up here.

You couldn't even look down it was that bad.

The way your feet couldn't even feel any flat surfaces at the bottom and the thought that you would fall off and meet your untimely demise sent numerous amounts of shivers down your spine.

All of this because... you wanted to try this ride. After years of avoidance.

Then, after a few seconds of accepting your fate, you felt someone's warm hand started intertwining with yours.

Just like that, you open your eyes, seeing none other than your boyfriend's hands holding yours.

From what was an unbearable smirk airing visible teasing and mockery from him a moment ago. Now turned into something mellow and genuine. His eyes laying onto you, and hands squeezing yours in comfort, he says, "You said face your fears, right?"

You nod reluctantly, both heartbeat and seats were still raising.

"Open your eyes, look around, or look at me, and have fun. 'kay?"

He squeezes your hand tighter, darting your gaze to your intertwined hands and back to his visage putting up the lightest beam for you.

Only for you.

And at that moment, his words that were so simple have easily broken you out to your room of fear. Suddenly you don't feel so scared anymore.

Still nervous, but not as before.

Then, the ride stops for a brief second.

You wanted to slide your hands out of Soonyoung's grasp, earning him a quick look of concern.

You give him your warmest smile, "I'm okay now."

Yet, he didn't let go.

"Nah."

He'd be damned if he would.

"It's not safe." You warn.

But he had to.

He breathes out a sigh. "Fine." he says, disappointment filling his nerves that will definitely dissipate in a matter of—

3... 2... 1.

And... take off.

© shuamorollss. please do not modify, edit, copy or reproduce any of the works published.

[mentallyisekaid]

「 ✦ Fatui Harbingers x La Signora's Sister! Reader, PART 2.5 ✦ 」

---

Part 1 Part 2 [Part 2.5] Part 3 Part 3.5

It's highly recommended to read the parts in order, otherwise few things will make sense!

Warnings: just me messing with Signora's lore because I can~

Word count: 1.3k

---

And so, with Columbina serenely laying on your lap - and Scaramouche and Ajax's intimate gazes dispelling a part of those doubts that had haunted you for half a millenium...

a glimpse of your past was finally unveiled.

"Rosalyne and I were only half-sisters, and it sprouted a seed of discord between us before I was even old enough to understand what family meant. Albeit, what really drew us apart in the end was my father... or rather, the crime that he committed against the divine."

Twiddling with the warm, red crystal in your hands brought you no comfort - only reminded of a life time's worth of regret.

"A crime that manifested as the Pyro Vision I'm now holding. You could say it's... a symbolization of the Lohefalters' curse. But I was the one who made it possible, and what followed..."

You shook your head. "Well, I'll start from the beginning?"

"Our mother, Freya, a Mondstadter, once met a traveling alchemist from an unknown land. Papa and mama shamelessly fell in love, even though she was married with another man and had a young daughter. After she became pregnant with me, an illegitimate child, Rosalyne's father soon found out and they got divorced. She then married my father, and we all took his surname."

The looks in their eyes revealed that La Signora's colleagues had truly known nothing about her past.

But now, all they cared about was yours.

"Papa was quite fanatic when it came to his alchemic research, and one thing fascinated him above all else: the nature of Visions. He'd become particularly obsessed with a certain thought... could Visions be created alchemically and thus acquired without the blessing of the gods?"

A pained look flashed across Scaramouche's face - maybe one day he'd share why.

"Seeing as he was an outlander, the favor of the divine would never fall upon him in such a way. Maddened, he set out on a journey to achieve a Vision, not as a gift from the gods, but by making one himself."

Columbina tilted her head. "And... did he?"

"It sounds crazy," you sighed, "but he did. He managed to create an artificial Vision. It cost him his sanity and so much more, but regardless; decades of endless research and a myriad of sacrifices materialized in the form of a gemstone - a bright red crystal with a faintly glowing Pyro symbol in its core."

Your next words gained a spiteful undertone, not unnoticed by the others.

"But, he needed a test subject to confirm that this counterfeit Vision was applicable. That was me. Not just because he was insane, but because I was a fool. I only had to promise that I'd never tell the rest of my family, or anyone, about how I had received this 'acknowledgement' from 'Celestia'."

Ajax had an unreadable expression on his face - pity with a hint of disappointment and anger, perhaps.

"You agreed, then?" he asked.

"I was nine years old and rather naïve, so yes." You frowned. "But even as I grew older and understood better, on some level, I still accepted what papa had done..."

Scaramouche crossed his arms.

"But, surely... you didn't do this just to please your parent?"

"No," you shook your head, "or maybe that was a part of it as well. I couldn't say."

Yet someone saw right through you, as always.

"It had something to do with your sister, I presume?" Columbina's voice was gentle, like a mother

Ah, there it was - the void in your heart left behind by a broken kinship with the only sibling you ever had.

It was... more painful than you admitted.

"...I knew my Vision was a fake, but even so, it made me feel special. I'd always felt meritless, living my life in the shadow of the oh-so brilliant Rosalyne, who was both beautiful and academically talented. I... I was never looked at with such admiration."

"Although," your lips curved into a rueful smile, "ever since that day, I had something that she didn't - a Vision - and it harrowed her proud heart. Thus, a mutual feeling of jealousy grew between us, creating a rift that we never tried to overcome."

You shook your head. "At least I never did."

But a question still remained in the air, one that you were consciously avoiding for the sake of the horrible things that had once happened and could yet again occur because of it.

You didn't want to betray or hurt anyone, and even more than that, you wanted to protect yourself.

Yet the other Harbingers cared about you in such a strong, unconditional way, and you had started to harbor these strangely intimate feelings for them as well.

Perhaps you... really didn't need to hide anymore?

Columbina had sat up next you and now pulled you to lay on her lap instead, as she softly spoke:

"This Pyro Vision... you called it a curse - the Lohefalters' curse, or perhaps yours, but what makes you say this, I wonder? Was the cost you had to pay for this power much greater than you have let on, my angel?"

Scaramouche was staring at you intently. "I think we'd all like to know that."

You averted your gaze. "Even if it only gets darker?"

Ajax smiled, uncertain yet encouraging. "Even so."

"I... see. Well, if I had known that my broken relationship with Rosalyne wasn't even a foretaste of this horrible curse that I would end up carrying for centuries... that what papa had done would end up destroying things far, far more precious than just my family, I... I would have done differently, I'm sure of it..."

You sighed. "It's too late for amends, though. And this is all I have to say. For now."

No one was left satisfied by this, not even you yourself.

Their first instinct was to somehow confirm whether you had been telling the truth, having sensed that you were probably quite an adept liar (when you wanted to be).

But your reserved yet sincere eyes didn't invite any distrust.

Childe looked sympathetic, though there was a nuance of something else behind his cerulean gaze. When he smiled at you, the mannerism lacked his usual assertiveness.

"I... see. I'm... at a loss for words here, girlie."

The thought of you carrying these grim secrets all by yourself made the ginger Harbinger feel strangely protective of you, and he wasn't the only one - albeit the other two did a better job at hiding it.

Damselette's expression was curious yet enigmatic, indicating that she'd perhaps already figured out much more than you had told them.

Behind her innocent, uncaring demeanor, Columbina was a very shrewd person.

"Our little angel never ceases to fascinate~," she chuckled, caressing your hair.

The Balladeer's displeasure was evident.

"Ha!" he scoffed. "You've got some nerve, disclosing something of this gravity and then conveniently deciding to leave the rest of our questions unanswered. Moreover, with each secret you reveal, another one just takes its place."

Scaramouche's tone now took a softer hint - then again, maybe you just imagined it.

"Who am I to judge, of course... but isn't centuries of hiding enough, Twelfth?"

Though his opinion was harsh and undisguised, it had voiced the truth you wanted so hard to admit, but just couldn't. You found this... soothing, in a way.

As flames flickered in the fireplace, your heart wanted to stay here with them for a little while longer - each of their gazes embracing you very differently but all in a way that made you feel warm and safe; something quite rare in Snezhnaya.

Yet, with a cryptic smile, you stood up and walked away.

Whether sharing a part of your past had been a mistake, or the first step toward some kind of redemption, you couldn't yet tell. But it was clear that it had set into motion something irreversible.

It was only a matter of time before everyone would know...

[dumbslxtclub]

you're on your own, kid | e.m - part twelve

eddie munson x singlemom!reader

summary: set after the events of season four, Steve has disappeared and is presumed dead in the upside down. broken and now left to deal with your pregnancy alone, Eddie takes it upon himself to support you to the best of his abilities in Steve’s absence.

chapter summary: as your relationship with eddie blossoms, the weight of truth reaches it's breaking point.

content warnings: fem!reader, adult language, adult themes, unplanned pregnancy, angst, hurt/comfort, some canon divergence/au, mentions of death, reader is 20, anxiety, heavy angst, fluff, no use of y/n, slow burn, brief mention of vomiting

word count: 10.8k+

a/n: some of this was inspired was inspired by the poem ‘i wish i were two dogs then i could play with me’ by anne carson. I apologise for the long absence, life has been crazy but I’m very proud of this chapter and I hope you enjoy! sorry in advance for the angst it’s about to get real. as always, shoutout to @dickfics69 for helping me xx

taglist: @lezzy-bennet @harrypotteranna23-blog  @reidstea @sashaphantomhive  @bexreadstoomuch @audhd-dragonaut @littlepotatobeansworld @ches-86  @tlclick73 @fckyeahlames @gnocchey @astrolockley @sidthedollface2 @micheledawn1975  @3rd-conchord @eddiesbabe95 @taintedcigs @harry-bowie-mercury @micheledawn1975​

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Part Twelve: Lovely To Sit Between Comfort and Chaos

Who knew scanning video tape barcodes could be so fun? An inherently arduous task made tolerable thanks to the warming weather, every monotonous motion laced with sun-soaked dopamine. The stale interior of Family Video is washed in a stream of sunlight, the clear sky leaving no interruption for the desired warmth.

The chill of winter has all but dissolved, the new season budding in blossoms dancing in lush trees and children without jackets in the park. But, beneath the surface, something more has begun mingling in your blood. Your veins are laced with the giddy joy of a new beginning, something fresh and exciting. Like the first pages of a good book, popping open a fresh bottle of wine. As with all beginnings, they have their own tonality, an addictive vibrancy that makes them so elusively special. Ebbing with firsts, ‘what ifs’ and unadulterated hope. Leaving you behind the store counter with a schoolgirl grin, completing the most mundane of tasks with enthusiasm. With every video returned into the system, another mountain forms as Robin returns to the front desk. She picks up the two latest additions from the pile, examining them with scrutiny.

“Woof. 9 ½ Weeks AND Body Heat? Someone had a big weekend.” She places them onto the steel rolling shelves, beginning to categorize the sections. Monotonous doesn’t even begin to describe the store’s activities, Robin falling especially victim to their dullness today. “Speaking of, did you get up to anything interesting?”

“Well, Audrey’s learnt how to chuck her bottles across the room. So I guess you could say things were pretty wild around my neck of the woods.”

“Guess I’ll cancel her pee-wee baseball lessons then.” She quips back, busying herself with the tapes. 

