#which is what an alarming number of people don’t seem to have

[mvrlqni]

( i might send a few requests ) in ho x wife¡reader join the games together ?

BOUND BY LIFE AND DEATH

pairing - hwang in-ho x wife!reader

synopsis - you really meant it when you promised your husband you’ll always be there with him, even if it means joining the deadly games with him.

warnings - guns, blood, violence, swearing, brat!reader (sort of?), age gap, 20’s reader, 40’s in-ho, spoilers for s2, small mention of miscarriage, reader has a fake name obvi, this doesn’t really include a lot of in-ho now that i look at it…

wc — 1.6k words

AN - this doesn’t have a lot of in-ho in it so im sorry if thats disappointing 😞💔

in-ho had always spoiled you with his money that he earned from overseeing the games. you had always been accustomed to wearing the finest clothing, so you never expected that you would wear those flimsy green tracksuits like what the players wore.

the number ‘002’ was stitched onto your tracksuit whilst your husband had ‘001’ on his, an ‘o’ attached to both your shirts. the voting session had just finished and the second game was about to start.

in-ho stood in front of gi-hun, leaning down as gi-hun explained what he thought was the second game. you watched from behind as in-ho leaned back up.

“umbrella?” he asked with a scoff. “some people chose umbrella? those unlucky bastards must have bitten the dust.”

you grinned as gi-hun raised a brow before looking away. you knew exactly what your husband was doing and you couldn’t help but giggle quietly.

in-ho’s lips twitched up slightly in amusement at the sound of your giggle before disappearing immediately.

oh how he adored hearing your laughter.

before the second game started, you excused yourself to the bathroom, in-ho doing the same minutes later. you stood outside the bathroom, speaking with a guard before in-ho came into your view.

“how much longer do we have to play pretend?” you whined, looking up at him as he cupped your face, placing a kiss on your forehead.

“after we find out what gi-hun’s plans are, darling.”

“what a pest, he should’ve gotten on that plane…”

in-ho raised a small brow but grinned.

“he really should’ve.”

the guards escorted the players into the room where the second game would take place, you walked close to in-ho and looked around, feigning confusion as the PA voice spoke.

“welcome to your second game. this game will be played in teams. please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes.” the PA explained, repeating its last sentence once more and you watched as gi-hun’s face was slowly turned to one of confusion.

“is dalgona usually played in teams?” you questioned gi-hun, but he didn’t answer, snapping his head towards player 100 when he spoke up.

“aren’t we playing the dalgona game?”

“no, it doesn’t look like it.”

“what are we playing then?”

gi-hun looked hesitant to answer, not making eye contact when he finally did. “im not sure.”

“what? you said you’d done this before, that triangle was the easiest. was that all bullshit?”

again, gi-hun looked hesitant, even alarmed as he looked down. “im sorry.”

“sorry won’t cut it! you talked like you knew everything, all these people believed your bullshit. what are you going to do? will you take responsibility?”

“that’s quite enough yelling.” you interrupted, narrowing your eyes at the old man. you can already feel a headache forming. “old man, you should watch your tone. don’t want to wear it out, when you do all that talking after all, do you?”

player 100 scoffed at the sarcastic undertone in your words and glared at you, taking a step towards you. “who do you think you are, you little bitch?”

in-ho immediately stepped up from behind you, glaring at player 100. “that’s enough.” his voice was firm and authoritative which personally had you jumping with joy at your husband.

player 100 seemed to falter as he stayed quiet while the PA voice spoke again, the large doors from where you came from shutting.

“please divide into teams now.”

the loud beeping of the timer began before the player next to 100 spoke. “yeah, just drop it, dont waste your time talking to this nutjob. we shouldn’t have fallen for his nonsense, jesus. come on, let’s form a team first.”

you scowled down a the players as they walked past gi-hun, each insulting him as they did. it wasn’t that you were annoyed they were insulting him, but the audacity for that old hag to call you a ‘bitch’ had your jaw clenching. you were on the verge with ordering the guards to kill him. but you stayed quiet.

standing with gi-hun and his new found friends, you all made up five people so there was no trouble at all. however, a young girl, player 222 came up to all of you.

“excuse me, can i join you?” looking down at the girl, your eyes went to her stomach. you could tell she was pregnant. you used to look like that before.

“sorry, we’ve already got five people.”

“please help me,” she continued, placing a hand on her stomach. “im pregnant.”

everyone else glanced at her stomach while you eventually spoke up giving the girl a small smile. “its okay, you can join them. i’ll find another team.”

she muttered a ‘thank you’ whilst nodding returning your small smile with one her own as you walked away from the group, in-ho’s eyes on you.

the PA voice began again, as you walked away, informing of the team selection nearly finishing. you spotted a group needing only one person left and came up to them. “excuse me, do you need one more player?”

player 149 turned towards you and instantly gave a motherly smile, ushering you closer. “ah, of course!”

“thank you, miss.”

after the team selection had finished, all the players were sat inside the circles as the game was explained.

“the game you will be playing is six-legged pentathlon. you will start with your legs tied together, each member will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. here are the mini-games; number one, ddakji. number two, flying stone. number three, gong-gi. number four, spinning top. number five, jegi. your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line in five minutes. please decide players for each mini-game.”

your team began talking when player 007 turned towards you. “what game are you good at?”

“i think i’ll be better at the spinning top.”

it wasn’t long before two teams were placed on the rainbow shaped circles, their feet locked together as a gunshot rang out, signalling the beginning of the first round.

both teams did terrible. one of them only just finishing the flying stone at the twenty second mark while the other team made their way to the last game when the timer had ended.

both teams were shot, everyone falling to the ground, flinching and shaking as the loud sounds of the guns going off went on before the PA voice listed the players that were eliminated.

your team was up for the second round and stood on the rainbow circle, which was now littered in blood in certain areas.

“that’s right. i, jang geum-ja, survived the korean war. i will not die playing some kids’ games.” Player 149, or as you now know, geum-ja, paused, grabbing her sons hand and the players’ hand on her right, looking around at the team before continuing. “everyone, let’s pull ourselves together and do this.”

“im the son of ms. jang geum-ja who survived the korean war. im park yong-sik.” the man introduced himself, turning to you. “ma’am, what’s your name?”

“oh, um, kim seoun-il” you lied, giving the group a nod.

“i believe we can do this. let’s show everyone else here that these games are no big deal.”

it wasn’t long before you all had your legs locked together and your arms holding each other, immediately running or trying to the first mini-game. you watched, holding your breath as player 095 proceeded to fail her third flip, the girl beginning to breathe heavily as 120 stopped her as she picked the card back up.

“hang on, young-mi. try with the other side. the other side.”

young-mi flipped the card and threw the card down, successfully flipping the red card. you couldn’t help but cheer with the group.

in-ho watched your smile from afar, noticing how it seemed genuine. he knew you would have some fun playing these games.

your team made your way to the second mini-game, yong-sik failing his first throw. your team walked to retrieve the stone, walking backwards and his mother stopped him.

“yong-sik, look. imagine the stone is the face of the crook who scammed you.”

yong-sik started at the stone in front. “that asshole ruined my fucking life!” he yelled, throwing the stone as it knocked the other stone down.

by the third mini-game you were already tired of chanting along with the team and so you stayed quiet, settling down onto your knees as geum-ja began playing gong-gi. yong-sik, noticing his mothers downed look when she failed the first two times immediately went to comfort her.

“you said you played gong-gi with bullets during the korean war.”

geum-ja stayed quiet but began flipping the stones again, this time you could notice determination in her movements as she did. she stopped at the last flip and yong-sik began speaking again.

“mom, just imagine the stone is dads mistress’ face.”

“rotten bitch!” geum-ja exclaimed as she caught the coloured stones. everyone cheered as the guard did the ‘pass’ sign whilst your team prepared to move to the next mini-game, everyone was chanting with the team.

even in-ho chanted as he watched you make your way to your mini-game.

taking the spinning top into hand and the rope, you carefully rolled it around the top before going to the bottom. everyone watched as you managed to tie the rope around the spinning top and they each held a breath as you threw it down, spinning it successfully.

everyone erupted into cheers, and your team hounded you before you each took each others arms again, making your way to the finish line.

a smile was painted onto your face as you all cheered after reaching the finishing line. that genuine, soft smile again.

in-ho’s heart ached at the sight of your smile, wishing it was just the two of you back in your quarters together, that it was him making you smile again.

but for now, you two had to focus on gi-hun and what his plans were. the quicker you two find out, the sooner he could have you in his bed again.

[theliteraryarchitect]

A Word of Advice About Critique Groups, Beta Readers, and Other Peer-Based Feedback on Your Writing

In my time as a professional editor, I've had many writers come to me with stories they've been trying to improve based on suggestions from critique groups, beta readers, or other non-professional feedback sources (friends, family, etc.). The writers are often frustrated because they don't agree with the feedback, they can't make sense of the comments they've gotten, or they've tried their best to implement the suggestions but now they've made a big mess of things and don't know where to go from here.

If this happens to you, you're not alone. Here's the deal.

Readers and beginning writers are great at sniffing out problems, but they can be terrible at recommending solutions. For that reason, critique groups can be a disastrous place for beginning writers to get advice.

Here's a good metaphor. Imagine you don’t know the first thing about cars. Someone tells you, “There’s oil leaking onto the driveway. You should cover the car with a giant garbage bag.” Alarmed, you oblige, only to be told the next day that “now the car smells like burning plastic and I can’t see out the windows.”

A mechanic would’ve listened to the critic’s complaint and come up with their own solution to the leaking oil, ignoring the amateur’s ridiculous idea, because they know how to fix cars and can use their skills to investigate symptoms and find the correct solution.

Critique groups actually aren’t bad places for experienced writers, because they can listen to the criticism, interpret it, and come up with their own remedies to the problems readers are complaining about. Beginning writers, on the other hand, can end up digging themselves into a deeper hole.

There's a great Neil Gaiman quote about this very conundrum:

Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.

So what to do?

First, try to investigate the reader's complaint and come up with your own solution, instead of taking their solution to the problem. Sometimes, in the end, the reader's solution was exactly right, which is lovely, but don't count on it. Do your own detective work.

Second, take everything you hear with a huge grain of salt, and run the numbers. Are 9 out of 10 readers complaining about your rushed ending? It's probably worth investigating. Does nobody have an issue with your abrasive antagonist except your cozy mystery-loving uncle? Then you might not need to worry about it.

Third, give everything you hear a gut check. Does the criticism, while painful, ring true? Or does it seem really off-base to you? Let the feedback sit for a week or so while you chill out. You might find you're less sensitive and open to what's been said after a little more time has passed.

Lastly, consider getting professional feedback on your writing. Part of my job as an editor is to listen to previous feedback the writer has gotten, figure out whether the readers were tracking the scent of legitimate problems, and offer the writer more coherent solutions. Of course, some professional editors aren't very good at this, just like some non-professional readers are amazing at it, so hiring someone isn't a guarantee. But editors usually have more experience taking a look under the hood and giving writers sound mechanical advice about their work, rather than spouting ideas off the top of their head that only add to the writer's confusion.

Hope this helps!

[rebelliousstories]

Again and Again

Relationship: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Brief Angst, Brief Mentions of Death, Age Gap

Word Count: 1,425

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Summary: Age is just a number with them. And now Aaron is frustrated about putting her as their emergency contact.

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind it, it doesn’t matter.” Mark Twain

Aaron sat alone in his office as he did many nights. For once he seemed to have finally filled out all of the forms that usually kept him from getting out at a reasonable hour, but there was a single form that held him up. His emergency contact form. Ever since Hailey, that form had remained empty seeing as the people he would want to contact in an emergency are usually right next to him.

His life had been flipped upside down for the last year. The one secret he had kept from everyone on his team, including Dave. His girlfriend, a young, hard-working lawyer from Virginia that was twenty years his junior. He was not able to bring himself to put his pen to the page though. Even though she had practically moved in to his apartment already, Aaron had a difficult time to tell anyone about her.

Jack loved her, and loved when she was around almost as much as Hotch did. The age gap between them was severe, but she was unlike any other woman her age he had met. She was wise beyond her years, and was one of the youngest practicing attorneys in the history of the state. It was a complete accident that they had even met and began talking.

Hotch sighed as he closed the file and placed it in a secure spot on his desk to take care of tomorrow. Packing up his briefcase, he gathered his effects and began to make his way home. Once he left the building, Aaron decided to phone his girlfriend while starting up his car.

“Hey darling. I’m on my way home. Holding down the fort?” He asked, letting a smile grace his face as he heard Jack in the background.

“Of course, honey. We’re just finishing up dinner prep while Jack is doing his homework. Here you go. He won’t stop asking for you,” a commotion came. There was some shuffling before he heard a new voice. He kept making turns and completing his drive home.

“Daddy!” Jack yelled excitedly from the other end of the line. Aaron chuckled as he heard his son.

“Hey buddy. You behaving for her right?” He asked, and made sure to keep his eyes on the road.

“Yeah. She’s helping me do my multiplication tables.” His son answered.

“That’s awesome, bud. I’m going to be home in about twenty minutes, okay? Can you pass me back?” Jack made sure to tell his dad that he loved hm before doing what he requested and passed the phone back to his dad’s girlfriend.

“Did you hear what I told Jack, darling?”

“I did. We’ll see you when you get here. We’re having spaghetti tonight so you may want to change as soon as you get home.” She teased to which Aaron let out a laugh.

“Did you get that recipe from Dave?” He asked, turning down a road that would take him straight home.

“What can I say? I love and trust that man’s cooking when you bring home leftovers, with a recipe sheet so you can make it again. Drive safe, dear. We’ll be here when our get home.” Aaron exchanged his own goodbyes with her. He was only five minutes from home now, and he may or may not have sped those last few miles just to get home faster.

The man flung himself out of the car as soon as he arrived at his apartment complex. Taking the stairs two at a time, Aaron joyously placed his key in the slot and stepped inside. Disarming the alarm, he set down his briefcase and unclipped his firearm on his hip before he was being attacked by a set of small arms from behind.

“Daddy’s home!” Jack exclaimed, hugging his father close. He chuckled as he turned in his son’s arms and picked him up for his own hug.

“Hey buddy.” Aaron greeted looking to where a chuckle was coming from. His girlfriend was wiping her hands on a towel while leaning against the threshold of the kitchen. She was wearing his apron, which was just making Aaron love coming home to her more. With his son on his hip, Hotch made his way to wrap her up in his arms and give her a welcoming kiss.

“Ew.” Jack groaned, trying to push himself away from the display of affection. The two adults began to break apart as they laughed at his innocence that only a child could muster.

“Did you finish your multiplication tables, sir?” She teased, tickling his stomach lightly. The boy giggled but nodded his head in conformation. “Well go get it so we can go over it.”

He took off with the speed of a star and left his dad and his girlfriend alone. Aaron turned fully to face his lover that was just a step away from the door. With a smile on his face, he drew her in closer and captured her lips in a much deeper kiss than before. Her arms came to rest on his broad shoulders as she relaxed with his hands around her waist. They pulled away for some much needed oxygen with grins on both of their faces.

“Welcome home, darling.” She whispered, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Mmm, it definitely is very welcoming.” Aaron teased, bringing her in closer as she chuckled. Her head rested on his shoulder and they swayed slightly without a sound in the air.

“My emergency contact form came across my desk again.” He finally whispered after a few minutes. She pulled away just a little so that she could see his face.

“Oh?” It was all she could say. That emergency form had been a sore spot for him throughout the years. After Hailey, Aaron did not even put his girlfriend’s name down in his personal address book as he never wanted someone to use her against him again.

“Do you want to put someone down?” She asked, scratching her nails gently through the cropped hair at the base of his head.

“I want to you to be my contact. I’m just…” a sigh broke up his words.

“You’re afraid of me being a target?” Aaron nodded with his eyes downcast. Placing her hand on his cheek, she brought him back up to face her.

“It’ll be alright. You can put me down. Besides, I’m a high-profile lawyer. I’m already a target.” A chuckle tore itself from their throats at the joke, but it was quickly brought down by the weight of the subject.

“What’s the other reason, Aaron?” Another question that the man was reluctant to answer.

“I’m not sure what my team will think about our relationship.” He admitted.

“Because I’m young enough to be your daughter?” She blurted out, causing Aaron to look up in alarm.

“Never phrase it like that again please.” Hotch let out a sharp breath. However, she just laughed at his unease.

“Sorry, too good to pass up. But whenever you want to tell them, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Plus, Dave’s been married and divorced three times. I don’t think anyone is going to have room to talk.” Teasing once more, the couple was broken apart by the little boy in the house running for their feet.

“I did my tables.” Jack declared proudly. They each went off to do their own thing; Aaron and Jack were reviewing the math practice sheet, and she went off to finish up dinner. Dinner was a lovely affair, and the little family ate happily. The cloud of darkness was lifted from earlier, and all that was left was joy and laughter.

The next morning, Aaron unloaded his briefcase as soon as he stepped into his office and a note slipped out. Picking it up off the floor, and returning to his desk, he could only smile as he read it. On the note was his girlfriend’s full name, phone number, address, and any relevant information he needed. Plus, a non informational tidbit on the bottom.

Here you go. I expect to have one of Dave’s recipes straight from the man himself when you tell them. Have a great day, dear. Love you.

Aaron smiled to himself, got out his pen, and began to fill out his emergency contact file.

“Trust is the glue of life. It’s the most essential ingredient in effective communication. It’s the foundational principle that holds all relationships.” Stephen R. Covey

[mediumgayitalian]

“Oh, shoot, sorry. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”

Nico shifts, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The light in the infirmary is low, and strangely soothing. It’s almost hard to keep his eyes open. But he manages, rubbing his knuckles under the curve of his eyesockets, and searches in the dark until he finds what woke him up.

Will stands a couple feet away from his bed, figure curled and shadowy, owlish eyes wide and almost unnaturally reflective in the dark.

“‘S’okay,” he mumbles. “Couldn’t really sleep anyway.”

“Oh.” There’s a shuffling sound, and suddenly Nico feels warmer where Will has stepped closer. “You in pain?“

“No. Just bad at sleeping.”

“Hey, me too.”

Surprise at Will’s easy admission and a little bit starstruck at the bright flash of Will’s grin, Nico doesn’t have the chance to beat himself up over being so flippantly open. His teeth seemed to glow as much as the whites of his eyes, which would be creepy, except it’s hard to feel anything but calm as a cool night breeze wafts the scent of lavender from the sill planters in every inch of the infirmary, and it’s hard to think of Will as anything but warm. Especially the hand he places, briefly, on the curve of Nico’s knee.

“Insomnia?”

“Something like that.”

“Still. Sorry for waking you up.”

Nico hums, fiddling with his skull ring. “Why were you up, anyway?”

“Oh, I won’t have time to sleep for another couple days.”

There’s a mellow cracking sound, and then all of Will’s knuckles begin to glow a soft, sunset yellow. Nico startles.

“Apollo thing,” Will explains. A smirk is now visible at the corner of his mouth, forcing a dimple on his right cheek. In his hands, almost hard to see under the glow, are three small vials of something Nico doesn’t recognize. “Getting meds and salves in order.”

Hesitantly, Nico drags his gaze away from the clinking glass bottles, forcing himself to meet Will’s eyes. They’re ridiculously bright. Is that an Apollo thing, too?

“Why does that mean you can’t sleep?”

Will gestures to the myriad of occupied beds outside the curtains Nico has pulled up. “Shitton of injured, man. I got way more people than I got stuff. I prepped for the Romans beforehand, obviously, but I didn’t have a good hand on their numbers and didn’t prep enough. I’m short on supplies. Haven’t slept since Gaea did.” At Nico’s look of alarm, he quickly assures, “But don’t worry, I had Cecil brew me something strong. It’s disgusting, so I think it might be his Coffee Redbull Matcha Heartstopper Special, With A Shot Of Crushed Caffeine Pills For Good Measure, but I’m not sure. Hands are only a little shakey, though, feel.”

In a mirror of a few days ago (fuck, Nico hopes he’s kidding; how long can people go without sleep?), he darts out and rests his hands under Nico’s. Sure enough, they’re trembling, although nothing nearly as bad as before.

“Dangerous levels of sleep deprivation aren’t as bad as delivering a baby, huh.”

Will shudders. “Don’t even joke.”

He looks so genuinely horrified that Nico can’t help but laugh. All they’ve seen, all they’ve suffered — and golden boy is gagging at the miracle of life. If Nico wasn’t so sure that he’d seen at least as many gory nightmares as Nico, if not more, he’d tease him for being squeamish.

…Actually.

“What kind of school nurse wannabe is squidged out by birth?”

“Nurse?” Will squawks, snatching his hands away (Nico finds his own hands, strangely and suddenly, cold). “I didn’t go to seven years of med school to be called a school nurse wannabe!”

Nico narrows his eyes. “You didn’t go to med school. You’re fifteen.”

“As I said.” He grins teasingly. “I didn’t go.”

It takes Nico a second, but when he gets it he cannot physically hold himself back from kicking him. Solace, weak from muffled laughter, stumbles sideways into a lamp.

“Ay! Be careful, you wanna kill the camp’s only brain surgeon?”

“If he’s being annoying,” Nico bites back. He can’t quite stop smiling, and he’s embarrassed about it, but thankfully the darkness hides his face. “There’s no way you’ve done brain surgery.”

The shitty cot Nico’s been coerced into camping on for the next three days creaks as Will perches on the edge of it.

“Have so. In the woods, two years ago, removed a brain tumour. Stressful as shit.” He flashes another sideways grin. “Couple dozen more medical emergencies under my belt, and I might actually be as qualified as a nurse in this country’s garbage medical system. Thank the gods for them, honestly. They do a shit lot more than a lot of doctors claim to.”

Sensing the topic change for what it is, Nico doesn’t press any further. “That what you wanna do?”

“Aw, man, I don’t even want to think about it. The idea of someone else running this infirmary gives me a stress ulcer. Y’all do a lot of stupid shit and frankly some of the procedures I have performed exist in no medical textbooks anywhere, medical or no.” He snorts. “Anyways.”

His hands are blazingly warm again, almost like sun through a maginifying glass, when they pat his shin twice. He stands, stretching — more bursts of light appearing along the length of his spine, lighting what his fading knuckles leave out.

“Try to sleep again, Neeks. You’ll need it.”

“Maybe I should be the one to say that to you,” Nico says. Will waves his hand dismissively, and in a fit of impulse Nico reaches out and grabs it, meeting his raised eyebrow with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I mean it, Will. No one’s awake right now. I just woke up. Why don’t you crash for an hour or so? I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Will hesitates. “If anything happens, that’s on me. It — I can’t let it be on me.”

“Do you trust me?”

Stupid question. Of course Will doesn’t trust him, Nico let someone die in front of his eyes, Nico is the bringer of death and darkness, why would he —

“Yeah.” Will sighs. Nico looks up, startled, but the medic is eyeing one of the few spare cots, face screwed up in consideration. “You’ll wake me?”

“Immediately,” Nico assures hastily. He nods his head at the bunk next to him. “Sleep, man. You look like you need it.”

“Oh, well, just what I’ve always wanted to hear from you. You look stunning, by the way.”

Nico knows it’s a joke, but he flushes anyway. Thank Hades again for the dark infirmary, and the length of his hair.

“Whatever. Sleep or don’t.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

In seconds he’s out of his flip-flops, slightly-scratchy blankets turned up and wrapped tightly around him all the way up to his neck.

“Thanks, Nico. I owe you.”

In the next breath, he’s out, all that’s visible of him the flutter of his light eyelashes and the tangled mop of blond hair. He snores, slightly, with every puffed exhale; a tiny, stuttered sound, not unlike a cat. It’s kind of cute, and Nico’s smiling before he realising.

“You don’t owe anybody shit.” He shakes his head fondly, leaning back onto his pillows to keep an eye out. “Goodnight, Will.”

[edenfenixblogs]

Thank Your Jewish Friends Trying to Educate You Right Now

If you’re a leftist, and you have had a Jewish friend reach out to you to try and tell you that you’ve said something alarming or harmful or antisemitic: listen to them, learn, and say thank you.

I am VERY lucky in that all the friends I’ve personally reached out to have taken the opportunity to learn and grow and adjust their behavior. I have never told them that they should not advocate for Palestine. I have told them I want to advocate for Palestine WITH them, but I need to feel safe in order to do so. I need to feel like the people I’m advocating with don’t want me and my loved ones dead. Thank HaShem that they have listened to me. From the bottom of my heart, my friends are a blessing.

But I’ve seen an incredibly disheartening number of fellow Jews who have had the opposite experiences—being expelled from their queer communities and activist communities and book clubs and any space they once found community. This is horrid but it’s especially horrid for Jews. It’s a reminder that we are only accepted if we conform. We are only accepted if we accept abuse. Our presence is always tolerated, never wanted. Our views are not to be trusted. Our opinions are always suspect. Our motives are always sinister. Our acceptance is always conditional. And I think that hurts even more for us than you’d imagine, because our own spaces are no longer safe. We are already in diaspora. And now our synagogues and homes and other community buildings are being vandalized and attack. We are cut off from our own cultural community and now many of us are being cut off from our personal communities as well. It is a loneliness that most people outside of a diaspora will never know.

Im willing to bet that if you have/had a Jewish friend who you considered close but who seems to have disappeared from your life, it’s because you either didn’t reach out to them after 10/7 or you have failed to acknowledge the stochastic threat to Jews or the Jewish connection to Israel. Why is it important that you do this? Because we are your friends and loved ones. And when friends and loved ones tell you they are hurting, you should listen. When you say you care about someone, you should be willing to listen to them when they say you’re hurting them and then you should apologize. It is more hurtful than you can possibly imagine to watch people you thought cared about you decide to listen to people across the world who they have never met rather than simply have a conversation with a friend, because they assume that friend will dismiss the pain of Palestinians.

Many of you are assuming what your friends are feeling about Israel and Palestine, but you haven’t actually asked them. Many of you think that expressing sorrow for Israel or jews in the world, that means we cannot care about or want a better future for Palestine.

If you are lucky enough to have a friend who has tried to reach out to you, that means they are willing to forgive you for neglecting them in this time. They are willing to talk with you and try to explain their emotions in good faith. They want to find a way to advocate for progress with you. They want to keep you in their lives. They want you to understand our culture and history—not at the exclusion of anyone else’s culture and history—just at the inclusion of our own.

Because here’s the other thing: they won’t forget that you denied them understanding and respect and the benefit of the doubt. That’s not a threat. That’s a cultural feature of Judaism. We have famously long cultural memories. We remember the people and places we can trust and those who refused to give us peace and safety and basic kindness. We remember the people who targeted us, your friends and loved ones, simply because other Jews who we have never met behaved in ways you don’t understand and of which you don’t approve. You are blaming the sins of others on people you claim to love.

If someone is giving you the chance to undo the damage you have done on this, you should take it. And if you have expelled Jews from a space you once shared or failed to acknowledge their pain in this time—find them and apologize.

I am not Muslim, but I wouldn’t doubt that something similar is happening in Muslim spaces. Islamophobia and antisemitism are at terrifyingly high levels right now. And if you think you can’t support Jews without condemning Muslims or you can’t support Muslims without condemning Jews, you’re not only part of the problem—you’re the biggest part of the problem.

What we all need right now is unity, peace, solidarity, understanding, and education above all else.

[matchalovertrait]

The day after Caruso posted his video, Dulce responded with one of her own to disprove his false claims about the "stolen" recipes. She brought up her extensive list of culinary experiences and screenshots of everything related to the cookbook when it was in progress. However, the damage had been done. Too many people turned their backs on Dulce. As everything came crashing down, she slowly stopped responding to her family and friends. Of course, everyone was alarmed. You can't just not respond like that out of the blue, especially when you're overseas! Now that Ángel and Esperanza have come to save the day, Dulce is looking to sue Caruso for defamation. I did say to never get into legal trouble with her! This marks the rebirth of Alegría v. Caruso!

Note: I am getting political here. As Election Day in the United States is around the corner, I urge people to fact-check everything. I'm seeing too many people on other social media platforms not doing the proper research. They see a video of one thing and take it as the sole truth. It seems like people have forgotten how to use Google, which is right at our fingertips. Make sure you're looking at reliable sources!

Start from the beginning (Gen 2)

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Transcript:

Dulce: I swear! That better not be him. A lot of people didn’t believe me or they didn’t bother to watch my explanation video. How am I supposed to recover from this?

Ángel: Dulce!

Dulce: Ángel and Esperanza?!

Ángel: Why haven’t you been answering anyone’s phone calls or texts??? It’s been 2 days.

Dulce: My career is over. My numbers are plummeting. People are crossing out my name on my cookbook and writing his name instead. Clients are canceling bookings with me. His crazy fans are giving me fake bad reviews. I’m through.

Esperanza: So what? It hasn’t been that long. Things can pick back up, Dulce. Why don’t you get your chef friends to vouch for you?

Dulce: I don’t want to rope anyone into my mess..

Esperanza: [Sighs] You know what? It’s sad to see you like this. Aren’t you going to plot something?

Dulce: I’ve done enough harm as it is! What do I do??? Sue him??? Oh wait, I already thought of that! I looked into it and no good lawyer wants to take the case. They’d rather represent actual stars like Judith Ward. I need to take this as a sign and finally grow up.

Ángel: C’mon, you know you want to do it.

Dulce: You’re encouraging it...? You don’t want to teach me a valuable life lesson like always?

Ángel: I think you learned your lesson. Make him learn his now.

Esperanza: My dad and Hilary both said they can help you pay for a REALLY good defamation lawyer. I think Hilary was freaking out the most about you not answering.

Ángel: Well, we all kinda were. You had Ama worried sick. But we didn’t file a missing person’s report because your friend came by and saw you well alive through your window.

Dulce: Oh, man. Dani probably got nervous and ran off. She never came to knock on the door.

Ángel: She’s a skittish one, isn’t she?

Dulce: Yeah, I have to apologize to her for not responding to her texts either. She knows about everything, but she might feel like she’s annoying me because I haven’t answered.

Esperanza: Wait, isn’t she a paralegal?

Dulce: Oh my gosh, you’re right! How’d I forget that? She might know someone who can help!

Ángel: Looks like we have a plan, then.

Esperanza: Um, I think part of this plan should be helping you clean up this place. Go put detergent in the washer, Ángel. I’ll get the clothes.

Dulce: My clothes??? Oh, no. They’ve been washed and dried. I just haven’t put them away. The only mess here is in my mind.

[emepe]

— Pairing: Eren x Reader, friends to lovers

— General info: series, 18+, modern AU, serial killer AU, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— Summary: Fate is a tricky thing. Certain situations can’t be avoided as much as certain people’s lives can’t be kept from intertwining. With a serial killer on the loose, and unexpected relationships blooming, how will the universe intervene?

— Chapter summary: The first 48 hours are crucial when a person goes missing. Eren can only pray it’s enough to reach you..

— Content warnings: emetophobia, mention of assault.

— Notes: Helloooo!!! Welcome to TV Friday number 12 <3 I thought about posting earlier but I thought best to keep up our little tradition ^^ Please read the notes at the end for extra notes about TV’s future. Don’t be shy to stop by my ask box <3 If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list, lmk. Happy reading!

Links: Read on AO3 | Chapter guide | Masterlist

Forty-eight hours

Hour One

A missed call shouldn't have been enough to raise an alarm, but his gut instantly told him something was wrong. And yet he tried his best to remain calm — stepped out onto the street and made his way to the bus stop where you should've been dropped off, glancing into convenience stores just in case, hopeful that the bus was just running a little late. But when the bus you would've taken showed up — allowing Eren some time to sigh in relief and shake his head at his own presumptions — and you were nowhere to be found among the few people to scatter onto the sidewalk, it only confirmed that previous gut feeling.

Hour Two

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

There's a stiffness to Eren's breathing that makes the process more painful than its intended effects — his lungs feel too big for his ribs, which seem to be pressing them against his heart, pushing his brain into hyperactivity to keep him from imploding.

Where does he even start? Where should he even go?

If there's a proper protocol to follow to find you, he's no idea of it and he's strangely aware that his anxiety might lead him in the wrong direction when there's so much he has to do — so many places he has to be — at once. It's infuriatingly difficult to not have a cool head when you really need it.  

He didn't think to bring his car — perhaps it's for the best, considering his vision continues to blur and it's not a sign of good condition to hear your own frantic heartbeat pounding in your ears. 

His eyes anxiously scan the faces of every person in his path. Paired with his dazed footing and the sick expression on his face revived every couple of minutes from the nausea stemming from some sort of sensed doom that he continuously swats away, there hasn't been a shortage of odd looks and aversions since he ventured into the dark streets in hopes to find you fine and well out of thin air.

It's been too long to dismiss as a casualty since his calls stopped going through, and yet he insists on redialing your number each time he's met with the automated message that only further fuels his dreadful symptoms, hopeful that your voice will reach his ears again, for that comforting sound to put an end to the infernal crescendo of his insides. 

Just as he's about to redial once more, his phone starts buzzing first, and for a split second his body is at peace and his heart soothed in the spare moment that it takes for him to accept the call and bring the phone to his ear. 

“Have you heard from her yet?” 

The voice on the other end causes his stomach to plummet to his feet for what feels like the tenth time tonight.

It takes a moment for his brain to assimilate that it's not you on the other end and another for him to hate himself for not checking who was calling and stupidly spit a response to an Armin who has no fault in anything, especially for not being you.

Armin, as understanding as ever and assuming the more collected role for Eren's sake, dismisses the frustrated tone in his friend's voice, fully aware it's nothing personal. 

“The security guard says she left a little over an hour ago and Mika called me a minute ago and said she hasn't been home. Are you sure she wasn't going to make any stops on the way?” 

“No, Armin, she would've told me. She would've come here first or she would've at least texted me.” Eren's voice cracks. “Something is wrong.” 

The weakness in Eren's voice is enough to fracture Armin's composure for a fraction of a second.

“Let's go to Levi.”

Hour Three

Being in the police station feels more reassuring than Eren would've imagined. At least this means he's doing something — and something right, at that — and the drive over spared him enough time to ease his nerves, even just a little, as he continued to repeat inwardly to himself that everything is going to be fine. 

Time is everything and frankly, he can't help but feel a bit dumb for not thinking about getting some help from Levi in the first place. He'll find out what's going on — if there was an accident, if you got mugged and that's why no calls go through, or even if your bus broke down and that's why he hasn't seen you when he should have by now. Even if it turns out to be a misunderstanding, better to cause a scene than to sit on his hands. Though three hours without any sign to say otherwise can't be a misunderstanding. 

Eren hunches over, resting his forehead on the edge of Levi's desk, not minding one bit as it digs a dent into his skin. His knee bounces every couple of minutes as he and Armin wait for Levi to get back to them. 

“Eren Jaeger?” 

He looks up to find a tall blond man instead of Levi. 

“Yes?” 

“I'm Captain Erwin Smith. Come this way please.” 

Eren stands to follow the man's lead, only sparing a nervous glance to Armin, who replies with a comforting one from his seat, only morphing into a more accurate depiction of his worry once Eren turns his back to him.

“Where's Levi?” 

Eren's eyes wander the barren space he's been led into. Nothing but a table and a pair of chairs set opposite of each other. 