It’s a funny thing, dishonesty. How it sits on the roof of your stomach, digging its heels into your gut whenever it sees fit. You’ve elected not to tell Robin about your date with Eddie, nor your second kiss, for a myriad of reasons. As your closest friend, you understand that she is just looking out for you, protecting your vulnerable heartspace. With your connection to Eddie growing, complication is bound to follow. And in such a budding stage, it just doesn’t make sense to make a mountain out of a molehill. 

When you’d first approached her about your potential date with Andy, she’d responded in a similar manner, driven by protectiveness. But you knew, she could see an innate craving for something more than she could provide. It was only natural. Your new identity was tied to being a mother, full stop. It had been a long time since you felt wanted, attractive, desired. A longing to be wined and dined, treated like so much more than milk-providing breasts on legs. And she wanted you to get back out there, into the real world and away from your comfortable nest of motherhood. You are strong, Robin is well aware of this, fighting the urge to protect you and Audrey from the big bad world. Of course, hindsight is a funny thing, and she should have ripped Andy a new one before he had the chance to do anything stupid. To assume he was capable of being a decent human being for an evening was clearly expecting too much.

But with Eddie, it’s so different. Comfortable in ways you couldn’t articulate, you felt a sense of consistent safety you hadn’t experienced in a long time. Life has just become easier with him around, day to day tasks much more enjoyable in his company. And so, you’ve resolved to just dip your toes into the idea of it evolving into something more. It’s not so much lying as it is withholding the truth. 

With the final tape scanned in, you toss it onto the shelf, nearly bowling over Robin’s efforts in the process. She shoots you a warning glare before sighing, glancing melancholically at the clock.

“Ah, all that stands between me and a turkey sandwich is…” She picks up a video at random and glances down at it. “... Xanadu?! Oh my god-”

She drives the cart around the corner, cussing out the poor customer's choice in film. Smiling at her antics, you busy yourself tidying the cluttered desk. Taped to the monitor is a curated collection of film pictures Robin had Jonathan develop. The ultrasound photo still sits in prime position, with a copy of the hospital image below it. Another picture is tacked to the corner of the screen showing you and Robin cuddled up in bed with Audrey sandwiched between you, all in accidentally coordinating shades of blue. You remember that night, Eddie had dropped by after work and lost it laughing at the three of you perched in bed like the grandparents in Willy Wonka, quickly racing to the kitchen to retrieve Jonathan’s camera. Moments immortalized in stillness, energetic happiness radiating out of them.

So lost in the memory, you barely register the sound of the bell above the front door ringing.

“Late return charges got you grinning like that, sweetheart?” Averting your gaze, you watch as your babysitter of choice enters the store. Eddie shoots you a warm smile, one hand gently supporting the black carrier strapped to his chest. Audrey, pacifier in mouth, faces outwards with limbs dangling aimlessly in the confines of the holder. It’s hard to miss the small purple bow clipped to the crown of her head, something that was not part of her ensemble when you dressed her this morning. Like maneuvering his own personal puppet, Eddie picks up her limp wrist to wave it in your direction. The docile baby glances up at the metalhead with curiosity, seeking out the phantom manipulating her arm.

“I can’t rent you R-rated films with a minor present, I’m afraid.” You quip with a smile, pressing your palms into the counter.

“Shit.” Eddie points to the door, backtracking a step and glancing down at Audrey. “Let me just go and tie her up out front real quick, alright?”

“Please don’t tie my daughter up on the street like a dog.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about her.” Eddie grins. “But maybe we should lock in that date before we break out the ropes and collars, hm?”

His comment immediately causes your cheeks to flush, suddenly feeling stifled in your sickly green vest. Images of compromising positions flood your mind, notably featuring the handcuffs strung up in Eddie’s bedroom. An awkward chuckle escapes your throat, Eddie’s smile faltering at the sight.

“I- I mean… fuck, oh-” His hands quickly fly to Audrey’s ears, protecting her from his cursing. “- just, pretend I never said that, okay?”

“Not a chance. You’re never living that one down, Munson.” Your melodious laughter sets Eddie free. “Where’ve you two been today?”

“Y’know, just all of her favorite places. Had to head into the shop to pick up my paycheck, the guys couldn’t get enough of her. ‘Specially Bob, or Ed, I forget- he’s been going on about her for weeks so I thought if she visited he might shut up about it.”

“Using my daughter as bait? Classy.”

“You know me all too well, sweetheart.” He’s quick to catch the pacifier as it tumbles out of Audrey’s mouth, her face screwing up in disgust while he tries to feed it back to her. “Oh, and she met a dog today. It was a beast of a thing, a Rottweiler or something. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her so excited, she grabbed its ears and everything. Thought it might bite her head off. It did lick her on the face though, but I suppose that’s good for her immune system.”

“Sounds like you two have been on quite an adventure.” With Audrey now within arms reach, you lean over the counter to give her a kiss on the forehead. Her eyes light up at the sight of you, giving Eddie enough time to quickly shove the pacifier back into her mouth.

“Speaking of which… what are the chances of you getting work off this Friday afternoon?” His voice is hushed, and laced with an edge of the cheekiness you’ve come to adore. With a quick survey around the shop, you inspect to make sure Robin is out of earshot.

“I think I could pull some strings.”

“Good, good. I might have something fun planned for us.” Eddie smiles sheepishly, readjusting the weight of the carrier. “And, as much as I hate to admit it, I think Henderson might finally be ready to go solo with Squid.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I mean- I didn’t see anyone chewing on the electrical cords so that’s an A in my books.”

“Glad to see you’ve got high standards.” You tease, the grin on Eddie’s face only growing..

“I sure do.” 

-

Quick question, what the hell does one wear on a date? For your outing with Andy, Robin took charge of your wardrobe and crafted an outfit with complete ease. The stakes were lower, you suppose, not overly concerned with your appearance. But for today’s mystery date with Eddie, you’re finding yourself digging into the deepest crevices of your wardrobe for something that screams I’m trying, but not too hard. And, as fate would have it, nothing is jumping out at you. That shirt? Too old. These pants? Don’t fit anymore. Those socks? They’re Audrey’s, not sure how they got in here…

Huffing, you plant yourself on the floor in a nest of unacceptable garments. Your daughter sits peacefully in her bouncing recliner, gaze contently following your every move while she gums at her caterpillars antennae. Grabbing two half decent short-sleeve tops, you hold them up in the baby’s direction.

“What do you think, little miss?” Audrey continues her chomping assault, not at all interested in your predicament. You sigh, tossing the shirts into the pile of mediocrity. “God, it’s easy for you. You look cute in everything.”

Articulating your last word with a tickle, you drink in the way her mouth spreads into a toothless smile. She’s really beginning to grow into her own looks, her features forming beyond the universal blob baby look. Her hair is getting a slight wave to it, still comedically thick on her head. Pouty lips combined with her chubby cheeks give her maximum squishability factor. And as you look down at the mess of clothes covering the floor, you can’t help but cast your mind 16 years into the future. Rummaging through your daughter’s wardrobe in search of the perfect first date outfit, taking her to the mall just outside of town hunting down the dreamiest of prom dresses. It’s all racing by before your eyes. A spiral begins to form if you think about it for too long, so you quickly dedicate yourself to the task at hand.

In the end, you decide to keep it simple. A boxy button-up paired with some acid-wash mom jeans and a leather belt. Your hair is on its last legs before wash-day, so you elect to tame it with a bandana wrapped at the nape of your neck to hide the greasy mess. And Converse to complete the ensemble, because, you know, you don’t have all day. Your babysitter will be here any minute.

Dustin is smilier than usual, if that’s even possible. Grinning from ear to ear, watching you dart across the room with his hands on his hips. Making no effort to help you find your keys, but rather engaged watching your one-man Monty Python sketch.

“All ready for your big date?” The teenager articulates the last word with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. It stops you in your tracks, shooting daggers his way and doing little to wipe his smile away. 

“For the last time, it’s not a date!” You lie through your teeth back to him. “I told you, we’re just going to hang out as friends. Adult friends. You know, without the presence of a baby.”

“Sure, sure. So, you got all glammed up for nothing?”

“Oh my god, I am not glammed up!” Glancing down at your outfit, you subtly worry that you may come off as trying too hard.

“I’m just saying…” Dustin throws his hands up defensively, the traces of a smile still playing on the corner of his mouth. “... you do look really nice, though.”

A humble grin makes itself known, abandoning your fruitless search to cross over to the younger boy. With figures like Steve and Eddie in his life, it’s easy to see where Dustin gets his chivalrous manners from. 

“Aw, thanks, Dusty.” Flinging your arms around his shoulders, you pull him in for a tight squeeze with the explicit purpose of embarrassing him. The teenager relents quickly, giving your back a firm pat as you hold him to you in a vice grip. Giggling at the way he squirms in your arms, you take a few wobbly steps to keep him locked into place.

Burrowing your face into his mess of curls, you allow yourself to indulge in the comfort of his embrace. He’s always been a cuddly kid, and perhaps you weren’t aware of how much you needed this until now. The pair of you stand there for a beat, allowing the moment to morph from playful teasing into genuine support. Two kids, sharing a history of pain, guilt and loss. Finding solace in one another, the older enveloping the younger and soothing whatever lingering ache burns beneath their collective sorrow. He misses Steve. God, how he misses him. 

It seeps through the pores of his fingertips, gently caressing your spine in small circles. As if, if you were to listen closely, beyond the dull hum of the refrigerator and the scattered bird calls outside, you could hear it. The tiniest voice, buried beneath unkempt curls, asking will it ever go away? And you both know the answer. It won’t, but you’ll learn to live with it. Together.

Biting back the swell of tears wetting your tongue, threatening to make themselves known, you refuse to crumble before him. Not today. Not on a day as happy as this. 

If it’s true that Eddie has little experience with dating, he sure as hell masks it well. With a handful of daisies clutched in his fist, he’s the epitome of confidence as he raps on your door three times. Claiming the flowers were for Audrey (and definitely not for you), he quickly shuts down Dustin’s insinuations before shuttling you out the front door to his chariot. He always opens the door for you, but the small gesture makes you giddy with girlish excitement. And as soon as he joins you in the dingy interior, positive the pair of you are out of Dustin’s prying eyeline, he leans over the center console to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. The brief contact causes your heart to skip, chapped lips meeting soft skin so casually it’s disarming. A calloused thumb brushing your chin, edging your face in the direction of him, drinking in every imperfection dancing across your skin in the fading afternoon light. Noses lingering inches from one another, wrinkles forming at the edges of his eyes preceding a Cheshire-cat grin.

“Ready for our next adventure?”

With a nod, clicking the gears into drive, the van rolls out of the sun-bathed trailer park and onto the winding roads out of town. It’s easy, the silence that exists between you while you tune out to the sound of whatever metal cassette is shoved into the car’s stereo. Pulling further and further out of the small town, away from the noise. The bustle of life, the judgemental whispers. To some unknown destination, where the two of you will be free to just be.