“He'll be here in a moment. I just want to ask you some more questions about the missing person's report you're filing.” 

“Of course.”

Doing his best to hold in his exasperation at the ticking clock in his head, he dutifully replies to every question he's already answered for Levi when he first walked into the station — what made him come to the station, his relation to you, your description, what happened before he lost contact with you, amongst other basic things to paint a picture of the situation.

“Was there ever any trouble in your relationship?” Erwin asks.

Eren's brow furrows.

“What do you mean?” 

“I'm asking if there was any indication that your girlfriend,” he makes a vague motion with his hands as he reads your name from the folder in his hands, “might’ve been upset with the relationship. Did you ever argue or have any trouble? Perhaps something in the past few days? Or ever?” 

Eren hardens his jaw in an attempt to remain calm. He knew he'd have to spend a while at the station, answering questions more than once — as frustrating as the lengthy process could be, he expected that much. 

Erwin's tone has remained neutral for the entirety of the questioning, and it's only natural to want to rule out any immediate suspects, but it doesn't make the implication of the captain's words any less offensive and borderline cruel. 

“No,” Eren chokes out, horrified by the mere idea that either of you would walk away without warning. That isn't you. 

“So no reason for her to break off contact with you.”

“She didn't break off contact,” Eren spits, growing heavily frustrated at the sudden turn of events. “We were supposed to meet, she was on her way already. I saw her just this morning and she called me first to tell me she was coming home.”

“Maybe she only said that to throw you off?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Just tell me what you might think,” Erwin replies, voice stern. “You say it's only been three hours since you last heard from her but she's a mentally stable, healthy adult. Unless she has any conditions that could put herself or others in danger, chances are she's safe and sound somewhere and this is all a misunderstanding. Was there anything suspicious or weird about her?”

Eren's shake of his head grows more and more frustrated as Erwin does little to conceal his skepticism, which only shapes as a misunderstanding from Eren's increasingly impatient point of view.

“What's suspicious and weird is that she never made it to our date at all and it's been three hours and I haven't gotten a single word from her.”

Eren's expression is one of pleading, yet Erwin's remains neutral and made of marble.

“And it's not like that,” Eren murmurs. “I was going to ask her to live with me tonight. She called me after she left work to tell me she was on her way.” Eren can feel his heartbeat start to pick up as his ribcage begins to close in on his lungs once more as more anxious words continue to spill from his mouth in increasing pace and volume. “She told me she had news and that she loves me. Why would she tell me that if anything was wrong? Why would she say that if she wasn't going to make it to our date?” The crack in his voice comes at the same time as the stinging sensation behind his eyes and the uncomfortable tickle in his nose. “I was making dinner for us. I had this whole thing planned. I wanted to surprise her with all her favorite food and the pictures from the new apartment. I wasn't going to tell her about the pink bathtub because I want it to be a surprise when we move in. She…” He curls against the table, hands gripping his hair in frustration, pulling at the strands to make sure he still feels something because there are just too many sensations overwhelming him as he tries to get through to the man in front of him. “She really wants a pink bathtub.” 

Eren doesn't lift his gaze, just remains quiet and unmoving until he catches a flicker of movement in front of him. It's only when he takes the tissue offered by Erwin that he becomes aware of the tears streaming down his face. 

Levi nearly had a heart attack when he first caught eye of Eren's and Armin's familiar faces walking into the police station. The frantic green eyes and anxious expressions made it clear something awful had happened and hot flashes of searing dread burned inside his stomach. That is until nobody pronounced his niece's name. After that, the flame of pain withered to ashes of guilt, consuming him from the inside in such a manner that it was hard to face his niece's friends knowing he'd felt relief it wasn't his family who'd been affected tonight. 

Levi's known Eren since he was a kid — a bit childish and whiny, but ultimately a decent man with a kind heart. It's been a pleasure watching him grow up and knowing he's remained a good friend to his niece. 

Levi's only met you once. It was at Jean and Mikasa's engagement party earlier this year. If Jean and Mikasa were the happiest couple there, you and Eren were a close second. It was easy to know just how much he adored you, and how attached you were to him. Eren was rarely in a dark place, but next to you his smile was blinding. 

After finding out Erwin conducted the interrogation to rule out a possible runaway case — and how he did it — he still hadn't ridden himself of enough guilt to apologize for making the situation more stressful, no matter what the rules say. 

It's no secret some sudden disappearances hold more danger than others. An abducted child, an older person with dementia, a mentally and emotionally unstable person who's looking to cause harm to others or themselves — they demand a higher sense of urgency than logging the missing person into the system and following up when there's nothing more pressing on the police's plate.

The desperation consuming Eren's features when Levi finally walks into the interrogation room is enough to kick off his own instincts. 

It's upon Levi's insistence that patrols are dispatched immediately. 

Hour Five

When a loved one's safety is on the line, any efforts from authorities never seem to be enough and yet one remains oddly hopeful that the people with a proper protocol should know how to better handle situations that leave one frantic and lost. 

Calls to the nearest hospitals, pings from cellphone towers, two patrols dispatched to the last known location and its surroundings, questions to potential witnesses who have nothing to report or are rather too invested to go back to whatever keeps their attention inside to provide some detailed tips, one patrol leaving because of a nearby break-in and the remaining one left with nothing more to go off of than one grainy clip of CCTV footage that shows your figure walking down the street, and a second clip from a convenience store's outside surveillance camera where you don't show up at all, but the lack of witnesses lead to nothing in between. 

Keeping up the search when there's been nothing gained starts proving to be more difficult when obstacles continue to pile on. Aside from the growing boredom of those in police cars from the lack of fresh information to keep them motivated, the heavy clouds that hover over everyone's head threatens for the case to soon be abandoned for the night. 

Hour Eight

Levi is hesitant to leave. But with no leads — no CCTV footage, no unknown numbers blinking on Eren's screen, no mother, an estranged father, no sign of a struggle at the last known location, and so much yet so little more — there isn't much he has to do than drive back with the pair of worried men to the station for more questioning in case of foul play, while constantly eyeing his notifications for any incoming messages on an assault victim found in an alley not too far away from where your phone was last still on.

Eren refuses to leave. Despite Levi's efforts to persuade him that going back to the station was necessary, knowing he was so close to where you'd last been was enough for Eren to stand his ground. Getting into Levi's car means going back miles worth of steps. It means straying from what feels so much like the right path already. And as ridiculous and futile as it is with no leads, it means losing his grip on something much more solid. 

How easy it would be if a last known location means he can find you just by looking behind a tree or having someone point and say “yes, she's right there”. 

So when Levi makes another plea for Eren to come back with him — he doesn't mention what for to not stir any more nerves — and Eren says no while steering himself down the block for what feels like his hundredth recon of the area — just in case you really were behind that tree in the small playground all along, playing a nasty prank on him — Levi chooses to go back to all the nearby twenty-four hour convenience stores one last time before the downpour begins. 

Armin gives Levi a grateful nod before lightly jogging to catch up with Eren, who's already turning onto the next street. 

“You can go,” Eren calls over his shoulder after catching a glimpse of his friend's blond hair beside him. “I'll keep looking by myself. Besides, it's gonna rain soon. You'll get wet.” 

“What about you?” Armin looks down at his friend's bare arms. “You don't even have a jacket.” 

Eren looks down at his sides, like he just noticed his lack of a coat. He could've sworn he had one on him when he walked out his apartment. You would've been upset with him otherwise, that small pout forming on your lips while your brows are weighed down with disappointment. 

The instant of amusement he feels is quickly consumed by the ache of why he's out on the street with no jacket to begin with. 

The food must be cold by now. He'll have to heat it all up once you're back home.

Light raindrops brush against his skin with a small gust of wind. 

You're still not behind the tree.

It's nearly half past two in the morning. Any civilians with useful information have been asleep for hours, and any passers-by would've reported anything had they seen it, Armin thinks. 

It's chilling to walk down streets so quiet and empty, with the only reminder that this isn't an alternate universe being the sparse cars that drive by. Surely the people inside might find it strange to see the pair walking up and down the streets, turning, looking, flashing their phones to make out shapes in the dark.

The tickle of rain on skin is no longer, but the temperature continues to drop. 

Armin takes on one side of the street while Eren tackles the other. He receives a polite nod from the security guard of a small daycare center, who fails to conceal his look of pity. Levi interviewed him around an hour ago, so he has to know what's going on. 

Armin averts his gaze, his cheeks burning at the thought of some stranger pitying him and his friend when everything is going to be just fine. 

The rain starts up again. Eren isn't around anymore. With one quick scan of the street, Armin spots him rounding the corner to the next street — pace firm but anxious. He's quick to follow. 

By the time Armin catches up, the raindrops have grown in size, a reliable sign that this time, it's for real. 

“Eren,” Armin calls him carefully.

Eren continues walking, flashing a light behind a dumpster in a narrow alley between a family restaurant and a bookstore. 

“Eren,” Armin calls him a bit more firmly to get his attention, but to no avail. 

With brows knit more in desperation than concern, Armin quickens his pace and pulls Eren by the shoulder just before he rounds the corner to the next street. 

“Eren!”

“What?” 

The anger and volume in Eren's voice shrinks Armin in his place for a brief moment. 

Embarrassed by his own reaction, Eren exhales an apology. But his face hardens once more when Armin suggests it's time to go home.

Armin steps back, surprised to have caught a swear word from his best friend among the words he spits back in a negative response. 

But when Eren turns, ready to resume his search, Armin pulls at him again.

“Eren, stop!” he half-yells, quickly readjusting his volume before speaking again to not cause any disturbances to sleeping strangers.

“You don't want to pick a fight with me Armin, I'm warning you,” Eren's voice grows low, but still reaches Armin with the same anger and menace.  

Eren harshly pulls away and continues to storm down the next street, leaving Armin to stumble behind. 

The rain is heavy enough now to spot the pavement faster than it takes for each drop to dry. 

“We need to go back, we aren't going to find her like this,” Armin calls after him. His hands do little to shield himself from the rain. Thankfully, Armin thought to bring a jacket along but it won't do much for either of them when it's bound to be sopping wet in just a few minutes. 

Eren's shirt is already clinging to his skin in large patches down his back, and yet he continues walking with purpose down the street. 

Armin's shivering now under his jacket as he looks around to gather his surroundings. This street isn't far from the office. It's poorly lit which, paired with the rain, is best explored in daylight. There's a single street lamp that's meant to illuminate the area at night, but it's been broken for months and either nobody has reported it, or laziness has kept it from being repaired. 

“Come on,” Armin insists, lightly jogging now and losing his breath under the cold shower as he tries to keep up with Eren, who still refuses to listen. “We'll come back in the morning! You need to get some rest if you're going to keep looking! I'll come with you, okay? But we need to go!”

Armin suddenly crashes into Eren's chest as the latter abruptly turns around in a sudden fit of pure rage. 

“I already told you I'm not fucking leaving!” 

Armin stumbles back, teeth chattering, muscles drooping from his wet clothes and vision blurred by the heavy rain. 

“You can leave if you want to! That's what the fucking police is doing! Just go already! But I'm staying because I care! I don't give a fuck about the rain, I'm going to find her!”

Eren's words pierce through Armin's chest, and the next moment he's tackling Eren to the ground. It's not so much to stop him from leaving this time, but out of indignation. 

Eren falls on his ass with a wet thud, his palms painfully pounding onto the pavement as Armin falls on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in his hands.

“You think I don't care? Why do you think I'm here, you idiot?” Armin yells in Eren's face. Had the pouring rain not been a factor, he would've been red in the face. But had the rain not been there, Eren also would've easily seen the tears streaming down Armin's face, and that would've taken away from his blue glare. 

“She's my best friend! I'm just as worried about her as you are! You can't decide you're the only one affected by this! That only makes you a jerk and you're not!” 

Eren is tense all over as he holds Armin's surprisingly threatening glare. His chest heaves as a twinge of guilt surges inside of him at his friend's pointed remarks. The stiff breathing makes its return.

“But we have to go,” Armin's voice softens — it cracks and begs. 

And Eren breaks down in sobs. His scraped palms come to his face, aggressively digging the heels against his eyes as if to force his tears back in while his shoulders tremble in cold, grief and guilt. 

“You don't understand!” he cries, his shirt still crumpled under Armin's grip. “I fucked up, Armin. This is all my fault!”

Unsure of how to react to this abrupt change in attitude, Armin remains frozen save for his teeth, which continue to chatter under the deafening rain.

“I was supposed to pick her up. I'm never late,” Eren hiccups. “But I didn't come today and now I don't know where she is! It was me, Armin! I did this! This is my fault!” 

“Eren,” Armin murmurs gently, eyebrows upturned in sympathy as he finally softens his hold on his friend. 

“I can't find her and I don't know if she's hurt or scared or if…,” Eren's words drown in another wave of sore sobs, his lips refusing to let the thought of the worst to escape as a spoken word — to think that someone might have caused you harm and that's what's kept you tonight. 

“I need her to be okay,” he whimpers finally, lips trembling as his body begins to react to the harsh cold surrounding him. “Where is she, Armin?”

It takes a while for Armin to gather his thoughts and catch up to the workings of Eren's mind from this hellish night. 

He often leaves the office with you, stays behind some evenings when he notices you're close to wrapping up your work and can ride the elevator together. Sometimes even accepts Eren's offer for a ride when he's too tired to deal with the overwhelming setting of public transportation — tired enough to not mind third-wheeling for a short while. If the last place your phone was turned on was before you even had a chance to take a bus, surely he could've done something to prevent this mess too. Why didn't he think to stay behind today, too?

“It's not your fault,” Armin finally says, his voice just barely audible amidst the rain and thunder. He blinks up from the ground to his friend. “And we don't know what happened. We'll try the hospitals again later, we'll keep calling her in the meantime. We have Levi helping us, right?”

Eren blinks back at him, slowly gathering that Armin is trying to encourage him through reassurances, and finally nods in response as he does his best to ignore the tight lump in his throat. 

“It's like three in the morning, Eren. I'm not asking you to stop. But we can't keep going like this.” He motions vaguely toward the incessant rain from above and the wet clothes sticking to their skin. 

Armin stands, relieving Eren from his weight as he pushes back his hair with one hand and offers the other to his friend whose reluctance casts a shadow over his usually bright features. 

Eren trains his gaze on the ground, leaving Armin's helping hand hanging for the while longer it takes for him to convince himself that Armin is right and this doesn't mean he's failing you. 

Finally, Eren accepts his friend's hand, who hoists him up just as they both spot Levi's car pulling into the street from the farthest corner. 

Armin motions for Eren to follow him toward the car, to which he responds with a weak nod. But just a couple of steps in, something crunches and gets caught under his shoe. Naturally, he looks down, forgetting the deluge falling over him at the moment to frown at the foreign object. 

Armin glances over his shoulder, sensing his absence, and turns around fully when he realizes Eren is kneeling on the ground, cautiously picking something from the ground that ultimately dangles from his fingers once it's fully suspended in the air. 

Armin retraces his steps, kneeling next to his friend to find his face pallid, and green eyes wide with fear as he stares at the broken chain between his fingers, from which hangs an angel cast in silver with a broken wing. 

His features contort in horrified realization. It's almost ridiculous to turn to Eren for confirmation of what he already knows and can already begin to imagine. But when he does, the latter is already hunched over in the opposite direction, emptying his stomach onto the wet pavement while the nearing lights from Levi's car come to blind him.

Hour Fifteen

Mikasa, Jean, and Sasha step into the elevator wordlessly, the only sounds on the way to Eren's floor being the inevitable rustles from the plastic bags with food in Mikasa's hands. 

Jean offered to take them, but Mikasa insisted she'd hold onto them. Maybe it's because of her cold hands, but it might also be because she needs something to help keep her grounded — literally; she feels as though she might float away otherwise. Because if anyone were to ask her, nothing has felt real since last night after Armin's call. 

The elevator’s hum ceases as it comes to a gentle stop and the doors slide open. 

The same somber silence continues to hover between the trio as they mechanically walk down the hall to Eren's door. Jean takes out his copy of the key from his jeans pocket and pushes the door wide open, gesturing for the girls to enter first before quietly closing the door behind them.

Spare keys aren't rare between them. It was chain reaction that stemmed from Eren's father's passing. Everyone wanted to make sure he was okay. The rest is history. 

“In case of emergency.”

“Can you please water my plants while I'm gone?” 

“Can you check something for me?”

“I'm really sick, just let yourself in.”

“Just keep it.”

Jean's copy has rarely been used. In fact, not many of them have made use of Eren's key once he started dating. Not that it's been a dramatic change, but now there's not much need to be wary of barging in on something they'll all laugh about later. And today, after Eren passed out on the street in the rain, it seems crucial to brush the dust off an old habit for their friend's sake.

The trio is careful not to make any excess noise — Eren might still be sleeping —, but the further they venture into the apartment, they realize their efforts are in vain. 

They expected Eren to be lying on the sofa where Jean and Armin had so carefully helped him settle down, still fast asleep considering it's only been a few hours since. Although Eren's sudden nausea was a mere reaction to finding the necklace, Armin still spent a couple more hours watching over him as a precaution while he cleaned up the kitchen and dining area, and quietly left for his apartment to make another round of calls before work. 

They're met with the view of their friend bustling around his work area in a corner of the living room, his brow furrowed and eyes laser focused as he refills the ink tanks on his printer. Stacks of missing person's posters cover his desk with a handful of faded ones having been scattered and crumpled on the floor as evidence of the ink shortage he's tending to. Your face occupies nearly the entirety of his immediate view, which is why a single glance is enough to distract him from his task that he doesn't notice his friends present in his apartment, nor when the ink begins to leak.

At the instinctive curse word that leaves him in a frustrated huff, Jean rushes over to help him. 

“I'll handle this,” he assures Eren, who only blinks in surprise as he realizes he's not alone. 

Mikasa and Sasha walk over to him unsure of whether a hug is appropriate as a greeting. In the end, they choose to speak the words instead. 

Sasha leaves the conversation in exchange for helping Jean clean up the spilled ink. An irregular blob-shaped stain is left behind on the ash gray wood. 

“Are you– How's your stomach?” Mikasa asks. 

An uneasy grimace makes its way onto Eren's face.

“It's fine. It was just… Yeah.” He shrugs it off, unsure of how to properly explain the incident without triggering more discomfort. 

Mikasa nods in understanding. 

“Armin said you're going back to the police station later.”

Eren huffs at a humorless puff of air from his nose. 

“Yeah. More questioning,” Eren replies, his head continuously shaking in disbelief, to which Mikasa frowns.

“What's wrong?” 

It takes Eren a couple of tries to let the words out, his mouth opening and closing with hesitancy. 

“They all left, Mika,” he softly murmurs, a hint of helplessness infecting his fragile voice, that births an ache in Mikasa's chest. “Nobody could say anything and they got bored. What kind of excuse is that?” 

Mikasa drops her gaze to her shoes, submitting before the hurt and impotence Eren's words awake in her. 

Then she shakes her head briefly, recalling a good thing. 

“Levi's on the case… and there's evidence for foul play now, there's a lead,” she says, trying her hardest to appear more hopeful at each thing on her list. “He'll find her, Eren. This'll just be nothing but a bad memory soon.” 

She smiles, but it comes out sad from the red that tints her waterline. 

Eren doesn't have the energy to try to appear cheerful from her encouragement, and limits himself to a nod. 

“Eren, how long have you been up?” Sasha asks with concern from his desk, where her eyes scan over his computer screen and the stacks of paper with your face printed front and center. 

“A few hours?” Eren replies with a shrug, to which everyone else exchanges concerned glances.

Jean breaks the silence with a loud clap, refusing to make way for any awkwardness in the air. 

“We brought you some food, buddy. Come on, let's eat.” 

Sasha eagerly nods, her enthusiasm a bit too stiff it almost seems rehearsed, as she encourages him to follow them to the dining table.

Eren allows himself to be tugged along for a couple of steps before he tethers himself to his spot for a moment and then decidedly takes a step back under everyone's puzzled expressions. 

“I'm not really hungry,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

“Are you sure?” Mikasa gently asks.

“We got your favorite soup,” Jean smiles, though Eren is too busy staring at a blank point to notice. “Minestrone.”

“Extra parmesan,” Sasha adds.

“It's fine.” Eren assures them with a forced smile. “You guys eat. I have a lot of things to do.” 

“Well, you can't do them on an empty stomach. Let's eat and then we'll go through your to-do list together,” Jean insists.

“Yeah,” Mikasa agrees, shooting a grateful smile to her fiancé. “Jean can drive you to the station after breakfast and Sasha and I can handle the rest.”

Every offer is sensible and comforting, but Eren still refuses. He can't eat, not when you still haven't come home. 

“No…” his voice trembles ever so slightly as his eyes wander around the room, as if looking for an excuse. He ultimately makes his way back to his desk, where the stacks of posters await him. “I'll just head out now. I'm gonna hand some of these out before going to the station.”

The rejected trio exchange another round of anxious, meaningful looks. Mikasa's the first to break away from the group to join Eren in gathering a stack of flyers and a roll of tape from the black metal organizer on his desk.

As her hands roam around the surface of the ash gray wood, the jewel on her finger catches the sunlight peeking through the curtains. 

Eren's movements grow slow as his focus is stolen by the silver engagement ring. 

Mikasa notices the pause in his movements from the corner of her eye, and looks up at him to assess his status. Eren tears his gaze from her ring — embarrassed —, but not fast enough for it to go unnoticed, nor does he remember to ease his hardened jaw afterwards. He moves in silence and sets a fast pace toward the door, leaving an anguished Mikasa to trail at his heel. 

Hour Twenty

It takes a handful of hours for Eren to get back home from the station, with a significant reduction to the baggage he left with. The stream of questions would've been fairly simple had he not been charged with so many uneasy feelings as to why he was doing all of it in the first place. It certainly didn't help that he had to face the same people who had simply left this morning. But he has to do things right — even if it means swallowing his anger to contribute with any useful information.

Social media presence, daily routines, bus routes, habits, friends, family situation.

Saying you know someone like the back of your hand is an odd saying, he thinks. He's not that vain to spend lengthy periods of time observing himself. In his case, it suffices to say he simply knows you — all he's done is look at you. 

He knows your hands quite well. The shape of your fingers, the curves of your knuckles and the warmth of your palms when they latch onto his heartbeat and manipulate it to your will. And now what's been left since last night is a painful cavity. It's all wrong. Your hand should be here, filling his void. 

The apartment is empty, Jean and Sasha long gone. The plastic bags have been folded into neat triangles and the counter has been cleared. Upon opening the fridge, Eren finds stacks of containers that have been added to those Armin helped put away the previous night from the uncelebrated dinner. 

He stares at his packed fridge for a long time, any energy to step away vanishing into thin air and leaving him stuck in place, looking straight ahead until he no longer recognizes the shape of anything inside, and he grows numb at the cold air that slowly envelops him. 

A ring from his pocket is what finally pulls him out of his daze and he's quick to whip the device out and accept the incoming call with pure urgency and no thought. 

“I'm only assuming you've been too excited to call me to tell me how it went last night,” Carla's playfully accusing tone comes through the speaker. 

“Mom,” Eren pronounces in a voice so soft, yet empty as he only acknowledges it's her, but any word that bounces off his tongue is devoid of meaning until he can speak the name he wants to.

“So,” Carla's enthusiastic grin is evident through the phone. “Was she thrilled? What did she say?”

Eren's voice fails him. 

In all the anxiety and chaos, with all the things he's had to do within the last twenty hours, he completely forgot to tell his mother what had happened and that moment is catching up to him now. 

His lips roll inwards, a habit reserved for when he's feeling shy because of things you say or do, and now has come back because of his lack of words — or rather the will to expel them.

His hand comes up to his hair, his fingers brushing his hair back as he struggles to find his voice. 

It's only when Eren takes a second too long to reply that a shift in mood can be sensed from Carla's end of the line.

“Eren,” she calls him carefully, which only makes the lump in his throat grow. “Honey, what's wrong?”

“Mom,” is all Eren can muster, voice cracking as he pushes the word out.

“Did you have a fight? Is everything okay?” Carla's concern amplifies through the speaker, as something rustles in the background, a sign that she's taken on a more alert position.

“You didn't break up, did you?” 

Out of all the things that could've gone wrong last night, Eren wishes that had been it. At least he wouldn't be as helpless. At least he'd know where you are. At least it's something he could reverse.

“No.” 

The word comes out choked, his throat instantly sore for the second time. 

His monosyllabic replies must be getting to her, because Carla takes a deep breath before trying again. 

“Eren, honey. You have to speak clearly, okay?” Carla's voice grows gentle, as it always has whenever Eren would have trouble speaking his mind. Granted, that's been lost as he got older, but Carla's sweet attention hasn't. “What happened?”

Her patient voice finally manages to coax the lodged words from Eren's throat. 

“I don't know where she is. She's missing.” 

Hour Twenty-four 

Rain is bad for detective work. Eren heard about it in a documentary or a podcast, or maybe he read it somewhere — he can't remember. But it supposedly washes away any evidence, making easy cases tricky and difficult cases nearly impossible. Considering the silver angel necklace was found in the midst of the sky falling, it comes as no surprise when he comes home from a casual meet up with Levi at a nearby coffee shop with the news that no DNA or signs of a struggle were found on site after a thorough search in the light of day. The other half of the broken angel wing was found stuck on the edge of a sewer grate, though. Eren would feel any comfort at all if it meant it would lead to something. But at least the necklace can be fixed for when he finds you and this is all over.

The necklace is pretty much a dead end, but it'll remain under the police's hold just in case. 

Eren has never gone so long without seeing your face. Now that the clock has found its way back to the hour you were supposed to walk through his door, it's unbearable to know that you won't. And still he looks over in its direction every few minutes, expecting you to burst in and throw yourself into his embrace, marking the end to a day-long fever dream. 

That's probably it. A dream. No, a nightmare. It's nothing but a wicked play of his subconscious — to teach him a lesson on appreciating you more. Maybe to scare him into doing a better job of protecting you. Maybe he's gotten too lax, too careless. After all, the city hasn't been terrorized by any violent crimes in the last few months. But that's no excuse to dismiss the possibility of danger. Right… There was a killer last year. Two murders. No suspects. No arrests. And there was a burglary just last night. So what if…

No.

Eren pulls at his hair, agitated by where his mind is leading him. He pulls hard on the strands, like they're the reins of his thoughts that he needs to redirect onto a less horrifying path. 

His phone dings as if on cue with a text message.

I'll be there soon, honey. Get some rest, I'll call you tomorrow. I love you.

A tap on the attached file opens up a copy of a plane ticket for the day after tomorrow under the name Carla Jaeger.

His heart feels a tad lighter. 

It'll help to have his mother around for a few days. He types his gratitude into his phone and presses send. 

He lets his face fall into his hands as he hunches over his desk.

Everything will be okay, he repeats to himself in his head like a mantra. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Everything will be okay.

Outside, rain starts to fall. 

Hour Thirty

The rain has been on and off for hours. 

By the time Eren reconnected with his surroundings, ready to go out and look for clues on his own around the area, the rain was nearly as heavy as it was at three in the morning. 

He sits by the living room window, watching the downpour. His phone is charging on a wooden stool next to him, taking a break from another round of calls to nearby hospitals to ask for any patients bearing your name. Still no. 

His stomach has been growling for a while, but any energy he possesses isn't the kind that'll get him off his chair and into the kitchen — it's the kind that's meant to be used to stare out the window and grow numb over any trivial needs.

It's fine, he thinks. It'll pass. 

Hour Thirty-seven

All five of his friends come through the door a little past seven in the morning, with bags of fresh meals to share. 

Eren sits down this time, allowing Mikasa to fix him a plate and Connie to pour him a glass of juice. 

Nobody mentions the dark circles under his eyes, and Eren's gaze is too lost on a blank point to sense the meaningful glances exchanged all around him. 

There's not much room for conversation. Any sense of normalcy is lost in the thick air. It seems equally wrong to create a lighthearted break for the length of a meal as it is to talk about the empty seat across from Eren when everyone is trying so hard to make sure he's at the very least feeding himself. 

Eren merely pokes and stirs at his food with his fork the entire time. There's a fresh stack of flyers on his desk that demand more urgency in his eyes than sitting down to eat. 

His demeanor is easy to read by everyone at the table, yet another round of concerned glances and subtle nods in his direction being tossed around with silent messages. 

In the end, nobody says a thing and the groups is broken off in pairs to tackle the surrounding neighborhoods.

Hour Forty-five 

Nobody has called. Not him or the station. As the only person outside of the police to be contacted for any updates, his phone should've rung at least once. But aside from yesterday's encounter with Levi and his visits to the station to see if his presence alone will bring something up, there's been a drought in leads. And despite his determination in making sure every person he passes knows anything, there's still nothing. 

It's been hours since his stomach has demanded his attention. It's finally reached the point where it's so empty, it's gone numb. His body is running on nothing more than sheer will and water. 

He should at least try to eat, test if he can hold any food down. 

The fridge remains packed with food, even more now thanks to what's been gathered from his morning visits. 

Ever so slowly, with overly cautious movements, he takes out a container, transports it to the counter and peels off the lid. It's from the dinner you were supposed to share two nights ago. 

His lips tremble, eyebrows upturning for the split second it takes him to grasp back at his composure. An outsider would think he's glaring at his leftovers, disgusted at whatever is inside, completely misunderstanding the mental ordeal he's traversing as he takes several deep breaths.

He pulls out a stool from the breakfast bar, sits down and stares.

Hour Forty-eight 

It's been two whole days since Eren has stepped foot in his own bedroom. 

His feet drag him toward the bed without stopping to flip the light switch. Though the night is cloudy, signaling another shower for tonight, the moonlight still finds its way into the room just enough for his eyes to take in the most basic shapes of his furniture.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, and his gaze zeroes in on the neatly folded white cotton fabric set on the corner. It's the shirt you slept in two nights ago, the one that's the wrong size because it's his and he likes his clothes to be just a bit baggy. 

It's the shirt he gently tugged off your body to feel your skin pressed against his. The one that you take care in folding even if you're in a rush and even though he'll throw it in the wash anyway.

His fingers slowly reach out to collect the fabric.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

It still smells like you. Just barely — a mere scrap of notes that have faded over the last two days. A mix of vanilla, citrus and a faint trace of eucalyptus fabric softener. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Breathe, Eren.

It doesn't work. The air is too thick. It gets caught in his throat and forces a choked sob on its way back out. 

His face contorts in anguish as he falls onto the bed, curled up in an attempt to make himself as small as humanly possible, with your shirt clutched in his hands as the world outside darkens and he simply weeps.

Previous chapter | Next chapter (tba) 

Minors and ageless blogs who interact will be blocked

Notes: Tunnel Vision will continue, just not with the same schedule it had before my hiatus. I’ll be adding word count and progress updates in the chapter guide in case you want to keep up with the story in that way (It’ll also give you an estimate of when the next chapter will be posted. I have ideas for some ficlets, which I’ll do my best to post in between TV updates just so I don’t leave you all hanging with Eren content. It’ll depend a lot on whether I see any enthusiasm for it or not though (aka comments and reblogs that aren’t… well… empty). In the meantime, thank you for the support and feel free to slip into my ask box to chat :)

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[audreyscribes]

Ω PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS:

⚒ HEPHAESTUS: God of Forges, Fire, Sculpture, Metalworking, Stone Masonry, Carpenter, Metallurgy, Artisan, and Volcanoes 🔥

author's note: I had a sudden idea about writing some headcanons Camp Halfblood demigods being claimed and what it's like for each respective god and cabin, followed by a small blurb afterwards. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog! The order is not in order of the cabin numbers. [PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS MASTERLIST]

When you get claimed, there are a bunch of cheers and impromptu fireworks from your half-siblings. You watch some unfortunate individuals near your siblings jump feet in the air with hands flying to their ears, and some people diving for the ground. 

When you get introduced to your new living arrangement, there is a spillover from the Cabin and the Forge & Armoury; where there are just random parts in the Cabin and cots and bedrolls next to the Furnaces. You didn’t know where the living quarters or the forges began and ended. 

There is an initiation at your cabin where you introduce yourself to your cabin mates with your craft. It could’ve been the first craft you ever made, your favourite invention, or make it an entirely new thing. 

You get your own little workspace and for some hint of cohesion, your workspace is assigned a category; based on your craft. If you’re an engineer, you’re put with the other engineers. If you’re an artisan, you’re put with the other artisans. 

You’re constantly surrounded by people sharing their ideas or inputting, even at dinner and during bed times. But careful saying which stuff out loud lest you get a complaint from Chiron when you and your siblings have a debate on the best way to make something.

Because of the furnaces, you are shown how to keep the furnaces running when it's technically bedtime; one the exceptions given to your cabin for curfew.  Because even though they have magical means, you can’t let the furnaces die out or you have to spend three days heating up the kiln all over again. And no, you’re not allowed to use Greek Fire or later, the dragon around Thalia’s tree to heat up the furnaces if they die out. Don’t ask why but all you know is the Ka-Boom incident. You can imagine why.  

A perk with being on duty is that you can stay up later than everyone else and get to sneak in some late night meals; your seniors treated you to stuff from s’mores, roasted potatoes, and other foodstuffs by using the furnaces. Just don’t make too much stuff or you’re going to have a bunch of campers at your cabin asking for goodies.

Work hazards are always around and while there are preventive measures in place, things happen. These range from inventions going haywire, exploding fire, or just normal accidents. Don’t feel bad if they happen, everyone immediately jumps in to help out. You learn how to move fast and think fast. 

Being a Child of Hephaestus and being part of the cabin have their overlaps with the Athena, Apollo, and Hermes cabin.

If you don’t have the power to manipulate fire, as a child of Hephaestus you still have a higher immunity of fire and heat. Paired that up with the engineering, your cabin is also the unofficial fire station. You jumped with the fire alarm went off in the cabin and everyone got up to grab gear to put out the fires at Camp.

There were exploding multicolour lights that were going off in the air. Some were like the regular fireworks you’ve seen, but then there were fireworks that reminded you of that scene in the Lord of the Rings movie: where the fireworks seemed to not only come alive but move like they were. The smoke of gunpowder filled the air and you coughed. Fireworks were still going off as the children of Hephaestus were still cheering.

You then saw a large burky boy step forward and you knew he was one of your half-siblings. He looked very imposing but as he looked at you with a smile, all initial fear disappeared and you saw the warmth behind his smile. He then grinned at you and held out his hand, “I hope you liked the fireworks, we do this all the time when we welcome those into Cabin 9. I’m Charles Beckendorf, Cabin Counselor.”

You took his hand to shake and you instantly could feel the calluses on his hand, and how comforting warm it was. He clapped you on the back as he led you towards your cabin, as the others followed.

[lostsyren]

ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ the vip life 🍸🌺🍹 ・。.・✭・.

{word count: 2.1k}

{summary: a look into rafe and sofia’s thoughts at the party in season 3 episode 7 & a bit of context to their relationship}

{part 2: here}

ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ “So this is the VIP life huh?” Sofia smiled over the red lip of her solo cup. She watched with sparkling eyes as Rafe smirked down at her, glancing around, before he answered.

“Hmn Yeah.”