It comes into view around half an hour into the drive, sticking out like a sore thumb against the lush forest surrounding you. A kitschy, neglected sign with what appears to be a beaver toothily smiling down at you, waving its unoiled, mechanical arm at passers-by. Silly Putter Mini Golf. Pulling into the tiny parking lot, you study the loud canary yellow clubhouse building while Eddie clambours out of the driver’s side. It’s totally cheesy, down to the pathetically flickering lightbulb on the welcome sign. And you couldn’t love it more.

Swinging the passenger side door open, your date extends his ringed hand outward.

“Ready to get your putt on?”

With utmost ease, Eddie sinks the ball on his second shot. You could be mad at his seemingly god-given talent, but it’s hard to stay upset watching his hips sway like that in those dark jeans. Even at a children’s putt-putt course, he’s shown no interest in dressing more family friendly. Under your breath, you mutter praise to the inventor of muscle tank tops, now privy to the way his sinewy muscles flex with each stroke of the golf club. Occasionally, the handle of the club would clink against his wallet chain draped out of his pocket, drawing your attention back to his narrow hips. As far as you were concerned, you were a winner tonight, regardless of the scores.

“Yes! Gotta catch up, sweetheart. I’m beating you by…” He pulls the small scorecard out of his back pocket and grins. “... five points.”

Shooting a distrusting look in his direction, you pace to meet him on the prickly astroturf. 

“What?! I thought you said it was three?” 

Snatching the page away, Eddie holds it tauntingly above your head. He swings it around like a kite, mocking your stature while the only other family here passes by you with milkshakes in hand.

“That was before you hit the windmill twice on the last hole. Bit embarrassing, if you ask me.” He pokes, a shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. “Tell you what. You make this in less than two shots, I’ll call it even. Even throw in some fries afterwards, as a sign of good showmanship.”

A competitive energy charges through your body, a daring smirk playing on your face. Through your lashes, you challenge the metalhead’s smug demeanor, flirting with the notion of friendly competition.

“Deal.”

With a newly confident stride, you make your way to the fluorescent pink tee you’d picked out for yourself, placing the equally obnoxious green ball atop it. It’s a fairly easy set up, two small hills creating a valley that would lead you straight to the hole. A mechanical crocodile snaps out of the wall sporadically, directly in line to your goal, hinges chomping at nothing. You assume the stance, needing to bend over slightly to accommodate the child-sized putter you were gripping. The crocodile seems to be popping out every five seconds, and so you brace yourself until it begins its certain retreat. Drawing your putter back, you hear it click against the ball, knowing immediately you overshot it. The ball rolls over one of the bumps in the turf, into a direct line with the crocodiles elongated snout, sending it back in your direction with a pathetic tumble. 

“Shit.” You groan, attempting to tune out the smug laughter behind you. A tattooed arm comes into view over your left shoulder, pointing to the red flag sticking out of the ground.

“The holes over there, sweetheart.” Eddie quips matter-of-factly.

“Gee, thanks. What would I do without you?” Shooting daggers at your entirely too-smug date, you elbow him in the ribs before setting off in the direction of the ball. It seems your jab did little to quell Eddie’s laughter, who quickly catches up to you.

“Think you need to work on your form.”

“There’s a form needed for mini-golf?”

“Mhm, form I possess by the bucketful.” God, he’s a smug little shit sometimes.

Incredulous, you welcome his challenge with wide-open arms. “Alright then, genius. Enlighten me. Show me how it's done.”

Eyebrows disappearing into his messy bangs, Eddie’s doe eyes twinkle with boyish mischief, a prominent dimple playing deep into his cheek.

“Here.” Placing his hands on your shoulders, he maneuvers you in the direction of your goal, now partially obstructed by the protruding crocodile snout. “Line ‘er up.”

He angles himself around you, back pressed to abdomen, warmth emanating from the thin cotton of his shirt against yours. His feet shuffle to either side of yours, boxing you into his cradling hold. Snaking his bare arms along yours, starting at your elbow, each finger wrapping gently around the girth of your forearm. He lingers a moment too long, you don’t complain. Slowly working his way down to your wrists, locking his digits around the boney flesh. Breath on the nape of your neck, adrenaline pumping too fast for you to look anywhere but the lime-green golf ball at your feet. 

“That’s it…” His chest rumbles against your ribcage, coaxing vibrations of praise causing your fingertips to go numb. “Nice and gentle, okay?”

One slow nod is all you manage, feeling his gaze burning into your profile. You watch as the rusting reptile makes itself known against the fake grass, gaping jaws ready to foil your next putt. As it begins its retreat, you take a deep inhale, feeling your ribs expand against the comfort of Eddie’s sternum.

“Go.” Barely a whisper is required, his lips so close to your ear you can practically feel their plush sanctuary. In tandem, Eddie gently pulls your wrists sideways before encouraging you forward with perfect momentum. Metal meets plastic with a firm thud, propelling the ball forward. It rolls, and a collective breath is held. As if the future of the world hinges on this single stroke. Picking up sand and debris along the way, the bright sphere travels across the turf towards its goal. It hits the lip of the hole before tumbling in with a clatter, sending your arms skyward in celebration as you discard the putter.

“Yes!” Gleaming with joy, you spin on your heels to press a firm finger into Eddie’s chest. “In your smug, stupid face, Muns-”

Victory is swiftly cut short as an arm wraps around your hip, grip settling in the groove of your waist. You slot perfectly into the crook of his lean body, softness meeting strength entirely channeled into closing the gap between you. The sheer momentum of it knocks a sigh loose from your chest, clinging to the anchor of his chest with bunched fists entangled in his shirt. His free hand nestles beneath your chin, a firm thumb pressing and guiding your eyeline up to his. Eddie shines with pride. Smiling from ear to ear, shaking his head at your antics with pure amusement, feeling the contagion of your joy. 

Angling your chin slightly higher, Eddie presses his lips down onto yours with fervor. A blend of your two previous encounters, it’s passionate yet careful, a marriage of wanton desire and delicate care. You lean into it, drawing him closer by the cloth adorning his torso, chasing the taste of his kiss. As if to commit it to memory, to learn how it sits in your mouth and if the needy aftertaste ever dissipates. Muscles not just for decoration, but with the greater use of keeping you pressed intimately to his body. His thumb brushes against the groove of your jawline, dancing across the expanse of skin he is yet to be acquainted with. But there will be time for that later. Eddie is the one to pull away, a proud grin still plastered on his face.

“Good job, sweetheart. Ready for your prize?”

Food always tastes better when someone else is paying for it. The fries have the perfect crunch to them, the outer a golden brown against the fluffy white potato now filling your mouth rapidly. Eddie claims that they only came in a package deal with two cans of soda, but you have an inkling he may be lying about that. Your date watches as you shove the greasy food into your mouth, taking a long sip of his Coke.

“Looks like you’re enjoying your winnings over there.”

“Mmm-“ You mumble through a mouthful of starch. “Feels like there’s a birthday party in my mouth.”

Eddie’s brows furrow with amusement at your choice of words, shaking his mane of curls.

“Shit, actually, there’s something I don’t know about you. When is your birthday?”

Swallowing the thick mass of carbs, you slyly redirect your gaze to the quickly-emptying plastic basket before you, picking at a few deep-fried crumbs.

“Next week…” You pray to the heavens your admission was mumbled low enough for Eddie to catch it as some ambiguous month in the distant future. But it seems the years of heavy metal assaulting his ear drums has done little to subdue his sense of hearing.

“Next week?!” Theatrically, Eddie slams his soda down on the picnic table, likely taking off some of the tragic peeling paint in the process. He looks positively incredulous, brows raised to maximum height behind his bangs. “And you’ve been keeping this a secret, why?”

“I wasn’t keeping it a secret! I just didn’t think it was that big of a deal-“

“Not that big of a-“ Fingers splayed on the periwinkle blue wood, he braces himself forward with a deep inhale. “Sweetheart, now I’m gonna have to plan a big bash in less than a week. How could you do this to me?”

As if it’s the biggest inconvenience he’s ever encountered. Chuckling nervously, you wave your hands in a flurry before his deadpan expression.

“Oh no, absolutely not. Uh-uh, not happening.”

“But-”

“Eddie.” Your tone is firm, gaze boring into his. “I’m turning twenty, it’s not even an exciting number. Plus, I have a baby, in case you forgot. Not sure how many nightclubs would let the pair of us in. If it means that much to you, I’ll have you and some of the kids over for a movie. That’s my limit, though.”

Eddie huffs, resolving himself to defeat. “Fine. No strippers, then.”

“Oh, now that you mention strippers…” A grin takes over your face as you waggle a fry in his face, likely sending salt fragments onto Eddie’s shirt. Before you can bring it to your awaiting mouth, he swats the perfectly good fast food out of your hand, sending it catapulting to the ground for some poor, underpaid teenager to clean up later.

“Party in your mouth, huh?” He quips, stealing the larger of the two potato sticks stuck to the paper lining the basket. He pops it into his mouth with a grin, shooting you a suggestive look.

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

The energy between the two of you is so, so easy. You sip your cool soda, indulging in the sugary carbonation clinging to your teeth. Eddie does the same, studying a terribly constructed pyramid situated on one of the holes. No pressure to speak, or not speak, just basking in the glow of one another’s company. The air is cool under the downlights, a mild spring evening setting the scene for what a true date night should look like.

“I’ve gotta ask-” You begin through a mouthful of food, somewhat unceremoniously. “- how’d you get so good at mini golf? I just wouldn’t expect you to be the kind of guy to spend his free time at a place like this.”

“Ooft, judging a book by its cover, are we?” Eddie places his drink back on the picnic table, grinning beneath the fluorescent snack bar sign. 

“Oh, never. Heavy metal and putt-putt go hand in hand, as far as I’m concerned.”

Eddie shakes his head, grinning while he peers down at the condensation accumulating on the metal can.

“I, uh- I used to bring Dustin out here.”

“Dustin? Really?”

“Yep.” There’s a loaded silence between the pair of you, something that isn’t uncommon as you exchange stories of your past. “After, um- y’know, everything happened. He kind of… shut down. A bit like you did, for a while. Didn’t want to play DnD, or see anybody, really. So this one day, I just drove over to his place and dragged him out of bed saying ‘C’mon, butthead. I’m taking you outta town’. He kicked up a bit of a fuss, but I just sort of army-marched him out the front door. We drove around for a while, not really talking and stumbled on this place. He shot me that stupid grin of his for the first time in forever, so we came in. It sort of became a weekly thing after that, and I hate to admit that I actually enjoyed it after a while.”

Swirling a fry around in too much ketchup, your meal is all but forgotten as you find yourself enthralled by Eddie’s recollection. That all too familiar pang of sadness returns, regret manifesting quickly in your body. You wish you were there for Dustin. You should have been. You wish you were stronger earlier, able to provide him with the care he so desperately needed. In the past few months, you’ve watched the teenager really step up, busying himself with baby books in order to be the best ‘uncle’ he could be. He’s a close second behind Eddie when it comes to making Audrey smile, lapping up every second he gets with her. God, Steve would be so proud of him.

“He’s a good kid, even if he’s an annoying little shit sometimes. And Steve…” His thought trails off, running his finger around the edge of the soda can. “... Steve was good for him. Gave him someone to look up to, a role model sort-of. Almost like a big brother, I guess. So I didn’t mind running around a shitty mini-golf course with a creepy beaver sign if it made him happy.”

Abandoning your meal, you reach across the table to take Eddie’s hand in yours. The tips of his fingers are cold from the refrigerated beverage, and you wrap your palm around the icy skin with warm reassurance. 

“You’re a good man, Eddie.”

Eddie’s lips curve into the most imperceptible smile, humble and felt almost entirely inward. For a fleeting second, he wonders if that could be true. 

Eddie was meant to drive you straight home. The roads were quiet at this time of night, no traffic bar the occasional truck making its way in the opposite direction of the small town he unfortunately called home. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this full. Not literally, of course, given you guzzled down the majority of hot food before he had a chance to get to it. But it didn’t matter, not the slightest. 

He felt proud. 

Proud while he watched you dig through the bucket of tees, looking for the perfect Barbie pink one that wasn’t chipped or dirty. Proud of his excellent golfing form, thankful for all the practice he’d gotten through restless evenings with Henderson. Proud of the way you jumped up and down, hands raised to the heavens as you sank your shot in half the time it had taken you on every other hole. Proud of how he scooped you into his arms, like every cheesy rom-com he’d had the displeasure of watching. Proud of the part he had to play in your happiness. Proud to be seen with you.

He was meant to drive you straight home.

He had every intention of doing so. 

Satiated with pride, he could resolve to spend the remainder of his evening grinning stupidly to himself in the isolation of his room. The humble home across the trailer park suddenly feels closer, anyway. Until, your hand snaked its way across the center console onto his thigh, your touch feather light but the weight heavy. For a brief moment, he wonders if you reached for something but overshot, a simple mistake. And then, you linger. Fingernails scratching the course denim clinging to his legs, shockwaves sent down his skin with every delicate stroke. Absent-minded. Loaded.

He knew the stakes had just been raised.

The two of you had been close like this dozens of times before, particularly in your pregnancy. Eddie never saw the need for one of those pregnancy pillows advertised on late-night infomercials, when you apparently saw him as the perfect substitute. Back then, those exchanges meant almost nothing. A tiny back scratch here and there, drawing small circles on your forearm while you dozed off with your entire body weight pressed to his shoulder. Thoughtless interactions, designed purely to comfort and set you at ease. The familiarity that has perhaps always existed between the pair of you, now morphing into something new.

Thumb smoothing the faded-black material, tiny rotations etched over and over.

Hypnotic.

The bravery that overtook him was phantom, ghostly desire edging his knee ever so slightly further in your direction. As if to say please, don’t stop. I’m right here. His eyes remain firmly locked onto the dark road, using only the occasional streetlight to guide his path. Besides, he doesn’t need to look at you to feel your gaze on his cheek. Not that he could bring himself to, if he tried. He wonders if he blacked out earlier. Got hit in the head with a rogue club and passed out, ascending to a heaven in which he would be fortunate enough to experience such a sensation. Heart pounding in his chest, he lets out an unsteady exhale as your fingers snake deeper into the groove, caressing at more sensitive flesh. Inward, where the skin is far more sensitive. 

Eddie isn’t a greedy man.

Until he is.

“Baby…” The foreign pet name slips out as a moan, barely perceivable beneath the soft hum of the cassette’s tune filling the car at a low volume. Somehow, in those two syllables alone, he crosses a line. Bares his soul to the wolves, knowing well the potential ramifications, the bloodshed that follows vulnerability.

The digging of your fingernails into the meaty flesh at his utterance is his breaking point. The green light he sought out. With cautious fervourency, he pulls off the road quickly, wheels clattering along the asphalt excuse for a truck stop. The car is quickly clicked into park before the metalhead can cognise it, tearing the constricting seatbelt off his body. Your hand never leaves its spot.

Turning to you, wide-eyed with want, he pauses. Gives himself whiplash from the flurry of activity leading to the sudden stillness. It’s intrinsic, no need for words anymore. Redundant wastes of breath.

His lungs hitch, adrenaline pulsing in the tips of his fingers. 

Can we?

Lips parted ever so slightly, a rise of your chest and dazed fluttering of eyelids answers.

Yes.

It’s not clear who lunges first. What is clear is how your bodies instinctively shape around one another, quick to absolve the space between you. Lips collide with lips, desperately seeking respite. Wanton moans are pulled effortlessly, fistfuls of hair tangled in clammy fingers drawing the two of you impossibly close. Imperfect fumblings as shirts are clutched desperately, fueling the fire burning in the pits of Eddie’s stomach. The pace is entirely unsteady, soft brushes bleeding into firm tugs of teeth piercing tender flesh with just the right amount of force. Embarrassing, unadulterated need at the forefront of every motion, and neither of you cared. God, it’s almost perverse. How Eddie corrupts something so soft, so sweet, with every fevered kiss. Like he’s tainting you with his taste, as if he could lap enough of you up and absolve his unworthiness. The likelihood of that working is slim, but god damn Eddie is willing to try. 

It’s still not enough. 

The plastic console separating you is driving him mad. He needs to be able to grab, clutch, caress every square inch of you with no obstructions. You make him bold. 

Bold enough to slip his wandering hand beneath your far thigh, the smallest hithering motion enough to feel the weight shift above his palm. Unceremoniously, you clamber over the glove box after unclipping your seatbelt, haphazardly swinging your foot into the horn. The beep echoes through the isolated rest stop, a mumbled apology being quickly swallowed by Eddie’s lips. Blindly guided, he directs your knees to either side of his hips, showing no qualms with the limited driver’s side legroom. His hands find your hips, tentatively hovering above his lap, shaky thighs taking the brunt of your weight. With small, caressing circles of your hip bone, he soothes you as he always has. Encourages you to share the pressure, begging to be the bearer of it. No wrong answer, only whatever you’re comfortable with. Perfect the way you are. 

Ringed fingers press gently into the small of your waist, drawing you closer still to his body. This seems to encourage you to relent to your tiring muscles, finding solace on Eddie’s tense thighs. A safe distance, but so close to danger. To unbridled want. Neither of you care.

Eddie’s eyes flutter shut as you speckle kisses along his cheek, dancing down his jawline and finding sanctuary on his neck. Nipping slightly at his pulse point, he can’t help but squeeze a bit tighter. Relishing in your exploration, mentally mumbling Hail Mary’s for his good deeds from past lives that lead him to this euphoria. A gasp escapes his throat as you latch onto a particularly sensitive spot, causing his hands to seek refuge on the meat of your hips. He squeezes, eliciting a similar wanton moan that vibrates against his stubbled skin.

“Is- is this good?” A sentence loaded with various meanings tumbles out, his grip loosening slightly. 

“Mmm.” You murmur, tracing the familiar trail back along his jaw and to his aching lips. “So good. So good to me, always.”

A knot forms in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. So good. So good. For you. That’s all he’s ever wanted to be. It fucking underscores every day, trying to do right by you. Constantly trying. He lives for it. For the smiles, the exhales of safety, the reassurance, the comfort…

It’s gotten him more hooked than a drug ever could.

So why. 

Why can’t he accept it?

The praise, the love, everything you dish out effortlessly. But to want and to deserve are very different things, the latter being something that Eddie factually knows he is not entitled to. 

It returns, a tidal wave of despair crashing over his heart, encasing it in a riptide of emotional debris and darkness. The taunting ticking of the second hand that haunts him constantly, the grip on his happiness slipping…

“Hey.” He gasps out, ringed fingers grazing your cheek as he pulls away. So close still he can see the flushed-red outline of your lips, the blissed out expression in your eyes quickly morphing to concern.

“Shit, you okay?” You pull back, brushing a loose curl out of the frame of his face.

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” A stabilizing breath does little to quell the erratic beating of his heart. “Just- maybe we should, like, take things a bit slower? I- I just don’t want all this to be too much, too fast.”

Brows furrowing slightly, it’s hard to miss the minute disappointment reflected across your face.

“Oh. No, yeah, of course.” Letting out an awkward chuckle, your unoccupied hands take to fidgeting with your now-loose blouse. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get carried away…”

“No, no-” Eddie reassures, a smile growing on his sore lips despite the gnawing ache in his chest. “Fuck, you were- it was perfect.”

A bashful grin cuts through the nerves etched into your skin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” God, you make him too bold. Cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he dips forward to steal another miss from you. “Just want to do things right. Be a gentleman and all that.”

“You? A gentleman? Since when?” You poke.

“Since always.” The tone returns to easy as always, if not charged with a certain afterglow of electricity.

“So, what’s the next step in the courting ritual then?”

“Dunno. Guess I’ll have to pull off a grand gesture of some kind.”

Thursday afternoon, counting down the minutes until the clock strikes 5pm and frees you from this grind. Happy fucking birthday to you. 

Robin has been fussing over you non-stop for the past 24 hours. Apparently, a little birdie told her about your upcoming birthday (something you’d diligently kept private), sending her into a frenzy. She insisted on at least taking you out for dinner to celebrate your birthday at Benny’s, and practically stuffed her version of appropriate birthday attire into a duffle bag this morning for you to change into post-shift. In all her festive glory, she returned from her lunch break with a pink-frosting covered cupcake and tried to involve no less than three customers in a group rendition of Happy Birthday that was less than successful. And despite the unwarranted theatrics, you can’t deny your gratitude. Seeing how she dotes on you, dedicating her every movement that day to your happiness. And frankly, it’s not dissimilar to every other day. The love, the care that the two of you feel for eachother simply heightened for your first day of your twenties. Luck has never been a word you’d use to describe your life, but today, it feels fitting.

Keith has been goaded into closing the shop up solo tonight, Robin sparing no detail of the utmost importance to this diner dinner. She’d also arranged for Eddie to bring Audrey along, clocking in around 12 total hours of unpaid babysitting and a bushel of brownie points. Then, once the grown-ups have hung out, some of the younger kids will bike to the trailer park for a late-night movie. Spending the remaining hours of your birthday with everyone you love.

The small bathroom cubicle adjoining the workroom is cluttered with makeup and clothes, the two of you primping yourself in privacy. Tonight’s outfit of choice appears to be a band tee, tied at the waist with a flowing maxi-skirt, clashing in your mind but makes sense to Robin, apparently. To level the playing field, she dug out some of your nicer boots for the occasion. Internally, you worry for Audrey, and how it’ll be once Robin realizes she has two life-sized Barbie dolls to dress up. But secretly, you like it. It feels very you, whatever that means now. Comfort meets expression, an identity crafted beyond Mom.

Smiling at yourself through the rusty bathroom mirror, Robin swipes on her mascara.

“How do you feel? Older and wiser yet?” Robin asks, eyes bugged out in concentration.

“More of the former, I’d say.” You chuckle.

“What about the outfit? I felt pretty proud of it, very rocker-chic meets fairy princess.”