Sofia had a lot of kooks who’d frequented the bar to try their lines on her, but they never took it further than that, always returning to their golf games, never to look her way again. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t hurt. Moving to the Outer Banks a couple months ago from Mexico had been hard…lonely. She’d only made one friend so far. So when this good looking guy, eyes the colour of the ocean, smile bright and winning, had approached her for the second time, she was taken aback… ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

“Sofia right?” He’d said.

She was ducked under the bar, placing new stock away into shelves. Hearing her name, she jumped up with a sigh, quickly plastering on a smile.

“That’s me,” she chirped, putting on her customer service voice, “can I help you with anything?”

Rafe just laughed softly, eyes roaming her face, trailing down to her body. She prickled with confusion.

“You don’t have to speak like that with me, I thought we were chill.”

He was talking about their conversation earlier. As he asked for a glass of whiskey the two exchanged a couple words. He asked her for her name. She told him it, and then he said ‘thank you for the drink’. But that was it.

Now as the sun sank in the sky, the clouds tinged with orange and pink, he’d approached her again, whilst she unloaded stock behind the bar.

“Oh, hi I didn’t know it was you.” Her shift was ending soon and she was drained. She probably looked it too.

“My name is Rafe by the way.”

“Okay….” She said, quirking her eyebrow in confusion.

What was this? Despite being on the island for less than 4 months, she was aware of the discourse between the ‘kooks’ and ‘pogues’. The people who swarmed the country club were ‘Kooks’, which meant the people serving them were ‘Pogues’. So what was this Kook boy doing talking with her just as the bar was about to close?

Rafe chuckled tensely, hand palming the back of his neck.

Was he nervous?

“Is everything ok?” Sofia asked, mouth furrowing into a concerned frown.

“Yeah no– I’m good. I just wanted to say I’m having a party on Saturday. You should come.”

Oh.

“Huh?” She said, struggling to comprehend.

“Yeah, just give me your number so I can text you the address.”

And that’s how she ended up in Tannyhill, with Rafe Cameron’s arm slung around her shoulder.

The size of the house alarmed her, the huge white edifice looming over the landscape as she pulled up to his driveway, seemingly getting bigger as she approached it.

“You wanna see some more?” Rafe said, voice low. Tone suggestive.

Sofia’s stomach flipped, “yeah I’m down.”

“Great news, that’s great news, I’ll give you the grand tour,” he teased, pulling her into his body with his arm. Sofia laughed melodically, letting him lead her inside, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. The two slotted perfectly against each other, Sofia relishing the way he found every opportunity to touch her. She knew he probably only wanted to sleep with her. But she didn’t care– she also wanted the same. He was hot. Enthralling. Undeniable. For a moment she could pretend like she was one of the girls at the country club– not just its bartender.

They were about to enter, before she felt Rafe’s hand slide down her back. She turned to look up at him.

“Just give me like five minutes. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

She nodded, noticing how his hand seemed to linger on her lower back.

“Ok,” she smiled, exiting the balcony.

Sofia roamed the house, not really knowing much of the people there. She offered a couple of smiles, but not many people reciprocated them. She followed Rafe’s instructions and headed upstairs. The girls all seemed to throw her chary, frigid looks, casting whispers to their friends as she walked past. Sofia felt her skin turn red, feeling the scrutiny pierce her. She pushed the sensation away, hoping that Rafe would be quick.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Barry’s words left a stirring disquiet in his stomach.

The hint that he needed to remove Ward off the battlefield, as Barry had put it, swirling about in his mind.

Rafe downed his drink, letting the crystal glass clatter onto the table as he got up in a huff.

“Have fun Country Club,” Barry jeered, as he left the balcony, mood soured. He headed upstairs to Sofia. His nerves were frayed and Barry hadn’t helped, now his mind migrating elsewhere. Somewhere dark.

Despite his playboy persona, his exaggerated swagger and intense ostentation, Rafe hadn’t been like this in years. After what had happened to the Sheriff, he put the hedonism of house parties and the company of girls behind him, too consumed by a festering guilt.

But he was past that now. He could enjoy himself again.

He reached the top of the stairs. This floor was empty, the noise of the party filtering up from downstairs. He spotted her. She was standing by the table with all the framed photographs of the Cameron family, of them as kids, of them at Midsummers. He watched as she ran a finger through the dust coated picture frames, picking one of them up with a small smile. Rafe roiled with anticipation.

He supposed that was why he asked Sofia to come. He could’ve had any kook girl of his choosing, but he was afraid. He knew word got around in the country club circles– the pressure would be too much. Besides, most of them were mean. Vapid. Obsessive.

Sofia seemed sweet. He could tell she hadn’t been in the Outer Banks long since she didn’t know who he was. He liked that. There wasn’t any expectation for him to fulfil. Or for him to disappoint. By being Rafe Cameron…Whatever that meant.

He inhaled a short, sharp breath and approached her, slipping a hand around her waist from behind, “hey.”

Sofia jumped up slightly, letting out a little gasp, “oh my god you scared me,” she laughed spinning around to face him.

“Oh yeah? What are you doing snooping about my house then, Miss Sofia?” He teased, slotting his other hand around her waist too.

“Just looking at the pictures. You were cute as a kid.” Her smile was big and her eyes were shiny, the irises almost lined with gold. They reminded him of how the Cross of Santo Domingo burned in the fire. Golden and bright.

Fuck she was gorgeous– Rafe thought– especially for a Pogue.

“And what about now?” He probed.

He could see her eyes dilate, “still cute.”

Rafe felt his heartbeat waver.

“I’ll show you to my room.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Sofia walked into the vast space, the four post bed sprawling and plush, damask drapes lining each window, the chandelier casting light refractions across the creamy walls as the sunset spilled in through the glass.

“Woah.” Was the only thing she could say.

Rafe laughed softly behind her, shutting the door as he entered.

“Let me take that from you.” He said as he neared her, swiping the red solo cup out of her hand and placing it on the bedside table. She obliged, eyes tailing him, an amalgam of excitement and anxiety brimming in her.

The sun was setting, the sky getting dusky with the heady glow of late summer, the room awash in the colours of twilight. Sofia could see Rafe’s eyes shine darkly as he looked down at her.

“How did you find the party then?” He asked.

She smiled once again, finding it hard not to, “I had fun. Thanks for the invite.”

“That’s good– I’m glad. Uh you wanna sit down?”

Sofia nodded, letting him lead her to the side of the bed. Rafe seemed different now. The sharp confidence from before was replaced with a care and softness that surprised her.

The two were silent for a while, the music from the party sounding faint and far away and the soft shadows of the room felt warm and fuzzy. Rafe placed a gentle hand on her knee, contrasting the quick and easy ways he’d touched her throughout the day. This was deliberate.

“Can I…” he started.

Sofia nodded, “please do,” her voice close to a whisper.

His fingers inched up her thigh, his touch light like gossamer, trailing up to the strands tying her bikini cover up. He tugged them lazily, letting the fabric fall. Sofia’s chest rose and fell as she tried to level her breathing, watching Rafe with lidded eyes. His gaze roamed her body hungrily, the pupils growing darker.

His hands then moved to the side of her face, tucking the stray strands of hair behind her ear. Rafe inched closer towards her, finally bridging the gap with a slow kiss, Sofia feeling her skin prickle in expectation.

Her hand shot to his face, cupping his cheek as he deepened the kiss, whilst pulling down the fabric of her dress, until she was left in nothing but her red bikini.

Rafe’s face lit up, the slow and deliberate movements giving way to a quick and fervid desperation as he swiped his polo shirt off in one swift manoeuvre, capturing Sofia in his arms and placing her head on the pillow as he caged her body with his.

She gasped at the sudden change in pace, looking up at him with a doe eyed expression.

“Sorry,” he murmured, confusing her countenance for fear.

“Don’t apologise, just come here,” she said with a dopey smile, pulling him into a kiss, as she hooked her arms around his neck.

“As you wish, Miss Sofia,” he teased, smiling against her lips at the nickname he’d given her.

His body was flush against hers, the two of them getting lost in a heady bubble of ecstasy as the party continued on downstairs.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun had set completely, the sky dark and the stars out. Rafe switched on a lamp, lying back in bed with his arms behind his head. Sofia was in the shower, the faint sound of water running the only thing he could hear in the room.

Everyone had left, the music had stopped. It was just them in the house. But despite how much fun he’d had with her, he couldn’t stop thinking about the inkling in his head– Ward needed to be gone.

The door to the en-suite creaked open, Sofia entering the room wrapped in a towel, rivulets of water running down her skin. She gave a smile, which Rafe reciprocated, sitting up on his elbow. He pushed away the dark thoughts that had wormed into his brain and honed on to her. She walked over to her discarded bikini and cover, picking the flimsy material up.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower.” She said sweetly.

“No problem.” Rafe replied.

“I guess I’ll be heading home then.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “what?”

“Yeah, I’ll get out of your way.”

Rafe got up out of bed, pulling on his boxers, “it’s late. You’ve had a couple of drinks. Just stay the night.” He walked past her towards his wardrobe, pulling out a clean shirt and handing it to her. “Here you can wear this.”

Sofia eyed the shirt. Then flicked her gaze up to him.

“You sure?”

He laughed softly, slightly puzzled, “yeah of course.”

Sofia accepted the shirt, giving him a funny look.

“I’ll look away. You get changed.” He said, walking back to the bed as she slipped it on.

She climbed in bed not soon after, lying down with a sigh.

“You’re not like how I thought you’d be.” She mused, glancing over to him quietly.

Rafe’s breath hitched, “is that a good thing or a bad thing.”

“Good. Definitely good.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe had fallen asleep. His back was turned to her, his soft breaths ebbing and flowing in the silence. She examined the constellation of freckles on his shoulders, scared to trace her finger through them in case he woke up. She turned around, lying face up to the ceiling.

Rafe Cameron confounded her. Even in sex, he’d flit from gentle to rough. From soft to callous. His fingers would grip her skin before dissolving into the most tender of touches. She’d feel his teeth clash against her own, before he slipped into a mellow pace, trailing his lips across hers like a feather. And now– wasn’t this a hookup? That’s the impression she got. So why was he being so….kind?

She was exhausted; Rafe really had tired her out. She fell into dreams soon after, the sumptuous bed sheets and silken pillows making it easy, the comforting presence of Rafe sleeping beside her making it even easier.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[read-write-thrive]

Charles Rowland Week Day Two - Chorb/Comfort

After over three decades as ghosts, you would think that Charles and Edwin would have a good grasp on what ghosts can and can’t do, or even what ghosts could or couldn’t feel, so, etc. Like, ghosts can eat, but it tastes awful. Ghosts can’t sleep at all. That sort of thing. Edwin called them “ghost rules”. Charles also called them ghost rules, but he did his best not to talk about them at all unless directly asked. He’d opened up about missing being alive and all that baggage, yeah, but no need to poke at it, alright?

But lately they’d discovered a new ghost “rule” (ability? Function? Who knows) completely on accident. You see, after the entire fiasco with Esther (and the following quest to get Niko back) the boys had been, frankly, exhausted. They’d done a lot in their thirty years but never so much in so little time. It was weird, to say the least.

“Are you guys sure you’re okay? We can stick around—“ Crystal had tried as they all but herded the girls out of the office. It was past midnight and they should’ve left hours ago, but the boys must look especially bad if their looks were anything to go by.

However, this exhaustion was wearing on the boy’s patience (well, Edwin’s, but Charles had to mediate so it was getting to him too) and frankly, they needed a break. Charles was happy to say as much.

“Nope, all good here! In fact, I think we’ve all earned some time off, so maybe take the next few days to rest, yeah? You sure you don’t want us to walk with you to the tube?” Even his face hurt from smiling, which hasn’t happened since long before he died. There was an alarm bell in the back of his head, but he felt too exhausted to have a proper look at it. He just needed a break is all.

The girls shared a look again. Is this how people felt when he and Edwin did that? Charles didn’t realise it was so annoying.

“We’ll be fine. You have my number right? If anything happens?” Crystal pulled on her coat and helped Niko with her accidentally inside-out sleeve, “And you’re sure that ancient landline even works?”

“As I’ve said, the phone was enchanted to work even without electricity. Barring extremely dire circumstances, it works.” Edwin snapped, lighter than his proper angry tone but still on the edge.

“Do you want us to call you before coming back?” Niko asked towards Edwin, but with a significant, pointed glance at Charles. Charles knew there was something in that look, too, but thinking felt a little difficult at the minute. His head kinda felt like the jar of bees. Maybe he should fish it out of the backpack to compare.

Edwin replied to Niko kinder than he’d been with Crystal but not by much. Crystal snapped at him, probably about his tone with Niko, and then those two were arguing again. Charles really should break it up so the girls could get back to their flat.

God, was this a migraine? Could ghosts get migraines? It’d be just his luck, too. Was there ghost paracetamol he could take? He’d have to dry swallow it since the drink would taste like sand—

There was a hand waving in front of his face. Someone grabbed his arm and shook him. Suddenly Edwin grabbed him by the shoulders, staring him down intently. He was saying something, too. Charles moved to smile and nod, even as he had no idea what was going on, but that seemed to make the pain spike again. He flinched against it. He crossed his arms across himself, though he couldn’t say why. Comfort? Warmth? Guess it didn’t matter much, really.

Several sets of hands were pushing him somewhere—oh, the sofa, right. That seemed like a good idea. Weren’t the girls going somewhere? Or supposed to be, at least. He assumed they were some of the other hands pushing and pulling him along.

He landed on the sofa with little grace, the bouncing making something pulse in his brain is a not nice way. Edwin was there again, hands on Charles’s cheeks and forehead as if checking for fever. It was silly—surely ghosts couldn’t get fevers, if they didn’t have bodies. Edwin knows that.

They were talking to him again. It sounded like he was underwater, sound carrying but only barely. Oh, right. Ghosts weren’t supposed to have whatever was happening now, either. That would explain Edwin’s furious note taking and fussing. Niko was up and about helping him, which meant Crystal had to be the one next to him. Turning his head felt like a bad idea, so he was glad they only had so many people in the vicinity. Process of elimination and all that.

Pain struck at his abdomen next, dull ache turning stabbing in the matter of minutes. He curled in on himself, bringing his feet up onto the sofa and his knees to his face. Clutching at his stomach, Charles squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into his knees. Maybe if he just curled up tight enough—

It was like his ears popped and every joint cracked at the same time. Charles was pretty sure it was an audible pop! too. But suddenly everything was peaceful, like he was stretched out and condensed into the best full-body hug at the same time. The world was a warm yellow, bright but comfortable. Sure he couldn’t see his friends anymore, but it was blessed relief from whatever the bloody hell that pain was and Charles was absolutely going to bask in it.

After a minute or two of adjusting, Charles realised he could almost hear what was happening in the office. Crystal and Edwin were fighting again, though now Niko seemed to be— cooing over something? Muttering reassurances? He couldn’t catch all the words, but he was pretty sure that was her “finding a literal creature and/or inanimate object adorable” voice. Who/what was she talking to? Shouldn’t she be splitting up the other two? Actually, weren’t the girls supposed to be heading home?

He wanted to ask all of that, but this blissful state didn’t grant him the power of speech, apparently. Charles’s questions came out as a humming noise instead. Surely this should be worrying him—no sight, no speech, hell he’s pretty sure no body—but it was hard to feel worried, or frustrated, or sad here. He felt so good, why would he ruin it with all that? Besides, taking a step back and being relieved of his headache gave him the chance to carefully consider what had just happened.

And he would do that. Definitely. At some point. Look, this was probably the closest he’d gotten to sleep in over thirty years, you can’t blame him for wanting to bask in it for a while, alright? Just a little bit, so Edwin doesn’t kill Crystal (or Crystal somehow double kills Edwin). A bit of rest then he’d figure out how to go back.

~

When Charles “popped” again, returning to the mortal plane or whatever, it was to a pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of the office, wood burning stove lit and his three best friends circled around him. Thankfully they left him enough room to not pop on top of someone.

The girls were asleep, but Edwin was instantly focused on Charles. He went so far as to scurry forward, kneeling between Charles’s flailed legs to, again nonsensically, press at his face for a fever that wasn’t there.

“Charles, you’re back! Are you alright? Do you know what happened? Lord, I— we were worried.” Edwin admitted, dropping his hands and rocking back on his heals to create a smidge more distance.

Charles, genuinely smiling this time, decided he wasn’t a fan of this embarrassment or shame or whatever it was Edwin was dealing with. So, naturally, he leaned forward and threw his arms around his best mate.

“Oh, mate, it was brills…”

—

Day two of @charles-rowland-week !! I am vvvvv sleepy rn so if there’s mistakes no there isn’t 😌 hope y’all enjoyed!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Greg Sargent at TNR:

There are still nearly two months to go before Donald Trump assumes the presidency again, but Republicans or GOP-adjacent industries have already begun to admit out loud that some of his most important policy promises could prove disastrous in their parts of the country. These folks don’t say this too directly, out of fear of offending the MAGA God King. Instead, they suggest gingerly that a slight rethink might be in order. But unpack what they’re saying, and you’ll see that they’re in effect acknowledging that some of Trump’s biggest campaign promises were basically scams.

In Georgia, for instance, some local Republicans are openly worried about Trump’s threat to roll back President Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act. The IRA is pouring hundreds of billions of dollars into incentives for the manufacture and purchase of green energy technologies, from electric vehicles to batteries to solar power. Trump endlessly derided this as the “green new scam” and pledged to repeal all uncommitted funds. But now The New York Times reports that Trump supporters like state Representative Beth Camp fear that repeal could destroy jobs related to new investments in green manufacturing plants in the state. Camp worries that this could leave factories in Georgia “sitting empty.” You heard that right: This Republican is declaring that Trump’s threatened actions could leave factories sitting empty. 

[...]

Something similar is also already happening with Trump’s threat to deport millions of undocumented immigrants. Reuters reports that agriculture interests, which are heavily concentrated in GOP areas, are urging the incoming Trump administration to refrain from removing untold numbers of migrants working throughout the food supply chain, including in farming, dairy, and meatpacking. 

Notably, GOP Representative John Duarte, who just lost his seat in the elections, explicitly tells Reuters that farming interests in his California district depend on undocumented immigrants—and that Trump should exempt many from removal. Duarte and industry representatives want more avenues created for migrants to work here legally—the precise opposite of what Trump promised. Now over to Texas. NPR reports that various industries there fear that mass deportations could cripple them, particularly in construction, where nearly 300,000 undocumented immigrants toiled as of 2022. Those workers enable the state to keep growing despite a native population that isn’t supplying a large enough workforce. Local analysts and executives want Trump to refrain from removing all these people or create new ways for them to work here legally. Even the Republican mayor of McKinney, Texas, is loudly sounding the alarm.

Meanwhile, back in Georgia, Trump’s threat of mass deportations is awakening new awareness that undocumented immigrants drive industries like construction, landscaping, and agriculture, reports The Wall Street Journal. In Dalton, a town that backed Trump, fear is spreading that removals could “upend its economy and workforce.” At this point, someone will argue that all this confirms Trump’s arguments—that these industries and their representatives merely fear losing cheap migrant labor that enables them to avoid paying Americans higher wages. When JD Vance and Trump pushed their lie about Haitians eating pets in Springfield, Ohio, Vance insisted that he opposed the Haitian influx into Midwestern towns because they’re undercutting U.S. workers. But all these disparate examples of Republicans and GOP areas lamenting coming mass deportations suggest an alternate story, one detailed well by the Times’ Lydia DePillis. In the MAGA worldview, a large reserve of untapped native-born Americans in prime working age are languishing in joblessness throughout Trump country—and will stream into all these industries once migrants are removed en masse, boosting wages.  

But DePillis documents that things like poor health and disability are more important drivers of unemployment among this subset of non-college working-age men. Besides, migrants living and working here don’t just perform labor that Americans will not. They also consume and boost demand, creating more jobs. As Paul Krugman puts it, in all these ways, migrant laborers are “complements” to U.S. workers. Importantly, that’s the argument that these Republicans and industries in GOP areas are really making when they lament mass deportations: Migrant labor isn’t displacing U.S. workers; it’s helping drive our post-Covid recovery and growth. This directly challenges Trump’s zero-sum worldview.

[...] Here’s another possibility: In the end, Trump’s deportation forces may selectively spare certain localities and industries from mass removals. Trump’s incoming “border czar,” Tom Homan, suggests this won’t happen. But a hallmark of MAGA is corruptly selective governance in the interests of MAGA nation and expressly against those who are designated MAGA’s enemies, U.S. citizens included. One can see mass deportations becoming a selective tool, in which blue localities are targeted for high-profile raids—even as Trump triumphantly rants that they are cesspools of “migrant crime” that he is pacifying with military-style force—while GOP-connected industries and Trump-allied Republicans tacitly secure some forbearance.

Donald Trump’s threats to green energy initiatives and resistance to his mass deportation proposals are facing headwinds against him, even from local Republicans who fear losses of jobs in their communities.

Even if Trump does get to implement his mass deportation policy, he’ll likely create several exemption carveouts (mainly for industries likely to favor him) and use selective enforcement (light touch for red states, heavy and punitive for blue states).

[thisismeracing]

King of my heart | MS47 | part. 22

― Pairing: Mick Schumacher x fem!hamilton!reader ― Word count: 2.2k ― Warnings: graphic description of unprotected sex (fingering, dirty talk, and p in v), mentions of alcohol, and jealousy.  ― Summary: Mick Schumacher rode a lousy wave for quite some time, so when the sky gets cleaner and the sun brighter he just knows something terrible may be in store for him. Whereas y/n was just so magnetic, and the possibilities of life with her seemed better than anything his mind could ever create, that’s why, for the first time in forever, he threw caution carelessly through the window, hoping to get to the finish line before it catches up on him.

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part. 21 | series masterlist | part 23

The first beads of sun slipped through the open blinds waking Yn from her deep slumber. With her head pounding slightly, and her body sore, she snuggled closer to the body she knew belonged to her boyfriend. Mick mumbled something in German, which she chose to ignore in favor of catching a few more minutes of sleep. 

They were tired. Last night was a blast for them, and though the couple had a bit too much to drink, both were well aware of exactly what happened when they were at the party and when they got home. 

Between unmade bed sheets, and naked limbs laced together, Yn and Mick caught a few more minutes of sleep, and those minutes would probably turn into hours if it hadn’t been for her phone ringing somewhere in the room. The unstoppable sound wakes Mick up too. He looked around, threw a pillow where he thought the sound was coming from, and turned his body, fitting his head on Yn’s neck. She grumbled, and hugged her lover, trying to ignore whoever it was, but the sound kept going until she got up, cursing technology and the caller’s generation. And as it just so happens, she had cursed her older brother, Lewis.

“Yes?” She sighed, walking back to bed and into Mick’s open arma. His body was warm, and she took the opportunity to leave a peck on his chest.

“Did you just wake up?!” 

“Well, yes? It’s early. I don’t know how you travel so much and still get confused with timezones…” 

Lewis rolls his eyes, she can’t see it, but she can tell just by his sassy answer, “Early to who exactly, Yn Y/l/n Hamilton?”

“Me, of course.”

“Check the clock,” he orders and she does, groaning when she realizes it's almost noon.

“Who is it?” Mick asks, finally starting to wake up. 

“It’s Lew,” she explains, clicking on the speaker button.

“Oh, Mick is there too?” 

“Yeah, we were sleeping,” Yn keeps her answer short.

“Where’s Gina?”

“I don’t know, Lew, you have her number, you could just call her directly? Also, did you call me to ask a bunch of random questions?” she complains, the sleeplessness in her voice showing, and her brother rolling his eyes again. He knows how stressed Yn could get when someone woke her up before her alarm, and something about waking up to the phone ringing just made her more stressed.

“I was just wondering if she knew you guys were making it public, or if I was the only clueless one.” Yn cursed, hiding her face on Mick’s neck, “Do you even remember it?” 

“Yes, I remember. I’m sorry, Lew,” she didn’t want to do things the way it happened, but sometimes you can’t get around planning everything. She didn’t plan on paparazzi to stress her out until she deactivated her social media accounts. Nor did she plan on falling in love with her brother’s friend and coworker. At this point, Yn was getting used to following the flow of life, sometimes it has its own wants, and you just gotta go with it. “We did drink, but we weren’t crazy drunk, we…uhm…how do I explain this?” she bites her lips and Mick chuckles.

“The simple way.”

“We got sick of pretending,” Mick finally speaks. His deep morning voice brought chills down Yn’s body.

“People were hitting on us, and we showed them why we reeeeally weren’t interested,” Yn adds, and Mick chuckles. 

“She got jealous.”

“I did not get jealous, Mickolas.”

“Stop calling me that,” he grumbles, landing a slap on her ass and making her yelp, then giggle.

“Anyways, I didn’t get jealous, Lew. I’m not a jealous person and you know that, right? Tell him how I’m hardly the jealous type.”

Her brother laughs from the other side of the line, “She cried when a friend of mine started calling herself my sister during my high school years.”

Mick moves his face to the ceiling and his laughs boom around the room.

“Shut up, I was just a kid, and she had a brother, why would she want mine?” Yn tries to reason, and the two men can only get amused with the whole situation. “And Lew, those people were CRAZY! We told one of them we were dating, Mick kissed me just to make a point, and this girl just suggested a threesome!!! Of course, I was pissed.”

Lewis makes a disgusted noise and Yn looks pointedly at Mick as if to prove her point: she wasn’t jealous, someone just crossed the line at the party and she had to grab the reins.

“You’re so hot when you’re all bossy, and jealous,” Mick moves his lips to her ears, his whisper is warm against her exposed skin and so are his lips when he kisses and nips her neck.

“Are you hard launching right now? Or dropping a note, I don’t know,” Lewis asks, unaware of how distracted his sister is.

“We haven’t talked about it yet, we just woke up,” Yn didn’t know how her brain was able to form coherent sentences and let them leave her mouth because the way Mick’s kisses were trailing up her collarbone was enough to make her lose all senses.

“Yup, we’re exhausted,” Mick detaches his lips from her skin to speak, “We really need to get some sleep, can we call you later, man?”

“Yeah, take care you two, love you guys,” Lewis’ answer is followed by an “I love you” from Yn and a quick “bye” from Mick before the German threw the phone behind his back.

“Mickolas, my phone!” Yn screeched and moaned between a laugh when his hands found her ass.

“I already told you to stop calling me that.” 

“It’s funny,” she bit her lips and chuckled remembering how some fans were calling him that as if it was his real name.

“I’ll show you funny,” his blue orbs pierced hers with such an intensity her smile faltered, and she had to bite back a moan. That was his power over her, one look, and Mick had Yn in dreamland, twisting in anticipation.

Still, she has it in her to be sassy. Anything but losing the joke, “Are you sure you’re about to show me funny? Because I have a feeling it’s a different thing.”

“Well, it can be funny, you know, but since you’re in a silly mood, I guess we can adopt a new approach,” his mouth trailed lower until they found one of her breasts. Yn curved her body, exposing more of her naked brown skin just for him. She looked so good. The previous night Yn had skipped the bonnet and the night ritual they usually had, both too tipsy to think about something but finish what they started at the bar and then go to sleep, so now her curls were everywhere framing her face like a crown. Mick had traveled everywhere, seen too much of the world, and known a lot of people, but Yn was his favorite sight. He loved the sunset, but he would give it up to see her going to sleep every night, the way her lashes would caress her smooth skin, her breath starting to even, and her body going soft on top of his. He had been in love with sunrises since he was a little boy, watching them with his family during vacation, climbing mountains to get a new version of it, but no questions asked, Mick would exchange it for waking up next to Yn, the way her eyes would slowly open like the sun climbing up to show all its light, how her body would stretch taking its needed space like one claim their land, and how her lips would stretch into his favorite smile shining over the whole room. She was his favorite person. 

He put his mouth on her with the same intensity one crawls to their knee at an altar. The same devotion one would previously kneel in front of their queen, head bowed, ears perked, body ready to obey. She was the queen of his heart, she had all its land, she dominated his mind, and all it would take was one word for Mick to make it happen. 

Yn threaded her fingers through his messy blond strands, moaning when he twisted one of her nipples inside his mouth, sucking and biting as if wanting to leave his mark there. It hurt so good.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, kissing down her belly, letting his teeth graze into her skin every second just to watch the way her body would jolt in pleasure under him, “So so pretty, Schatzi.” 

His pink plush lips were home to more praises, while they kissed down her body separating her thighs and stopping between them. His thick accent gave space to German sentences and Yn reached for him again, this time intertwining their fingers while he kept going, softly giving her words she didn’t really recognize, but knew to be love ones. 

Such a sweet talker.

“So sweet,” he mouthed against her pussy, making a jolt run through her body. “And mine, aren’t you all mine, Schatz?” 

Yn closed her eyes, panting something that neither one of them could understand, too at the moment to care. All of her senses focused on the tight hold his fingers had around hers, and how he feasted between her legs, like a starved man, a thirsty one. 

“I didn’t hear you, love,” he teases, stopping his ministrations to look at her. 

Yn huffs, then whines taking her hand from her nipple to his hair, but the blonde down her body doesn’t move an inch, big shoulders keeping her legs apart, face right in front of her needing core, but attention now set on her face.

“I’m yours,” it's a whisper, but he catches it by the stretch on his lips. The kind of smirk only she can take. “I’m all yours, Mick,” and those three words accompanied by his name like a prayer were all it took for the German to flatten his tongue against her core, feeling her pussy dampen even more. 

He used his fingers to spread her lips for him before inserting two. They slid in so easily that Mick couldn’t help but groan moving his lower half against the white sheets. He licked and frantically moved his fingers making Yn’s head lull from side to side, her lips conjuring what she could only say were prayers, his name clear as the sunlight that beamed their bodies through the windows. 

Still sore from the previous night’s ministrations, Yn felt the pulsing between her legs start to grow, her body screaming to reach the top of the rollercoaster, only for Mick to stop his fingers and detach his mouth from her clit. She protested, but his lips were quick to crash against hers in a languid kiss. Yn moaned, pulling him into her, and Mick took the opportunity to swiftly align their bodies, sliding inside her smoothly. With one of her hands on his hair, the other on his back, and legs laced around his narrow waist, they felt the jolts of pleasure buzzing through their bodies. 

He pounds lazily, building Yn’s orgasm all over again. His face hid against her neck while he kissed and nipped at her skin, putting his lips on her ears and dirty talking every once in a while. The last time he did so he let a moan there, and he wasn’t expecting her to be so affected, because the second Mick did Yn clenched around him, legs tightening around him, and teeth sinking into his shoulder, her orgasm washing like a high wave, before her body went limp under him. 

He gives her a few more thrusts, enough to ride her climax, and to cause his. A choked groan leaves his lips, as he presses their foreheads together, body dissolving into pleasure. Mick sighed, lying on his back and bringing Yn’s body on top of his. He pecked her lips and stopped a drop of sweat that rolled down her forehead. 

Yn only hummed in satisfaction enjoying the warm feeling of their sweaty bodies intertwined.

“What do you wanna do, babe?” Mick asks while his fingers lazily strum on her naked back.

“I think it’s time we make it public. I’m tired of all the speculation, and also it wasn’t the highlight of my night watching people flirt with you as if you were single,” she grumbled the last part and the blonde chuckled. 

“You were jealous,” it’s a statement, but his tone gives away he’s making fun of her. A tease.

“You’re the one who grabbed me and sat me on your lap.”

“You’re the one who kissed me.” 

“Well, sitting on someone’s lap proves a point, I figured you wanted to make it public,” she shrugs, dragging her nails softly from his hips to the middle of his abdomen. “Also, why would you put me in your lap out of the blue, huh?” 

Mick rolls his eyes and bites back a chuckle. She had a point. He kind of started it, but “Was I supposed to watch that douche shoot his shot?” 

“Ha! See?! You were jealous.” 

He seals their lips in a kiss, “doesn’t matter anymore, now we get to shut the flirts down without too much work.” His statement makes Yn giggle between the kiss, and he can’t help but smile. His sunshine. 

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi, lovelies! I hope you liked this chapter. I know it took me forever again, but the waiting is about to be over hehe, I wanted to add a huge shout-out to C (my Coffee emoji anon here on Tumblr) for proofreading this and for keeping my komh thoughts alive, I was honestly a bit unmotivated, thanks C! <3. Let me know your thoughts with a reblog or an ask *mwah*.  

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[flamebringer0]

About Hivewings

My husband was posting WOF headcanons so I will try posting one too. Why are Hivewings so weird? Here is what I think.

“Yes, of course,” Lady Scarab snapped. “Maybe they weren’t called SilkWings back then. ShimmerWings or Flibbertigibbets or something in the old language, I don’t know. But Clearsight married one, and then another one when the first one died, and had an alarming number of dragonets with each one, and then their dragonets and their dragonets’ dragonets kept going, marrying Ye Olde SilkWings or what have you, until there was enough of them to be considered their own tribe. HiveWings. Stupid menacing name, if you ask me. It was only about five hundred years ago that we officially split into two separate tribes, you know. My charming great-great-grandmother was the queen who ordered no more mingling of the bloodlines. She was a nightmare.”

This is where Hivewings allegedly come from, but it doesn't really make any sense to assume this actually happened the way she describes it. Clearsight came to Pantala around the year 3000, and the Hivewings as a separate tribe apparently came into existence around the year 4500. That means there must have been ~1500 years in which the Beetlewings (the actual name of the "ye olde Silkwings") existed as a single breeding population with her genes in it. It hardly seems possible that by the year 4500 there could be one subset of the Beetlewing population that was descended from Clearsight and another that wasn't.

As you trace a subject's family tree back, the number of ancestors doubles in each generation: two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, etc. Eventually you reach a point in time where the subject should apparently have more ancestors than the total number of living people. This discrepancy is explained by individual ancestors occupying more than one position in the subject's pedigree, which is known as pedigree collapse. This has some counterintuitive implications, like the fact that in the real world, every living human of European ancestry is descended from Charlemagne, and also from every other European who lived before the 10th century and has any modern descendants at all.

If we compare the situation with Clearsight to the situation with Charlemagne, most of the variables seem to point to this effect being even more pronounced in her case. Dragons have shorter generation times than humans (Fathom was a father at 11), she lived ~1500 years before the present as opposed to ~1300, and the population of Pantala seems to be much smaller than the population of Europe. So I find it highly unlikely that there are any Pantalans at all who aren't descended from Clearsight.

What seems more reasonable to me is that Clearsight made some small genetic contribution to every Beetlewing living in 4500, and the conception of the Hivewings specifically as her true heirs is just propaganda. What I imagine is that the Beetlewings of 4500 had developed the folk belief that dragons with more black in their scales had a closer connection to Clearsight, who was essentially deified at that point. This belief was completely wrong. Beetlewings had always come in many different colors and patterns, with and without black, and by 4500 essentially nobody was more or less related to Clearsight than anyone else. But if you have the ambition to found a tribe, none of that really matters; what matters is how well you can tell a story. It turned out that the first queen of the Hivewings told the "dragons with black scales are the true heirs of Clearsight" story well enough to split away from the Beetlewings and create a new tribe. It might also be that there was already an established tendency in 4500 for black Beetlewings to breed among themselves to try and conserve their imagined connection to Clearsight, which would only have made it easier to formally split the tribe.