“It’s great, Rob. All of it.” Lips pursing together in an emotional smile, you drink in the image before you. You look your age. No dark circles or fine lines present, concealed under just the right amount of makeup. Hair just the way you like it, not confined to a three-day-old ponytail. You recognise her, from another life. The girl you used to be. And she’s so happy to see you.

Robin shoves the mascara tube into her tote bag, throwing it over her shoulder. “Ready to hit the road?”

With a nod, you hold the door open for her, the imposing fluorescents of the video store coming back into view. 

“Oh, nearly forgot. We’ve gotta make a pit stop along the way, if that’s alright with you?” Following her trail, the two of you burst out the front doors and into the brisk evening towards your Pinto.

“Sure.” You reply. “Just lead the way.”

“Robin, where the hell are we?” Glancing around one of the seedier streets of Hawkins, you shrug your handbag a little closer under your armpit and remind yourself that you did, in fact, lock your car. It’s fairly innocuous, an assortment of goods shops and a vintage record store, but you’ve never ventured this far into the heartland. Robin is a few paces before you, studying the signs of various closed businesses along the road. Her face lights up as you approach one particular building. 

“Bada-boom.” She announces with a proud grin, stopping in front of a large, black building. The paint is sun-faded, lined with scratched-off band posters graffitied with lewd scribbles. Against the dark sky, your only indication of the name etched into the doorway awning comes in the form of a passing car blaring its lights.

“The Hideout?” It rang a bell, yet you could not work out for the life of you what the two of you were doing here. “Dude, is this a nightclub? It’s a Thursday!”

“Not exactly…” Her brazen smile makes you slightly nervous. “More of a live music venue. I’ve just gotta pick something up from here, then we’ll be off to dinner. ‘Kay?”

“Alright, maybe I’ll just wait outside-” “No!” Robin quickly clears her throat. “I mean- I’m not leaving you out here on these mean street all alone without me to protect you.”

Shooting you a bright smile, you have to take at face value that she’s being entirely serious right now. Locking her arm through yours, she urges your unwilling feet further to the entrance.

“Is it even-” Answering your half-finished question, Robin pushes open the door to the venue, the interior pitch-black. “Are we even allowed to be here?”

“Yes, dingus! Just c’mon…” Once again, you’re placing literal blind faith into your closest friend. She might as well have tied Eddie’s bandana over your eyes as she did at Christmas, nothing but the slightly sticky floor beneath you to guide you forwards into oblivion. Her arm is your liferaft, swimming through pitch-black waters towards god knows what. In the distance, you hear a strange scuffling of feet, not belonging to either you or your co-worker. It sends chills down your spine, suddenly feeling very out of your depth. It’s disorienting, and totally alien.

“Seriously, Robin. Can we-” Your hushed tone is directed to the girl beside you, who stops in her tracks. You plant yourself beside her, the strangest feeling of being able to make a figure out through the void before you. A fleeting moment of movement, another shuffle of shoes on tacky wood ground. 

And in the flash of an eye, brightness burns your retinas, momentarily blinding you. It forces you to squint, a desperate attempt to identify these unfamiliar surroundings. A spotlight of sorts bears down on you before Robin quickly releases you from her vice grip and jumps to the side. But as one sense is returned, another is quickly abused, a raucous sound brutalizing your eardrums.

“Surprise!” Numerous voices call out at the top of their voices, unable to be individually dissected amongst the barrage of confetti poppers bursting into the sky. As your eyes grow accustomed to the warm spotlights around the venue, you make out familiar shapes. A mess of scruffy curls buried beneath a baseball cap. Two young boys with arms slung around one another jumping up and down, perfectly manicured bangs flinging haphazardly. The flash of a camera you’d borrowed months ago. There’s only a few of them, but their energy fills the space tenfold. 

And, at the center, you see a lean figure with a Kirk Hamlett haircut raise a squirming lump high above his head, not unlike a certain Disney movie that wouldn’t come out for another good eight or so years. Eddie, in what can only be described as his best cut-off band tee, proudly holds Audrey high above the group, her chunky legs bunched up to her body as she looks around entirely confused. As the last syllable of their celebration dies off, as if on cue, Audrey’s face screws up in a dramatic pout, a loud cry echoing through the venue at a volume the others only could hope to have achieved. Eddie’s face quickly transforms to worry, eyes squinting with embarrassment.

“Oh, fu-” Eddie quickly lowers her, cradling her head towards his collarbone. “Shit, didn’t mean to scare you, Squid.” 

Shushing her and pacing a step towards you, he bounces your baby from side to side. Her cries begin to lull, her fist tucked tightly at his clavicle for emotional support. Likely giving his neck a few scratches from her razor-sharp fingernails, she clings to the neckline of his shirt like a spider monkey, pulling it down with a subdued whimper and revealing one of his tattoos.

“Eddie? What-” You’re stunned. Shell-shocked from the sudden onslaught of sensation and attention, closing the space between you and the metalhead.

“How’s this for a grand gesture?” Spinning on his heel, Dustin rushes over to present a frosting-covered monstrosity on the bar. The icing is baby pink, with large globs that could be letters on top, with a handful of mismatched candles shoved into the floury concoction.

“Ta-da!” The younger boy grins, fixing one of the especially lop-sided candles. “Sorry it’s nothing special, I didn’t have much time to work on it…”

“You- you threw me a birthday party?” You ask, wide-eyed to Eddie.

“Ah-” He raises a finger, readjusting the subdued baby in his arms. “A surprise birthday party. In case you missed the keyword over the little hellraiser's scene-stealing cry.”

That familiar feeling returns. Overwhelmed by love and eyes solely on you. A small pile of presents sits on one of the bar tables, along with a few cards. Far more modest than the endowment you received from the group months earlier. Smiling faces, slightly tentative as they attempt to interpret your expression. But that thumping in your chest is not from anxiety this time. It’s from an overflowing sense of gratitude. 

A teary smile takes over your face, rushing to embrace Eddie and Audrey in a tight bear hug. The baby nestled between you burbles and squirms, and you raise your lips to the shell of Eddie’s ear to whisper a heartfelt “thank-you”.

The party is in full swing. Of the faces huddled in groups around the intimate venue, you initially only recognise half of them. Mike, Lucas and Will order root beer from the bar under Eddie’s strict supervision, not wanting any wasted minors on his track record. Dustin and Erica are engaged in a heated conversation with a few older boys, each of them wearing shirts printed with the name Corroded Coffin. You’d only crossed paths with them a handful of times at campaign nights, but they shared Eddie’s welcoming nature, trying to involve you in their conversation about elves or something. Nancy and Robin were trying to liven up the dance floor, which mostly involved Nancy swaying to the beat and Robin putting on a full-scale musical number around her. With Audrey not in the arms of any of her allocated babysitter’s arms, there was only one place left to search. Jonathan was taking a picture of the group in the adjacent booth, El and Max grinning either side of an unfamiliar face. His long, dark hair proved most entertaining for the infant on his lap, a glazed-over expression dancing in his red-rimmed eyes. 

“Woah, woah! That’s not for playing with, little dudette. Try this instead, I know it keeps me entertained.” From his Hawaiian shirt pocket, he pulls out a small set of keys, passing them to Audrey’s greedy fingers. She squeals, flinging the keys up and down in delight.

“God, she’s so cute.” El gushes, smoothing her pint-sized overalls over her legs.

“I know, right. She looks so much like Steve, it’s insane.” Max affirms. “Alright, Argyle. Quit hogging her.”

The redhead scoops her hands around Audrey’s waist, bringing her up to eye level with a cooing expression. 

“You know they’re born without kneecaps? How gnarly is that?” Argyle states, turning to El with complete sincerity.

“No way that’s true.” Max shoots the older boy a signature dead-pan look, readjusting Audrey in her arms, who is now getting a good amount of drool on the keychain.

“Swear on my life! I read it somewhere, they’re born without propellers.”

“You mean patellas?” El corrects.

“Yeah, that’s the one! Or maybe it’s dogs I’m thinking of…”

It’s beautiful, watching over your own party as a voyeur. An event that has brought together all of the closest people in your life, the common thread being you. It makes you sick with love.

“How’re you enjoying the event, sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice reaches you before he does, a glass of tan-colored liquid in hand.

“It’s perfect, really.” You reply with a grin. “All that’s missing are the Jell-o shots.”

“Gonna treat us to another Flashdance number?” Cheeks flushing over his statement, you stammer a response.

“How- how did you…”

“Don’t think I’d forget a spectacle like that.” He winks, a devilish grin spread across his lips. “Livened up that night’s dealings, that’s for sure.”

It’s strange, remembering a time before this. A time when Eddie was just a face in the crowd, Steve the undisputed King of Hawkins, and you with no clue what the coming years held in store. It feels like a lifetime ago, and simultaneously feels like an eternity you’ve spent with this eclectic family by your side.

“Getting on the beers tonight, Munson?” You tap a nail against the edge of his glass teasingly.

“Nah, confiscated Henderson’s root beer for my own selfish purposes.”

“You’re not gonna have a celebratory drink with me tonight?” Eddie shakes his head.

“Don’t think so, sweetheart. Sounds a bit cliche, but I feel weird drinking around Squid. Just don’t want to be the kind of guy who does that around a baby, makes me feel like my dad or something.”

You swear your heart swells to three times its normal size. He might be the most considerate man you’ve ever met.

“Besides…” Eddie continues, pointing to the Hellfire boys. “... don’t want to be a mess on stage for the grand finale of the night.”

You gasp, mock excitement written all over your expression. “Strippers?!”

Eddie shakes his head with a laugh, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

“Maybe later, if you ask nicely.”

He did it.

Eddie pulled it off. From the house-shaking rendition of Happy Birthday, to the (in his humble opinion) absolutely killer set courtesy of Corroded Coffin, to shuttling the younger kids home before the bar opened to the public. He fucking did it. He did good.

The dingy bar is now filled with the usual patrons, the bouncers not bothering to check the ID’s of the occupants inside who could pass for being over 21. Last he saw you, you were dancing arm in arm with Robin and Nancy, screaming Everybody Wants to Rule The World at the top of your lungs. He’d never seen you so free, so vibrant. Moving like no one was watching, twirling and laughing and holding your friends. Just as you deserved to be. A twenty-year-old for one night, before another 364 days devoted to being a mom.

The cool breeze is welcoming, soothing his warm skin under the clear night sky. Stars swimming in the endless expanse of night, delicate kisses of light kissing the pitch-black veil. He can breathe. It used to be suffocating, looking up at the infinite nothing. It would clog Eddie’s throat, choking him in bleak nothingness. Wrap him in a coat of terror, a black mirror designed to play back every fateful mistake of his miserable life. Now, it welcomes him. And he isn’t afraid to embrace it. Baby steps, learning to love the dark parts of his being.

In his arms, he rocks Squid back and forth gently. She’s long since dozed off, the burden of being the life of the party clearly hung too heavy on her tiny shoulders. On her ears sit the smallest fluffy earmuffs, an investment courtesy of Dustin just for tonight. She was the best little groupie he could have asked for. At one point, Robin brought her onstage and placed her feet on the ground, bopping her up and down to the music. The crowd roared, and she giggled and squealed like she was the headliner act. Might have shown the band up, honestly. Eddie didn’t mind.