Of course when the Hivewings and the Silkwings first became established as separate tribes, there wouldn't really have been any difference between them, genetically. But over the course of 500 years, Silkwings with black in their scales and Hivewings without would tend to leave the tribes they hatched in and settle down in the other. Over time, this had the effect that the two groups really did become differentiated by the presence or absence of black scales, and by the present it has become very rare for a Silkwing with black scales or a Hivewing without to hatch at all.

The other differences between the two tribes could perhaps be explained by genetic linkage, although i guess it might be a stretch to assume that real world genetics apply to WOF dragons to that degree. Most of what i've said so far, i feel like it follows naturally from things that are actually attested about the setting, but maybe it's silly to say "yeah dragons definitely have chromosomes and their genes are laid out linearly so black scales can be tied to apparently unrelated features like not having antennae". I'm just saying it's possible.

Another weird thing about Hivewings is that they seem to have way too many random powers. In most of the tribes there are only like one or two powers that only some individuals have, and they are rare. Mudwings have a few fireproof dragons, Skywings have a few firescales, Nightwings have a few psychics. But Hivewings have stingers in their tails, poison fangs, boiling acid attacks, and probably other things I don't even know about. And it seems like these features are relatively common in the population, but not universal. Why is the distribution so weird?

What I think is, hatching with random features like this is something that happens in every tribe, it's just usually very rare, and the tribes all react differently. If a Rainwing hatches with a sting in their tail, everyone says "oh, funny, you must have a Sandwing ancestor somewhere", and that's the end of it. If a Skywing hatches with a sting in their tail, their parents probably rip it off so they won't be ordered to kill their dragonet. And if a Hivewing hatches with a sting in their tail, they get black-bagged and sent off to a government breeding facility to try to increase the prevalence of tail stingers in the population.

Like the Hivewings practicing eugenics is more or less canon, right? They force Silkwings to breed at the whims of the queen to acquire more flamesilks, so it's not that hard for me to imagine they do it to their own tribe as well. Honestly when I was first reading arc 3 I felt like this one must be canon, because the strangeness of the Hivewings having so many more powers than every other tribe felt really significant to me. Nothing about it ever came up, and I'm left to assume that the canon explanation is really meant to be "no, they're just like that for some reason". But I think this makes sense and is in line with the nasty authoritarian nature of Hivewing society.

[unclewaynemunson]

Tadaaaa here is the sequel to this post, which came from an ask that got me in a chokehold for days now so kudos to the lovely anon who sent that prompt to me! You can also read the whole thing on ao3 :)

As soon as Eddie got into the passenger seat of his Wayne's truck, he saw the whole world go blurry. He tried to blink away his tears, but it was no use – nothing ever escaped his uncle's notice anyway.

'Wanna tell me what's wrong, boy?' he asked while he started the car.

Eddie grimaced. 'You know how they say you should never meet your heroes?'

'Hm?'

'Well, I met mine. On the fucking train. Just yet.'

Wayne shot him an incredulous glance.

'What was the Black Sabbath guy doin' on a train?'

'What? No, it wasn't... No.'

'The Hobbits guy?'

'Jesus Christ, Wayne, Tolkien died like fifteen years ago, keep up.'

'You want me to keep guessin' or you gonna tell me?'

Eddie rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, no, you wouldn't guess it right anyway. It's this poet.'

'Don't think I ever heard you talk 'bout poetry before,' Wayne remarked.

And that was exactly the thing. Ronan Right had been something... private. Something between Eddie and the faceless blob in his mind that embodied Right – and maybe Jeff. Okay, and Jeff's mom. But it wasn't someone he'd talk people's ears off about on any occasion he got, like he did with plenty of other musicians or writers that he'd get all obsessive about.

Until Steve, that was. Steve, who had been casually listening to his music. Steve, who had recognized the book in his hands and effortlessly opened the floodgates of his obsession. Steve, who had said the most beautiful things about Corroded Coffin without even knowing who Eddie was. Steve, who had talked with him about their shared passions for hours. Steve, who he now somehow had to merge with Right in his mind.

Steve, who seemed so perfect that it made all of Eddie's alarm bells go off at the loudest possible volume. Because this couldn't be real. This was something straight from a disgustingly sweet romcom scenario, and if there was anything Eddie could be certain about, it was that his life was no romcom.

So during the short walk from the station to Wayne's car, Eddie's head had already come up with a dozen scenarios that were completely spiraling out of control – even though they'd all make for great songs, no doubt about that. Steve would die some kind of tragic death on his way to their first date. Steve was secretly addicted to crack. Steve was a stalkerish fan who had lied to him about being Ronan Right to get close to him. Steve would cheat on him on their wedding day.

The list of possibilities was endless and terrifying – while the list of possibilities for this having a happy ending, on the other hand, was exceptionally short.

'Was it that bad?' asked Wayne while they headed out of the city.

Usually, Eddie enjoyed amping up his dramatics to a maximum around Wayne, providing the much-needed balance to his uncle's calm and steady demeanor. But right now, Eddie felt himself deflate in his seat. He couldn't bring himself to make a show out of it.

'No,' he said, quietly. 'He was perfect.'

And Wayne must've heard it in his voice, must've picked up right away that this wasn't Eddie being dramatic, that something serious was going on here, because he gave him this look that was cutting way too deep into his heart.

'Nobody can be that perfect, you know,' Eddie continued. 'It's impossible. And he – he gave me his number. And I just know that if I call it, and we get to know each other better, I'll get crushingly disappointed sooner rather than later. Because something has to be, like, disturbingly wrong with this guy.'

Anyone else than Wayne would probably tell Eddie that he was being ridiculous, that he should get over himself and call Steve; that he should allow himself to let good things happen to him or some shit. But Wayne wasn't just anyone. Wayne was the one person who knew exactly what Eddie meant. The one person who had seen from up-close the shitshow that Eddie's life had been, who had retained a front row seat through all of it. And he had had his own fair share of misery himself, Eddie knew that much. He was too old and had gotten punched down too many times to still hold naive illusions of the possibility of good things.

So he didn't give him some bullshit advice. He merely patted Eddie's knee and turned up the radio.

---

Ever since Eddie had left Hawkins, it had become a habit of him to stay with Wayne for a couple of weeks every now and then. For all his desires to get the hell out of that town when he was younger, he still spent way too much time at his uncle's trailer. But it wasn't Hawkins that he came back for, it was uncle Wayne.

It was home. And it helped him breathe whenever the city got too intense. Helped him get detached from everything that distracted him from the shit that actually mattered. Helped him get his head right when Chicago was threatening to make him lose it.

Time seemed to move differently in Hawkins than in the city. Slower. More naturally, too, somehow. Maybe it was because of the lack of nightlife and flashing neon signs when the world was supposed to be wrapped in darkness. The fact that he could still see the stars when he stepped out of the trailer at nighttime. Maybe it was the quiet, which allowed him to actually hear himself think. Or maybe it was the predictability of it all: Wayne waking him up with a cup of coffee in the morning, the two of them sharing cigarettes on the porch, Eddie helping Wayne with some chores and then trying to write new songs until well into the night, when the world was his and his alone.

He kept reading Right almost religiously, but it was different, now. Now that he could hear Steve's voice say those words, now that he could envision the way in which the sun shone on his hair through the dirty train window and the shape of his hands clutching a walkman that had Eddie's music in it. It was all different.

After a week, Eddie had a whole album worth of songs about the deception of things that seemed perfect. He hadn't been able to write even one song about things ending well, about things working out. That wasn't his life. Things never worked out. Why would they, for a boy born in a household where the trifecta of poverty, addiction and violence was all he had ever known? In the five albums he had produced so far, he'd never experienced a lack of demons to write about.

So no, he wouldn't be calling Steve, even though he had read the number that was written down on the sleeve of his own album so often that it'd probably be impossible to ever erase it from his mind again. He'd protect himself, this time. He'd cherish the hours he got to spend with Ronan Right, the memories that were already starting to feel like a fever dream, and not let his heart break any further. Not this time. Not again.

---

'Got mail for ya.'

An envelope landed in Eddie's lap.

'What's this?'

'I dunno, 's your mail,' Wayne answered.

Eddie didn't recognize the handwriting and the Indianapolis post stamp didn't give him much of a clue either. It didn't make sense that someone would send him a letter at his uncle's place.

He frowned, roughly tore open the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper out of it. It was neither directed at nor signed by anyone, but that wasn't necessary for Eddie to know who sent it.

'What is it, boy?' Wayne asked, a worried edge to his voice upon hearing the choked sob that freed itself from Eddie's throat.

Eddie knew that the words were only meant for him. But he and Wayne were a unit, always had been, ever since Eddie moved into Forest Hills. So he wordlessly handed the paper to his uncle, roughly wiping the tears from his eyes.

Wayne assessed the text with a wrinkled forehead, holding the paper at an arm's-length in order to read it.

'That from the boy you met on the train?'

Eddie nodded.

When his uncle looked up from the letter, Eddie caught an almost unfamiliar look in his eyes. It was soft, hopeful. Optimistic.

'You know I ain't any good with words, like you, or this – this poet,' Wayne said. 'But this...' He pressed the letter back into Eddie's hand. 'This looks like he knows you, Ed. Like he sees you. For all that you are.'

He didn't tell Eddie what to do; that wasn't his style, never had been. But what he did say kept bouncing through Eddie's head unceasingly, making him unable to sleep, unable to write, unable to think about anything else.

---

Eddie desperately wanted to say something meaningful when Steve picked up the phone. He wanted to thank him for reaching out, to apologize for being too much of a coward to call earlier – but what came out of his mouth instead was, 'How did you know where to find me?'

'Eddie, is that you?' It sounded like Steve didn't quite believe it.

'Yeah – yeah, it's me,' was the only thing he managed to get out of his mouth.

'Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped,' Steve told him. 'I just – I couldn't get you out of my head and it all felt so right, you know, like fate or some shit, so I just had to... I needed to try. And I knew your name, and that you were staying with your uncle, so I got help from some friends and they managed to find your uncle's address.'

And as if Eddie hadn't been enough of an emotional wreck over the past week, his vision got blurry with tears yet again.

'Sorry, was it – did I go too far?' Steve sounded nervous.

Eddie could perfectly envision the way he would be frowning and anxiously running a hand through his hair; as if they had already shared a whole lifetime of getting to know all about each other's mannerisms instead of a few stolen hours on a train.

He hated the idea of Steve thinking he had done something wrong when all he ever did was so fucking right, so he determinedly shook his head, then realized Steve wouldn't be able to see that, and started scraping for words.

'No, Steve, you... You're perfect. And that scared the shit out of me, because so far, my life hasn't really done perfect. Most of our songs, they're – well – creative retellings of my own shit.' Now that he started talking, the words actually came a lot easier. 'They're all real, at the core, when you peel away the layers of, like, monster slaying and fantasy imagery. Like, everything underneath all that, it's all... me. Damage, betrayal, fear, violence – all that shit is true. Life hasn't been kind to me, Steve. And I was convinced that you'd only become an addition to that long list of crap, because you seemed way too perfect. I never thought I could have something good. And you're good, Steve, you're so fucking good. So I couldn't believe it.'

A long silence ensued at the other side of the line. Then, a sigh.

Then, 'Eddie,' in the softest voice possible, like his name was something breakable. Eddie didn't remember ever having heard his name said like that.

'I think that was exactly what I heard in your songs. Why I kept listening to them. Why they inspired me so much.'

Eddie tried to swallow away the lump in his throat, suffocated by the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

'I wish I could hold you, right now.'

Eddie's breath caught. He knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to stop running. He needed to trust that Steve could be right, for him. That Steve could be something good.

'I mean, you could come over to Hawkins and do just that, you know,' he suggested.

'D'you want me to?'

He nodded, again forgetting that Steve couldn't see him.

'Yeah, I'd like that. Probably still got half that cookie somewhere in my pocket, y'know. Maybe we could share it.'

Credit where credit is due: the line “He sees you, for all that you are” isn't mine, it's one of my favorite quotes from Schitt's Creek and I really wanted Wayne to say that to Eddie about Steve, so here we have it <3

@ My beloved 🥐 anon: I hope you like this ending, and that I came close enough to your suggestion to have Steve make Eddie a character in his next poem <3

Taglist: @kathorakiryu @goodolefashionedloverboi @undreaming-rambles @fangirlycupcake @ghouligans-central @henderdads @dolphincliffs @anglhrts @ajamlessbaby @yearningagain @vampireinthesun @xxbottlecapx @kissaphobic-kas @mad-h-w @booksandsience @obsessivlyme @ppunkpuppyy @barnes-bestgirl @capital-p-platonic​ @eddiemunsonmeltdowns @callme-keys​​

[universeofdreams]

Common Sense Pt. 1

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BBC Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader

Genre: Pure Nonsense, a little bit of Mystery

Warnings: gunshots, nothing else.

Wordcount: 1800-ish. Sorry, I forgot the number TT

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Summary: You didn’t really engulf in hanging out with your neighbours, especially because most thought one of them was going bonkers, until you got a demonstration of it in form of a very big hole. Curious, as you were, you didn’t bother listening to their conversations. And to their surprise, you weren’t just the „little neighbourhood girl“, you were also bloody intelligent.

A/N: Here I am, able to finally announce my comeback with nothing greater than a good ol‘ Sherlock fanfic. Thanks to Prime for the given opportunity to re-binge-watch the show because it’s only available for 8 more days, I had to make a move and rewatch it. I was addicted to Sherlock a few years before I actually started writing fanfictions. And I’m going to Paris for the christmas holidays so there will be plenty of time for me to write. Don’t be shy, send me your favourite character and I’ll write a oneshot about them!

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Thank the heavens it was a normal morning ‘til now. You walked down the creaking stairs into the kitchen of your two-floors-flat. It wasn’t particularly early but your alarm didn’t ring yet, which means it should be around 8am. 

You mentally thanked yourself for filling up the kettle yesterday evening as you turned it on and got one of the tea bags out of their little box.

A few birds were chirping outside and the sound of cars passing the house was a sign that the people of London started to wake. The sun beamed through your kitchen window that had little lace curtains on the sides and filled the kitchen with warm, cozy light.

The bottom of your favourite mug touched the countertop and the water in the kettle was bubbling uncontrollably. The sweet, slightly aromatic smell of the tea unfolded in the ground floor as soon as you poured the hot water into the cup and the dark brown colour took over the plain, transparent water.

The gunshots almost made you drop that favourite mug. It wasn’t like you weren’t used to disturbance caused by your - almost - lousy neighbours but things like this didn’t happen YET. And so you sighed, placed that mug back on the counter and walked up the stairs. 

Right in your bedroom was a big, gaping hole in the wall. 

‘Oh, come on, that’s not possible.’, you thought to yourself, brushed the hair out of your face and looked through that hole. The grey hair of your neighbour, Mr. Watson, came in sight.

He pointed right towards the hole and Mr. Holmes, his roommate, was standing a little further away from it. 

“Now I will have to go wake (Y/N) and apologise for your temper.”, the doctor sighed and shook his head, pinching his nose bridge. 

But before he could leave, you cleared your throat, cocking your head to the side and waving them through that hole.

“No need to.”, you said sarcastically. 

He whipped his head around and his eyebrows shot up, almost meeting his hairline. He once again glanced at Sherlock, signalling him to apologise. Sherlock, who was holding the gun and seemed to be cause for this situation, just shrugged and walked away. 

And now it wasn’t a normal morning anymore. Well, that day was a week ago and since then you ignored Sherlock for a good reason. The hole in the wall wasn’t fixed and yet the dark-haired consulting detective didn’t seem to make a move on fixing it. Of course, you told your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, about the inquiry but she didn’t have an effect on him either.

“What? How are you not able to crack that code? You said it’s simple!”, you overheard John exclaim as you came home one day. 

“It’s not my fault. I’m not able to think.”, Sherlock bit back.

The feeling in your gut told you he was looking through that hole in the wall and so you, as quietly as possible, sneaking up the stairs to listen to their conversation.

“You’re unbelievable! What was the code again?”, now asked John. 

You perked up, fiddling a small piece of paper out of the pocket of your coat and the small pen you brought back from your trip to Ikea yesterday.

“3C-5A-2E-7B. Locker.“, the detective read out loud.

You scribbled the combination of numbers and letters down on what you had in hand and quickly shuffled down the stairs, hoping they didn’t hear you. Usually you weren’t one to eavesdrop, but codes were something that genuinely interested you. And so you found yourself sitting in your bed almost every night, thinking about that code.

After a week and three days you asked a good friend if he was able to fix the hole in your bedroom wall and when he agreed, you were happy to finally sleep without hearing John and Sherlock talk. He fixed the wall and while doing that, Sherlock inspected him and probably deduced stuff.

‘One daughter, divorced. Very overworked, enthusiastic, has a dog, probably a German Shepherd. 31 years old, has a crush on you.’ 

The latter made the detective eye your friend up and down. He wasn’t ugly, instead a slightly handsome man. Short, blond hair and green eyes. Tall and knew how to work with his hands. And how the sight burned in his eyes.

Until it knocked on your door. It was your only day off this month and you planned on enjoying this with some self-care, ordering take-out and watching your favourite TV-shows. 

Fiddlesticks.

John Watson was standing on your doorstep, still his finger on the doorbell when you opened the door. A puzzled look was plastered on your face as you asked the man to step inside since it was raining cats and dogs today. He gladly accepted your offer, tore his shoes off of his feet and placed them on the black mat you had prepared for soaked shoes. You took the wet coat out of his hand and hung it close to the heater so it at least had a slight chance of drying a little.

While he walked into the living room and took a seat in one of your beloved dark green arm chairs. You once again filled water into the kettle and prepared two cups of Darjeeling tea. You gently set the fine porcelain cup onto the coffee table and smiled at him.