He’s getting better at stealing moments with her. Giving into his need to dote on her unabashedly. He could stare at her for a lifetime, and that wouldn’t be enough. He needs to imprint in his mind the way her eyelids flutter when she sleeps, commit to memory the O-shape of her mouth when she lets out a sleepy yawn. He wants to record her laugh, keep it forever. He wants every waking second to be dedicated to her.

“Have a good night, Squid?” He mumbles, lightly stroking the bridge of her nose. “Not bad for your first party, eh? Just you wait until your birthday. All of this will look like child’s play.”

Squid wriggles restlessly, burrowing into Eddie’s chest. Against his sternum, he can feel the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath, the tiny grunts of sleep deep in her lungs. It makes him grin like a mad-man.

“Y’know, I’m gonna let you in on a secret.” He readjusts her carefully in his arms, hushing his tone slightly. “I think- I think you and your mom are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

His words hang heavy in the still air, the empty alleyway the only recipient to his confession.

“Can you believe I was scared of you? Of these tiny hands-” He tickles her palm with his pointer finger, the baby clasping around it instinctually with unbridled strength. “- and these little feet. God, I’m pretty stupid, aren’t I? You can tell me, I won’t be offended. But, I’ll tell you something, just between you and me. There are much scarier things out there. And I’m not talking about monsters or alternate dimensions, although I do promise to protect you from that, cross my heart.” He raises his free hand to his heart, as if the sleeping infant would know any different.

“In this big, bad world, I think the scariest thing is to be alone. And I’m gonna make sure you never feel that way, if I can help it.”

Eddie is rambling, word vomit spilling past his lips faster than he can contain it. No scapegoat of weed or alcohol to blame his honesty on. He gently rocks Squid back and forth, the motion soothing both of them. 

“Y’know, I know you’re not mine. But-” Teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, fingers pulling down her overalls. “- I dunno, it kinda feels like you’re mine in my heart.”

With a deep exhale, Eddie allows his honesty to wash over him in all its brutal glory. Knee-buckingly raw, and he leans into it, for once. Allows the love to pump through his veins with every beat of his cynical heart, waking up parts of him he thought were gone for good. But the moment of solitude doesn’t last long before Robin comes barreling out of the back door, almost crashing into the nearby trash cans.

“Shit, sorry. Did I wake her?” She apologizes, sloshing her half-finished gin and tonic onto the pavement.

“Nah, you’re in luck. Squid’s out like a light.” He pulls out another milk crate, beckoning the tipsy liability over. “Having fun in there?”

“Yeah, yeah- I am.” It’s a half thought, words dancing on the tip of her tongue not ready to be spoken yet. “The kids get home alright?”

“Eventually, had to drag most of them out by the end. Henderson wanted to hide in the bathroom and then ‘blend in with the older crowd’.”

“Wonder where he learnt that one from.” Robin smiles, nudging the metalhead.

“Hey, don’t look at me. Wasn’t my doing, for once…”

“Mmm…” She replies, taking a swig of her mixed spirit. Staring down at the lime slice, she swishes the glass around as if deep in thought. Glazed eyes laced with melancholy, radiating off her being.

“Something on your mind?” Eddie asks, angling his body more in her direction.

Robin’s mouth screws up as if she’s tasted something bitter, unable to bring her gaze to meet the man before her. But he doesn’t need to look her in the eyes to see the tears swelling on her waterline, quivering with her next sentence. 

“We have to tell her…” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, suppressed anxiety trickling in with every syllable. 

Eddie feels his blood run cold, the familiar pang of dread hanging low in his stomach. He shakes his head defiantly.

“Not tonight, Rob. Please…” The plea is firm, fraying at the edges. Not ready to face the inevitable.

“No, no. Not tonight, but it needs to be soon.”

“Can we please not do this right now?” Eddie doesn’t mean to be so forceful with his words, but fear is a powerful thing. It poisons his blood, pushed further through his system with every erratic beat of his heart.

Robin’s eyes continue to well up with stinging tears, her grip on the glass tightening. “The guilt is eating me alive, Eddie. I just… I don’t know how to do it.”

Eddie sighs, desperate to keep what little control he possesses. 

“We need to do it the right way, got it? You, me, Henderson and her. We can all sit down and…” Robin runs her hand through her hair with exasperation at Eddie’s suggestion. Even the gentlest of options sounds like a monumental task. “Just give it a bit more time…”

“There is no more time!” She retorts, her volume loud enough for her to quickly glance down at the sleeping baby to make sure she didn’t wake her.

Eddie stands up, readjusting Squid in his arms. He’s doing his best to stay calm, and not let the inevitable spiral begin, a fruitless battle. “I’m not doing this right now, okay?”

The liquid courage is working wonders on Robin right now, standing up to face the metalhead eye-to-eye. “Don’t act like you don’t feel the same way, Eddie. You know as well as I do that she has a right to know.”

Eddie’s mouth is open and ready to voice another stern reply, when it’s interrupted by a meek voice behind him. The soft tone does little to soothe the ache growing in his abdomen, not daring to look over his shoulder at the source. 

“I have a right to know what?”

Haze. 

Disorder. 

Stumbling your way through the overbearing smog flooding your consciousness. Gripping to the worn sofa in your living room like it’s a buoy, the only thing grounding you in painful reality.

It’s fragmented, the onslaught of new information cluttering your mind, unable to be sifted through logically.

Owens.

Lowering yourself to the ground, you’ve lost all faith in your legs to keep you upright. Sea legs giving out beneath you, collapsing under the weight of a burdened mind. You quickly put Audrey in her bassinet the second you arrived home, stepping back from her small body like she was made of fire. Delicate, precious, amidst the crumbling ruins of life.

Found.

No. 

No, you need someone to cling onto. Polyester beneath your fingernails can never compare to flesh and blood, pumping with life and hope and comfort. Oh god. Craving arms, muscle and sinew engulfing your body, soothing and shushing like you’ve done with your baby countless times. Desperate for the luxury of kindness.

No one to dote. 

No one to care. 

No one to witness the mortifying pain of existence. 

No one to observe the torment they cursed you with in the first place.

Steve.

Crawling up your throat like bile, burning your esophagus as hot lava. You’d welcome the respite of vomit, the substance of it, the satisfaction of exorcism. But no, the painful tar claws its way through your tract, bringing biting tears to your eyes. Hell manifesting in your being. Truth collapsing with a heavy hearted I’m so sorry, bouncing off the walls of the narrow alleyway while you retreated. Words spilling out helplessly from your loose tongue, rage of betrayal driving every consonant and syllable. To never see you again, let alone speak to you. 

The loss of everyone, everyone. Robin, Dustin, Nancy, fuck- Eddie. They all knew. They coaxed you through the loss, never allowing for hope to breed. Lies built on mountains of lies, a shamble foundation of friendship. Arms that held your daughter with gentleness and altruism, seemingly all fabricated. Tainting her with every touch, every smile, tongues bleeding as they bit back the truth. Too numb to cry, to even indulge in the agony of feeling.

Beginnings are special, because most of them are fake. Artificial and man-made, entirely composed of brain chemistry and justifications. The person you become after your first glass of wine was already there, fretting below the surface of your facade, chipping away at the mask you present to the world. They never left.

You are at the end of beginning.

[fayes-fics]

hello! it’s yearning nonny again. this is SUCH a random question and I’m already embarrassed about asking it but I’ve wanted to ask writers it for years

would you say the kind of love you write about exists? like that draw to them and knowledge that the person you’re with is it for you kind of thing? I’ve always wondered if it’s fiction or drawn from real experiences

I imagine this makes me sound lame as heck but I’ve not seen a lotta true love in my life irl and I’ve always wondered where the inspo comes from!

Hi Yearning Nonny!

You don’t sound lame at all 🫶 Don’t be embarrassed, this is a great question imo! 🫶

I don’t know what other writers would say to this question, but I would say both yes and no.

Romance, and indeed fiction in general, IMO is always going to be a heightened version of anything that would and indeed does happen in real life. By design really, it’s escapism to a realm that is exaggerated, colourful, other-worldly.

I would say real love is much less dramatic than it’s portrayed in lots of romance stories, but no less wonderful for it. It’s more calming and grounding, which is exciting in a different way. They will be your very best friend. So very different to any toxic, twisted relationships people might have experienced, often mistaking that for true love due to the intensity.

But real love is also amazing precisely because it’s so very human - it’s sometimes hard and messy and maddening. It’s almost certain you will disagree and squabble, but there is a lot of forgiveness and sacrifice too. Choosing that person when sometimes it might seem easier not to.

But I’m also not going to lie and pretend it lasts forever for everyone. Sometimes, yes unfortunately, it fades. People change or what we want in life changes. And that’s not to diminish its power while it lasts.

I used to question if what I’ve experience is “true love” and that’s because I was always comparing it to these stories and tropes we are bombarded with that IMHO are often unhelpful.

I think after many years on this earth I’d say real love is about looking someone in the eye and wanting to be vulnerable with them, seeing it as a strength, not a weakness, to do so. It’s a bravery to let them see every side of you. The broken and scared bits as well as the good.

In a long term relationship someone will see you at your very worst, crying on the floor covered in vomit cos you are sick, for example, or breaking down with grief, and it won’t alter how they feel about you because they accept every aspect of you, even the parts of yourself you might struggle to love.

So… the inspo for stories… it’s partially based on experience, at least for me. But it’s also exaggerated. I wouldn’t want the sort of love that’s in a lot of romance stories, it seems fucking exhausting to be honest lol.

I hope and believe you will experience love in your life. Even if not romance, the love of close friendship can be just as life sustaining and emotionally fulfilling as romantic love in my experience.

As my boy Benedict says, love is not finite. You may love many people in the course of your life for a myriad of reasons, not just romantic.

Anyway I hope this LONG ASS reply was helpful in some way. And I also welcome feedback from others on their experiences. They could well be different.

Thanks for your ask 😁🧡🧡

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Six (Astarion's POV)

Wicket shows a moment of vulnerability.

“Looking at something?”  Astarion arches one eyebrow as he studies Wicket’s reflection in the glass of his mirror.  The cleric is drinking more than usual tonight, choosing to keep to his own company rather than join the others around the fire for the evening meal.

“Just looking,” Wicket murmurs, sipping from his goblet of wine.  “What are you doing?”

Astarion fights to suppress the shiver that rolls down his spine.  He’ll never admit this, not even under the threat of death, but he adores the way a wine-soused Wicket speaks.  The gnome’s voice is already far deeper than one would ever imagine, given his size, and when he’s in his cups the husky growl becomes more of a soft rumble… the sharp, clipped edges of his accent become softer, more rounded… a velvet darkness that reminds Astarion of snowfall on a winter’s night.

Astarion forcibly shakes himself out of his musing to answer the question.  “I’m looking too, but not seeing very much.  Another quirk of my affliction.”

“Do you miss it?  Seeing your own face?”  Wicket tilts his head to the side, curious.