“No sugar was that, right?”, you asked, to which he nodded with a little confusion. 

It wasn’t like you were able to listen to each conversation John and Sherlock had in the past few days. Nah, that wasn’t the case. Your hearing was just extraordinary and you heard them talk through the wall… Sike.

You sat down in front of him in the other dark green arm chair. You had two of them. One without pillows and the other one had a pretty pillow with white ornamental flowers on it. It did fit to your interieur and also kind of to your personality, at least that was what John thought.

“I have a feeling I might know why you’re here.”, you told the man opposite of you. His brows shot up the same way when you peeked through that hole a few days ago.

“How come?”, he asked, sipping on the freshly brewed and still a little hot tea, finding it a little more aromatic than his own favourite brand. And he didn’t mind showing his admiration for a good cup of tea. 

You nodded, got up once again and pulled a piece of paper out of the pretty little bookshelf that was standing next to your TV. Sitting down on the chair again, you placed the paper on the coffee table, written side up. John took a moment to read what you wrote down until he looked back up at you.

3C-5A-2E-7B. Locker.

A chessboard was drawn below the code, some of the squares were marked with a cross.

3C = 3. row , C column

5A = 5. row, A column

2E = 2. row, E column

7B = 7. row, B column

M-I-N-D

“Mind?”, John asked, even more confused than before. 

How was that girl from their neighbourhood able to solve a code like this? What did that even mean? You just nodded. There was more than just the word.

John knew how he and Sherlock would solve that mystery. He immediately stood up, ran to the door, put on his clothes and called out for you to follow, something you usually don’t like but today you let it slip. Slipping into your coat and shoes you followed behind John, just to enter the building next door. 

Mrs. Hudson was standing in the hallway, cleaning it sloppily with a worn out broom. She was very happy to see you but Watson dragged you further up the stairs, leaving the sweet elderly landlady behind without a conversation. You promised yourself to talk to her later today. 

John knocked the door of Sherlock’s and his flat open and Sherlock, who was currently experimenting in the kitchen, didn’t bother turning around.

“Why did you bring this woman?”, he asked while inspecting something in the fridge.

“Because she decoded the message we got.”, explained John. Sherlock wasn’t interested in your presence before but suddenly he turned around and you were able to take in the man you were trying to avoid the past two weeks. He was wearing one of his suits and the same basic white button down as every day but it still looked sleek on him.

His dark locks were seemingly freshly washed and hung a little in his face while his piercing blue eyes scanned you, up and down. He wasn’t able to read you. Well, I mean he was able to but there were only a few things everyone would deduce. 

Things like ‘Came back from work’ or ‘Looks a little tired’ were usually a little too inefficient for him. Why wasn’t there more?

“How can the girl, that needs someone else to fix a wall, decode something?”, he asked with a snicker and made you scoff. 

“Firstly, it was your fault. You didn’t fix it. Secondly, I might be more than just ‘The girl that needs someone else’”, you answered and repeated his words, making eye contact with him.

He could see that you weren’t happy about his wording, especially about the wall incident. But he also wanted to know the answer to the code and so he, same as John does, raised his eyebrows. He wanted you to tell him what you found out.

And so you sat down and explained your theory of how each letter is on the chessboard and showed him the sketch you did. The only thing both Sherlock and John didn’t understand were the words MIND and locker in combination. Little did they know.

“Okay, now that we solved the code, what is that word going to tell me? Does the murderer want to tell me that he thinks I'm brilliant? I am, I know.”, Sherlock said and started walking up and down the living room.

“No, it’s the code to a locker.”, you revealed.

Holmes puzzled gaze was definitely something you’d savour for later, moments in which he’d tell you he’s the brilliant one. 

“One of millions of lockers in London.”, John sighed and you added: “A locker in the British Library.”

Sherlock once again nodded, took his coat and grabbed your hand, kissing it. 

“I love people with common sense.”, he said, chuckling. “See you in the library.”

And then he ran off, leaving you and John behind. Both of you called a cab to follow him but you weren’t in a rush, unlike your consulting detective.

[bachissidehoe]

the introduction

chapter 1 of it's classy not classic. [bachisagi]

Though it’s already been a day, the buzzed feeling of scoring yet another game winning goal still sits fresh in Isagi Yoichi’s mind. It’s not a new feeling, but it’s one he can’t live without. The sound of the ball hitting the back of the net is his white noise that helps him sleep at night, his alarm that wakes him up in the morning, his motivation for living this life. Nothing can even compare to it, and time and time again he’s been shown that very few people understand what that’s like. He’s only met a few people like him in his lifetime, many of them from Blue Lock over 5 years ago.

Being the current number 1 striker in the world comes with its fair share of responsibilities that don’t involve constant focus on the game, which is honestly insane to Isagi. He recalls his coach, Noel Noa, talking with him before about the expectations society has for famous people. Interviews, charities, parties, way too many things that aren’t simply being on the field. Isagi would much prefer not to do any of this stuff. 

But today is one of those days where an interview is required. Though he hates it, he’s made sure to put substantial effort into maintaining positivity. The last thing he wants is unneeded negative attention that distracts from the game itself. When Isagi solidified his dream of becoming the number 1 striker, he did not expect it would come with all of this garbage. 

Regardless, he’s learned to be fine with it, even though it is fairly confusing to someone like him. 

“So Isagi Yoichi, what do you tend to do to wind down after a big game like the one yesterday?” The interviewer asks, staring at him with a fake smile and perhaps the brightest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen. She does look like someone who should be a TV personality, he understands why she became a successful sports journalist. 

“Well, I usually just go back to my apartment and review the match, then try to get plenty of sleep.” He answers. The bland truth. 

“Hm. No celebratory food or drink? Hanging out with anyone?” 

“I mean, sometimes.” He adds a fake chuckle. He’s practiced that one for a while.

“Ah, so do you have anyone special in your life, a girlfriend perhaps?” The interviewer continues.

Isagi rakes his fingers through his slicked back raven hair, shifting a bit in his seat. This question again huh? It’s asked constantly, it makes him wonder if people care about the game or they just want some drama. According to Itoshi Rin, who also gets asked the same thing quite a lot, it’s something society assumes when someone decently attractive reaches a certain age. At age 22 and apparently of above average attractiveness (though Isagi can’t see it), the world expects that he’d have someone he’s dating or interested in. It doesn’t make much sense to Isagi.

Plus, he’s answered the question probably a thousand times (an exaggeration, but it certainly feels like a thousand), how many different answers should he give until they stop asking?

“Oh, I don’t really, like-” He pauses, realizing he’s probably flushed. It’s an embarrassing question. “Girls. Or anything like that.” He finishes with a sigh, flashing a light smile afterward. 

The entire interview process has always been something stressful for Isagi. He feels his heart race in a bad way, he hates sitting backstage in a fancy suit and tie with makeup on his face that just makes him feel heavy. But he’s been lucky enough to never have said anything in an interview that turned out to be harmful or provoke a negative response from anyone. He’d like to keep it that way. 

He assumes he completed this interview easily as well, since the interviewer didn’t seem to react negatively to anything he said. The exhaustion from the interview is enough to make him more tired than any physically grueling game he’s ever played, enough to force his tired body directly into his bed the minute he gets home. Somehow, Isagi finds that talking to unfamiliar people is way more exhausting than physically exerting himself for hours of intense gameplay. 

It’s over though, the interview thing. At least until Noa sets him up for another one. 

Or. 

That’s what he thought happened. 

Isagi sees the light of day through his tired blue eyes, waking up to the sounds of the repeated vibration of his phone invading his dreamy state. He groggily reaches over, his heavy hand collapsing on his bedside table to rummage for his phone. Within seconds, he’s wide awake, his pupils expanding further by the second as he processes the hundreds of posts, mentions, and calls he’s received in the last twelve hours. 

The first thing he does is open a message from Noa, mumbling it to himself as he reads, purely out of shock for what it contains. 

Noel Noa: Isagi, I’m proud to hear about your wholesome coming out story in yesterday’s interview. Though I wish we discussed this before the interview itself, I want you to know that I’m happy for you. 

Fuck.

What the fuck is he talking about?

Isagi rolls out of bed, pacing back and forth as he reads some of his Twitter mentions.

Bravepurple: not @isagiyoichi coming out yesterday omg. I mean we all figured but…

Puffinxconcretex: WAHT this is HUGE FOR JAPAN LGBT!!!! @isagiyoichi

Darksnowy67: look at him aakahihighih he’s so cute ab it too i would diE FOR HIM @isagiyoichi 

Um_actually_: no but fr, having a gay soccer player is big for us @isagiyoichi 

Holy shit. 

Holy shit. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. 

Isagi paces, his shaky hands scrolling endlessly through mentions and posts of support and congratulations. They’re all quote tweeting one single clip from his interview. The one where he didn’t even realize exactly what he said. 

He opens the short clip, the sound of his own voice blaring through his phone’s speakers.

“Oh, I don’t really like girls, or anything like that.” 

“Really? That’s nice to hear! Good for you!” 

“Thanks. Yeah, all that stuff can be stressful, but I’m happy where I’m at now.” 

Isagi Yoichi- had no idea he was coming across that way. Now, hearing it back, he totally came out as gay to that interviewer. 

Fuck, bro. 

He runs his fingers through his hair, still sticky with gel from yesterday. He really should take a shower. Maybe it’ll help him calm down. 

At least everyone’s overwhelmingly supportive right? There are way more comments expressing happiness and support for his bravery than people against it. Thinking about it broadly, if Isagi were to make any mistake, he’s glad it’s one where society is in support of him. He should just post something and clear it up, express gratitude for the support but he didn’t mean it that way, what he meant to express was that he’s not looking for a relationship, not that he’s gay. 

As he steps out of his hot shower, beads of water dripping from his soppy hair, he fully realizes the gravity of the situation he’s caused. In his approximately 10 minute shower, his notifications have nearly doubled, an article has been released, and this fake coming out story has gone viral beyond his belief. 

He can’t help but read the article, which forces him to completely disregard the idea of being honest about it. The article in question, published by a popular pop culture magazine, details the importance of sports maintaining representation of LGBTQ+ members. With Isagi’s story, they’re slowly breaking down the walls of sports being a “straights only” activity. The article warns, however, that queer baiting is a harmful practice, and cautions organizations from trying to appeal to different communities using this tactic. 

Queer baiting. 

Huh. 

Isagi’s never heard of that term, but upon looking it up, yeah. That’s exactly what he’d be accused of doing if he were to come clean. Turns out that relaxing shower just put him right back where he began. 

He should head out, go for a walk, maybe go practice. Anything but doom scroll through supportive messages that are based on a complete miscommunication. 

He sighs to himself, moving to check Instagram instead. Maybe the news hasn’t made it over there yet. 

Upon opening the app, the first picture he sees is that of a familiar face. It’s Bachira Meguru, an old friend of Isagi’s from Blue Lock, at the game from the other day. He didn’t even realize Bachira was there, he should have reached out. It would have been nice to catch up. Bachira was always fun to be around during their time at Blue Lock, they played great together and enjoyed each other’s company. He was one of the few people Isagi ever met that shared his love for soccer so intensely. One of the only ones to ever understand.

The two of them still talk occasionally, but not enough for Isagi to know anything about what Bachira’s doing now. Maybe it would be helpful to get some advice from him, Bachira would probably understand the situation Isagi’s gotten himself into. He really can’t go to his coach or his teammates- asking someone on the outside might be his best option.

He takes a breath and decides to go for it. 

Isagi Yoichi: Hey man! You were at the game the other day?

Within seconds, Bachira replies. That guy surely doesn’t miss a beat.

Bachira Meguru: Hiiii, yeah I was there. Great game!

Isagi Yoichi: I didn’t even realize you were in Tokyo, you should have told me lol

Bachira Meguru: yea im here for work for a while

Isagi Yoichi: damn no way! Where are you staying?

Bachira Meguru: IMG602.heic

Bachira Meguru: not far from the stadium actually, im exploring today

It’s a selfie of Bachira holding up a peace sign in front of a cafe. It looks like he quickly snapped the picture, it’s even a little blurry. But he wears a wide smile, the same silly smile he always had on his face back in the Blue Lock days. Isagi can’t help but smile himself, Bachira’s attitude always brightened him up. As Isagi looks at the picture more, he realizes that he’s actually quite familiar with the cafe Bachira currently stands in front of. In fact, it’s about a block away from his apartment. 

Isagi Yoichi: no way you’re at Honeybee? I live right down the street from there

Bachira Meguru: ayyy! Come meet me!

Honestly, this is perfect. This will help Isagi talk this out with someone who isn’t connected to the situation, and also connect with an old friend. Out of all the surprises he’s experienced so early in the morning, this one is at least positive. 

“Isagi!” Bachira calls out, noticing him first. 

He looks…stylish? Much better with his sense of style than Isagi remembers. He wears a fitted beanie with a pair of baggy slacks and an oversized sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He still has those same yellow highlights, he’s had them for so long Isagi’s starting to wonder if they’re natural. 

“Hi Bachira!” He jogs up to his old friend, going for a handshake but getting an excited hug instead. He should have expected that much, Bachira really hasn’t changed a bit. 

“Great to see ya, I figured you’re busy, so I didn’t let you know I was around or anything.” His golden eyes are bright and cheerful, same old Bachira Meguru. Just a ray of chaotic sunshine.

“Nah, I would have loved to see you, I’m so glad you made it to the game.” 

“It was a great one. Made me wish I was out there.” He smiles, much softer this time. 

Isagi sighs. “Yeah, me too. I bet you could still out dribble me any day.” He chuckles.

“You sure about that, egoist?” 

“Oh stop, I escaped that prison, it’s everything in me not to shake in fear every time I think about it.” Isagi jokes, sitting down across from Bachira at a little table outside the cafe. 

This is one of Isagi’s favorite cafes, he often grabs smoothies and snacks from here after practice.

“You’ll never escape it, MWAH HAHA!” Bachira exclaims, dramatic as ever. 

“So what are you doing now?” Isagi changes the topic, scanning the menu while speaking as if he doesn’t already have the thing memorized.

“I’m an artist, carried on the family business in a sense.” He explains. “What should I get?” He asks, referring to the menu.

“I always get the strawberry kiwi delight, I’m not too big on coffee.” Isagi points to his selection on the menu.

“Ah, I don’t drink caffeine either, I’ve been told it would make me overpowered.” He jokes. “I was between the strawberry kiwi one or the passionfruit?” 

“That one’s great too.” 

“Okay, I’ll get that if you let me have a sip of yours.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Isagi says, walking to the counter to place the orders for the both of them, only to return a few minutes later with the drinks, Bachira waiting eagerly to chug the fruit smoothie. “So how’d you even get into art? I know your mom’s also an artist, but you never seemed interested in it.” He takes his seat once again, sipping on his drink. 

“I was so bored without soccer, I had to do something.” Bachira laughs, reaching for Isagi’s drink. 

Isagi hands it over, watching as Bachira takes a short sip. 

“I like yours better.” He sighs. 

“You can have more if you want.” Isagi chuckles. Somehow, he’s always felt like he’s babysitting Bachira in a way, and even six years later, it hasn’t changed at all. He still acts like a glorified elementary schooler, but this time with money. Apparently, being a famous artist pays damn well. 

“Yippee!” He snatches Isagi’s strawberry kiwi drink, trading him for the passionfruit smoothie. Isagi doesn’t mind, he’d rather Bachira be happy. “Oh, by the way, I heard you’re gay?” 

Isagi almost spits out his drink.

“I, uh-” 

“Hah! It’s fine!” Bachira giggles.

“No, I actually kinda wanted to bring that up, because I’m actually not gay.” Isagi blurts out, rushing through the sentence before Bachira can congratulate him too much. 

“Uh, what? I saw that clip-” 

“No see that’s the thing. I didn’t mean that. I meant to say I don’t want a relationship, I didn’t realize it was coming out like that.” 

“Hm, “coming out” like that.” Bachira chuckles.

Isagi sighs. He’s never been able to tell if Bachira has a serious bone in his entire body. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Bachira takes another sip of Isagi’s drink. “I believe you, why didn’t you just say you didn’t mean it?” 

“I was going to, then I realized people might get upset about queer baiting- or whatever it’s called- and I don’t want negative drama…” He trails off.

“I see your predicament.” 

The two fall into a silence. It leads Isagi to wonder what exactly has gone on in Bachira’s life since Blue Lock. Clearly he’s doing very well for himself, but it almost makes him feel bad that he wouldn’t keep in touch. And here they are, just picking right up where they left off. 

“I feel like maybe the best thing to do is wait it out. People will get over it eventually. Then you can bring it back up later if you do ever want to get into a relationship and need to clear it up, that way the drama has already died down.” Bachira suggests. 

“Hm. Yeah.” Isagi ponders. It does make sense just to wait it out. It feels disingenuous, but the entire thing is already just a lie anyway. Waiting until things die down may be his best bet. Maybe later he can “realize” he’s bisexual instead, in case he ever does get with a girl. But that’s so far down the road that he feels like that’s a bridge he doesn’t have to worry about crossing right now. “That’s actually a lot simpler than I thought.” 

“You can count on me to have the best ideas about everything.” Bachira giggles, taking another long swig of his- well Isagi’s- drink.

++++++

Isagi feels much better about his situation by the time he goes to sleep that night- talking things out with Bachira was definitely helpful for his mental state. 

But waking up the next morning feels like a repeat of the day before, notifications buzzing in his ear over and over before he can even realize it’s morning. It feels like he’s traveled back in time to yesterday. 

But this time, perhaps it’s worse. 

As he opens his phone, he realizes it definitely just got worse. 

LATEST: #1 Striker Isagi Yoichi is dating Pop Culture Artist Bachira Meguru