“Preening in the looking glass?  Petty vanity?” Astarion sneers.  “Of course I miss it.  I’ve never even seen this face.  Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

“What color were they before?”

“I… I don’t know.” Astarion pauses, slightly ashamed to make such an admission.  “I can’t remember.  My face is just some dark shape in my past.  Another thing that I’ve lost.”  He dashes the mirror onto the ground, fury coursing through him as he’s forced to face the reality of his condition yet again.  After two hundred years one would think it would get easier…

But it doesn’t.

Wicket deftly sidesteps shards of broken glass and sips his wine again, his eyes never leaving Astarion’s face.  With his free hand he motions for Astarion to come closer.  Curious, the vampire cautiously kneels down so that they two are able to look each other in the eye.  He remains motionless while Wicket’s eyes rove over him, greedily taking in every aspect of his face.  His colorless eyes, so often dark and haunted, burn with a pale fire that Astarion has never seen before.  Unlike Astarion, who quit aging upon the moment of his death, Wicket bears the burdens of his time in the earthly realm; long, black hair streaked with silver… his skin is tan and weathered from his many years spent traveling through the wilds of Faerun… a myriad of scars litter his skin, a testament to the danger of his life as a chosen of Kelemvor… faint wrinkles bracket his eyes and mouth, the signs of laughter and much time in the sun.  Astarion finds himself wondering about who Wicket was before fate threw them together, the Wicket who smiled and laughed often enough to create those lines in his skin.

“I see you,” Wicket whispers hoarsely.

“And what do you see, exactly?” Astarion inquires breathily, almost afraid to hear the gnome’s thoughts.

“Starlight and rubies,” Wicket murmurs absently, his free hand drifting upwards as if to touch Astarion’s cheek.  He hesitates just before his fingertips brush the elf’s skin, so instead his hand just hovers, faintly outlining the arc of Astarion’s cheekbone and then the strong curve of his jaw.   “You are like moonlight on water… The kind of beauty artists and sculptors dream of but can never truly capture on canvas or in clay.  Ethereal and eternal.”

Part of Astarion wants to scoff, to demand that Wicket specifically cite what he finds attractive about him… but another part, a long forgotten part of himself that existed before Cazador, when he was still a young boy who daydreamed of an adoring lover who would shower him in poetry and loving glances… that part of him blissfully listens to Wicket’s every word.

“In my wildest, most exquisite dreams I never could have imagined someone like you, Astarion,” Wicket continues.  “My moonlit beauty.”

“Wicket…” Astarion breathes out the gnome’s name, turning his head just enough to barely graze the other man’s fingers with his lips.  He freezes, surprised at his own willingness to touch a gnome.

Wicket seems equally shocked but quickly collects himself; his eyes grow cold as his expression shutters and Astarion is once again faced with a stoic and loyal cleric of Kelemvor.  He takes a few steps back and offers Astarion a stiff nod before turning away.

“Sleep well, Astarion,” he calls as he strides away to his tent.

Astarion stares after him, unable to formulate a response, and struggling to understand why Wicket’s sudden departure has left him feeling so… bereft.  Astarion is not unfamiliar with flattery certainly, after all compliments are all part and parcel of the game of seduction.  And after two centuries of luring and obtaining victims for Cazador, Astarion is a master of that particular game.  But in all his years no one has spoken to him so genuinely, stared at him so rapturously… been so tender towards him without the expectation of anything in return.

Astarion scowls, pulling himself out of those idle thoughts.  He won’t allow himself to be swayed by tender feelings and whispered sweet nothings, from a gnome of all things, not when there is so much at stake.  But perhaps if he can twist Wicket to his advantage…  Astarion smirks to himself.

Yes... that could prove very useful indeed.

[procrastinatorproject]

For the WIP Folder Game. First of all, how do you expect me to choose one? After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to "Calluses" and "Dino Hunt" 😁

It is wild to me with what kind of precision all of you are picking these stories :D @jazzfic managed to zero in on the one Agnebal snippet, you picked the two fics that aren't even in the same list but are actually closely connected... I love it so much!

So, those two stories were originally inspired by @regionalpancake. I think I was feeling very bad at the time (a couple years back) and asked for prompts for holo-stories I could write. Pancakes came in with "Calluses", "no you stop it!" and "DINOSAURS!". And because the brain was in a bad place, I never ended up really doing much with it, but I do still have two bits of fic in my wip folder based on those prompts.

For the dino story, I only have one paragraph.

The insect looked similar to the stickflies that bred in the southern swamps on Vashti during the harvest months. They swarmed the fields once the drones and workers left, and feasted on the husks and straw left in the sandy earth. As a child, Elnor would sometimes ask Zani to let him walk down to the hill overlooking the monastery’s grain fields after dinner, so he could listen to their songs. Stickflies made the most tantilizing music by rubbing their five pairs of iridescent wings together. This specimen did not make music with its wings, maybe because it only had four, but it hummed a gently oscillating tone as it approached.

Well, one paragraph and one sentence. I think the idea was that there has been some holodeck malfunction and a bunch of terrifying prehistoric creatures have broken free and taken over La Sirena (given that she has holo-emitters throughout). And Elnor and the others are trying to round them up and herd them back into the holodeck before someone gets hurt. But alas, I don't have any additional notes here.

As for calluses, I have a few hundred words of dialogue between Ian and Soji. But I actually really like the notes I wrote underneath, so I'm gonna share those! (The square brackets are how I mark notes where a story isn't written out but I only have bits of summary)

[The holos, as many computers are want to do, build heuristics to do certain tasks more quickly. These connections get strengthened and over time, they form a map of sorts, that will show you what they do often, the same way calluses might for humans. Emmet likes to externalize many of his internal structures, similar to the way the captain likes to keep his scars. For the captain, it’s partially self-neglect, but it’s also a way to know where he’s been and keep a record of things that have happened and that were real. For Emmet, it’s absolutely the latter. [Soji has been thinking about externalizing some of her memories. Memories of Dahj, of childhood adventures. Dahj had a scar on her ankle that Soji remembers being from a kayaking trip they went on in the Pudget Sound. They rescued some wild animal — Dahj always loved animals! Soji knows the story is fake and the scar was fake and it’s all very frustrating, but she would like some kind of permanent reminder of the things she has accomplished and the past she has lived] [Ian suggests that Emil would probably be very pissed if Soji hurt herself to get some kind of cosmetic scar. But maybe she can talk to Emmet about getting a tattoo. As for calluses to show what she has accomplished: her brain is a map of all the things that have defined her. Dahj has left a mark there, and she can choose to express this in a myriad of small ways. And whichever one she chooses, Ian will help her get there.]

I feel like this is extremely on brand for me: thinking A Lot about how the holos function on a technological level and what that means for them as people. And also thinking and writing about Soji's relationship with Dahj and her manufactured past and memories. There's so much there there, and I really want to explore that more in the future!

(I cannot get over how you managed to pick these two, out of the dozen wip titles in that list 🤣 Absolutely brilliant! And thank you so much for the opportunity to dig through some old stories and reread my own writing. It's a real joy to do this kind of personal archaeology!)

Also: I had completely forgotten that there was a third prompt, too! I might have to create another WIP jut to make a note of that. Maybe it'll give me some inspiration 🤔

---

I'm still very happy to answer questions or post snippets of the many things in my WIP folder :D Here's the original list of titles if you want to see what's available!

[kindlystrawberry]

Arthur’s Marriage Event Letters

SPOILERS FOR RF4, ARTHUR’S MARRIAGE EVENT

I went to go find Arthur’s letter from the end of his marriage event, and found that no one’s transcribed them! At least not as far as I could find. So, from a youtube video on his marriage event, I’ve transcribed his letter to his father. I’ve also included a letter someone else transcribed, that is the implied response from his father that you can find in Arthur’s office. 

I hope putting it here will help keep it all in once place for any fellow nosy/detailed-driven fans, and also to appreciate some of the lovely RF4 writing. A note that the way the game types things out there’s no paragraph breaks, so I’m just putting them wherever I think it fits so it’s not just one block of text.

Also, it pains me DEEPLY that Arthur seemingly doesn’t use the Oxford comma. ET TU, Arthur????

To my Lord Father— I write to inform you about my planned return to the capital. However, before I write my decision, may I first offer a short story? 

I have very poor eyesight. As such, I am writing this letter with my glasses on. I still remember the first time I put on glasses with clarity. Everything around me seemed so crisp and clear, I thought I could see anything. However, it appears I had since come to rely on those glasses too much. Only once they were broken did I realize it. Some things just cannot be seen to the human eye. I find that a person’s feelings were the most difficult things for me to see with any clarity. They are vague, complicated and unreliable things. However, I believe that is precisely why they are worth believing. The decision to trust someone becomes your vow to then, proof of your feelings. It was only when I looked at the world through my own eyes, and not my glasses, that I saw that. 

I have realized that I truly love working as a trader. I see the world through the goods I find and the people I meet, and it entertains me to no end. I would like to continue trading, visiting various places and seeing a myriad of things. 

And so… It is for that reason that I require a place to call home. I have found that place. It is not the capital. Thus, I’m afraid I will not be able to return. My home is this town, with the people I call friends. With this realization… I find myself hoping that Mother eventually found such a place for herself as well. I choose to believe, from the bottom of my heart, that she did. —Yours Respectfully, Arthur

***

Dear Arthur—

How beautiful was the view without glasses? I may never know. But long ago, there was a woman who said something just along those lines. When she saw her son without glasses, she thought...she thought he looked smart, and kind. And he had lovely, comforting features in his face. She couldn't tell this to him then, but someday, when the time was right, she wanted to. That's what she said. Regardless, I understand your decision. From now on, you can live as you choose. You can live as you believe. My wife has already been advised. But there is one more thing. Even if we are separated, our hearts are together always.

Faithfully yours...

[atheliasnotebook]

note: beginning of neighbors au??? (angsty)

warning: mentions of alcohol

as per the rules of the matra, it is only natural that cyno exercises his listening and acute listening skills to eavesdrop on suspicious individuals.

but overtime, after getting to know him, he had realized that his hearing was better used for other things. for example, when he had just finished another droning day at the police station… he would have been walking home before overhearing you, who was new to the neighborhood, gossip with your closest friends about how handsome your neighbor was. he only chuckled as he took his keys and fiddled them within the lock, thinking about the enthusiastic voice chatting about him. he couldn’t mistake it for anyone else—yes, he won’t ever forget the way you described his physicality as though it were straight out of a greek epic… but he’s the only single, young man that borders your humble residence.

perhaps that was just a fluke, but the second time was when he had hopped out of his car late at night, noticing how your door was wide open, along with all the lights. upon arrival, he was devastated at the sight. broken glass, an open window with a bunch of empty bottles of alcohol near the window… in addition to a myriad of half-finished shots. he stood in the doorway, peering inside, taking off his sandals at the entryway before catching the quiet sound of hitched breaths and other hiccuped sobs coming from you cooped up inside your room. it also seems like you left your bedroom door open from up the stairs.

but cyno found it hard to leave you alone. how could he simply leave someone in a state like this? yes, as the head of the police, he knows more than anyone that he shouldn’t have entered the house without your consent. yet, the cries of begging for the affection of a man made him all too curious. he could only keep thinking about your wishes as he cleaned up your entire downstairs, in addition to leaving some painkillers and a couple of water bottles with a post-it note:

“Remember to take care of yourself. From, Cyno—the next-door neighbor to your right.”

he left his number at the bottom if something like this happens again. there’s something that kills him more on the inside when he hears the way you call and beg for your presence when you think he’s not around.

“Please love me.” That is what you cried.

he wonders… is that even possible for someone in his position—reputed to be the most critical and harsh of the entire department, regardless of the person?

[yolowritter]

A Case of Ladybug Luck: Chapter 3

Hello there everyone, and welcome back to Hell! Listen, I've used up most of the good intro analogies in the actual fic, so that's all I got. But hey, I'm back with chapter 3 of ACOLL! Mind you we have 26 of these as of right now, so my blog has catching up to do! Anyway, I figured I'll give you guys the link for each one of these and a snippet, as before! Again, if anybody wants to ask questions/chat, comments and anon asks are always open!

As always, snippet is below the cutoff!

It was well past midnight, and Shadowmoth stood in his lair, waiting. Barely any moonlight lit up his lair, but he did not mind. The mood was quite perfect for the emotions he could feel. Yes! He’d known the opportunity would arise again! He was sure!

“Ahh…a soul broken beyond repair by betrayal and deception! A shattered friendship and a heart in torment! Fly away my little Akuma, and evilize Marinette Dupain Cheng! Let us give Princess Justice the justice she so craves!”

His insane laugher echoed through the lair, but not a sound escape into the outside world. Here, he was alone. Here, he was powerful. Here, he was a king! And soon, so very soon, his dear Emilie would be joining him! At long last!

He could sense Nooroo in the back of his head. Always preaching caution, warning, advising him to stop, just for a day. Duusu was faintly present also, but she was barely a whisper. He ignored them. The Kwami had never wanted him to use their powers, but even if it had been an evil cause he was working towards, what consequence could that possible have on him?

He’d taken the legal precautions, he almost never left his lair, his home. Ladybug and Chat Noir would never find him. The Grimoire, the two Miraculous were his. What was the consequence? Nothing more than Nooroo’s feeble attempt to protect himself, as if it would ever make a difference! As if! Nothing would stop him! Nothing could stop him! He was Hawkmoth, he was the scourge of Paris! He was… he was…

Who was he?

What was he?

What was happening to him?

Shadowmoth shook his head, sharply turning to the skyline. No matter. The Akuma edged ever closer; he could see it! Through the butterfly’s senses, he felt the world around him. Rain pouring down from the sky, slamming against his wings. Desperation, worry and despair from two souls who ran amok in the dead of night, searching. Pain. Heartbreaking, endless pain from his target.

There she is…

A vivid image entered his mind. Princess Justice, wet to the bone, standing on the railing of a bridge, the waters below bashing against the stone and nearly escaping to the streets. The turned suddenly, and looking directly at the Akuma. At him.

He heard her scream in fear, or maybe he felt her panic spike. The others were drawing closer. It was not or never. Thoughts were running through her head endlessly, creating a myriad of wonderful negativity that he would use to destroy Ladybug and Chat Noir!

Lila, she’s laughing at me. She- she’s won.

A-Adrien, I’m sorry!

Mama…

Papa…

Goodbye.

He saw her form begin to lean over, he heard the sound of shattered glass, he sensed her despair. His connection with the Akuma snapped. He couldn’t feel Princess Justice anymore. Ladybug wasn’t there. She couldn’t have reached the butterfly. Impossible. Then-

Then Princess Justice was dead.

Princess Justice was dead.

Dead.

Shadowmoth’s transformation fell, his mind too exhausted to keep up. Gabriel tried to lean on a cane that wasn’t there, and fell to his knees. The last thing he had felt…was fear. Absolute existential terror, at the mere idea that he would get to her. That he would make her fight her loved ones. That he would make her hurt them. He’d seen her jump.

He just killed someone.

[dysthanasia-series]

Writblr Summoning Circle Intro

Hello and welcome to my shrine place of power writing blog. I'm Ceph, they/them, and despite the ghostly username I am, in fact, a regular human adult with a job, college homework, skin, blood, etc. Video games, houseplants, and buying books faster than I read them are just a few of my hobbies.

I write different flavors of fantasy mostly, with sprinkles of horror and romance/spice thrown in for pizzazz. If you're interested in...

Vampires, werecreatures, necromancers, merfolk, and/or passive-aggressive poltergeists

Resourceful protagonists in terrible peril who sometimes make choices that change things forever, for better or worse

Enemies becoming forced allies and maybe more in some cases

Themes of solidarity, the myriad facets of love, and people fighting for a better future

Slow burns

Worldbuilding that I definitely don't make up on the fly

Mortals becoming deities and vice versa

Telepathic monsters that could devour your soul -OR- become your best friend

Liminal spaces like roadside diners at 3 a.m

...you might find my WIPs tolerable. Possibly even fun.

Follow this blog @dysthanasia-series and/or @the-primrose-path-story to get notifications for new chapters and other neat story-related stuff. Or just ask to be put on a taglist for a WIP you're interested in. You can also read for free on Patreon and AO3.

I welcome asks, prompts, writblr events (Worldbuilding Wednesday, etc.), and any interactions that lead to transmutating Internet strangers into friends. Do tell me about your characters and lore. I want to devour know all of it. Yes, even the obscure facts that never really make it into the story despite hours of research poured into them. Especially those.

My reading habits include a steady diet of fantasy, horror, whump, and smut sometimes all four rolled into one but I'll happily consume a wide variety of works and styles. Check out @coven-archives to see what I'm reblogging from fellow writers.

That's pretty much it. Feel free to reblog or like this post or invite me into an object you own at the stroke of midnight if you want me to give a follow.

Below the cut you'll find a list of WIPs and links to read them which will increase my power every time you click one. Content advisories are at the top of each work and chapter.

Genre(s): Urban/Paranormal fantasy, vampires, post-apocalyptic, whump-ish

Apophenia

Original rough draft version is here

Status: Redraft in progress

At a Glance: Trauma, captivity, enemies to forced allies, secret magical societies, everything goes wrong despite the MC doing the right thing

A researcher of the supernatural, Isaac Soto, stumbles across an unregistered bloodborn in the Broken Coast region. When he reports the creature, hoping to prevent someone from being the next victim, he finds out that maybe he should have been more worried about himself.

Phagophobia

Genre(s): Urban/Paranormal fantasy, vampires, post-apocalyptic

Status: Rough draft complete, redraft in progress

At a Glance: Trauma, enemies to forced allies, secret magical societies, questioning authority, MC makes a choice that affects the rest of his life

Living isn't always a mercy, but Isaac Soto will take what he can get. Storm season makes fleeing from the Broken Coast and the bloodborn he met there difficult. Said bloodborn somehow knowing his every move makes it nigh impossible. Hiding in one of the few western cities to survive the break, Isaac makes a stand, a deal, and ultimately a decision that will shape the rest of his life.

The Primrose Path

Genre(s): High fantasy, romance/erotica

Status: Rough draft in progress

At a Glance: Eventual deity/human relationship, sexual themes and NSFW chapters (will be individually labeled), trans relationships, questioning faith and beliefs, discussion/effects of war, cultural clashes/misunderstandings, fantasy racism (challenged throughout)

When his village is taken captive by an enemy nation, Illuminator Ân's priority is to make sure his people survive to fight another day. Faced with everything he's stood against as a priest of Cyanos, god of light and life, Ân prays for the strength to overcome and do what he must. It's not long before he receives signs that his petitions have been heard. Just not by the deity he serves.

Beyond & Between

Genre(s): High fantasy, portal fantasy, whump

Status: Infrequent, out-of-order updates

Sail beyond where the seas turn red, until the sky is filled with unfamiliar stars, to the lands between realities. Magic and the power to leave one's old life behind awaits for those brave enough to seek it.

Whumptober 2022

Each prompt followed by the story series it's set in and the MC. Content guidelines at the start of each story.

[lovedetlost]

Every guy I talk to on dating apps seem to just want friends with benefits and it’s so frustrating cause I never had a relationship (I’m now done with college) and everyone talks about their high school and college relationships and it’s like what am I doing wrong! I know I’m not the most attractive girl but nobody has ever showed an interest in me until I got on dating apps (a few months ago) and it’s all just fwb or they stop talking to me like I know I’m awkward but ugh. And I don’t think it’s even jealousy anymore, it’s just, what is so wrong with me that all of my friends and family seem to always have people chasing after them and always going in dates (or are in long term relationships. And it’s like the only guy that ever kissed me was at a party and I’m pretty sure he only did cause he had just broken up with his girlfriend (I did not know that at the time). And you would think ok, it’s my personality then, I’m a bitch right? But I really don’t think so, that’s like the one thing I pride myself on is being nice and kind to everyone and always willing to drop what I’m doing to help others and I don’t like saying bad things about people (like yeah I do gossip about things but not really anything hurtful, and that’s only with very close friends). It’s just like why did I never have the opportunity to experience a high school or college romance. Like why was I and why am I still not good enough? And now everyone is past that stage and into the I just want to fuck with no commitment stage.

And to be honest, I feel like I could be in a fwb situation too but I don’t want it first to be like that. I know a lot of people find the whole virginity thing a controlling social construct, which yeah it is, but I want my first time to be meaningful, not special per say like in the movies where it’s no pain, and everything is perfect, but just meaningful, you know?

And what if one day I do get into a relationship, I tell them I have never been in a relationship before/never had sex, and it’s seen as weird and a red flag.

Anyways, sorry for ranting so much. It’s just upsetting you know?

Also I don’t know why it added a ton of space between the first and second paragraph but it won’t go away so sorry for the format

i am so sorry this got lost in the myriad of asks this one speaks to my soul.

darling i am 29 and have had one relationship that lasted for four months, and in hindsight i don't even know if he liked me let alone loved me. i have spent what feels like all of my adult life looking for what others seem to find so fucking easy.

and i am the same. i have tried to find someone, anyone willing to have me just on the side. but i seem to be so easy to live without.

and every day i fight that narrative, the one just one sentence above. it is not always easy, and it weighs so heavily on my heart. but i believe, i have to believe, that there is a reason and a point to this and one day i will find someone who wants to scream from the rooftops that i'm their girl.

and baby, if i believe that for me, i believe it for you. one day the why will make sense. and though it sometimes makes me cry so much i feel i may drown, i just have to hold my head eye and act confident and hope that acting will soon be being. but i will never stop yearning for what others have. i just have to make peace with it, and hope that it will soon change.

also in regard to the virginity thing, i may have changed the truth to the guy i slept with for the first time. i’ve spoken about that if you’re interested.

baby, if you’re going to take away anything, take away this. people around us will not always be the best barometers for who we are. just because the men in your life (and mine) have easily cast us aside, doesn’t mean we deserve it. you’re beautiful and kind and one day someone will wonder why the fuck no one snatched you up, but thrilled they didn’t