…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
First encounter with Apophis: That fucking flying thing knocked me out with a single blow! And I lost some valuable items fuuuuuck, no way I’m going near that boss monster again!
I wish more people would recognize that the person whose internalized misogyny hurts Abigail is Caroline, not Pierre. Like, I do think he's a bit of a bitch, but like, he doesn't really comment on Abigail not being traditionally feminine; all the comments come from Caroline or are in the context of one of her actions (yes, even Abigail's heart event, it was her who wanted Abigail on the kitchen).
You’ve gotten so used to carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, you’ve forgotten how to breathe. Luckily for you, Lance is there to remind you what it means to be loved
Tags: 3.2k, Smoker! Reader, Struggles with addiction (nicotine), Supportive Lance, Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Relapse & Recovery, Kinda an Intervention, Very Self-indulgent
Worn boots crunched softly against the carpet of wilting leaves. The adventurer took a deep breath of the crisp air as he surveyed his surroundings. It was a rare luxury to see the farm bathed in this particular light. Usually, his visits were quick, hurried affairs at the bleary edges of the day—either the early crack of dawn or late, late at night in-between shifts guarding the mines.
He felt the familiar weight of the spare key safely tucked in his breast pocket, his thumb brushing the metal through the fabric. His mind drifted back to the night you’d given it to him, his eyes crinkled at the memory. Your groggy welcome, two cups of tea; if he focused hard enough, he could still smell the faint, lingering floral notes of jasmine and hear the crackle of the hearth.
“It’s only fair you know,” you had mumbled, voice thick with sleep as you tucked yourself between couch cushions. You hadn’t even looked up, just gesticulated vaguely at the table, “if I have a bed in the Highlands, you should be able to crash here, too.” From his seat opposite the couch, he watched as you stretched and yawned before dozing off. His borrowed book cast aside and forgotten in favor of watching the firelight turn your features into gold.
The memory faded as the late afternoon sun asserted itself and drenched the valley in honey and bronze. The river on the other side sparkled like embers, and he heard the chickens perform their final, lazy scuffing near the coop as he passed by. The air here was different from the Highlands; ever-changing with the seasons. Right now, it was heavy with the scent of sweet corn and sun-warmed hay.
Lance’s eyes trailed across the fields as it followed the last cow lumber into the barn, but his gaze was snagged by a silhouette by the fence.
The first time he noticed it, he didn’t say anything.
You thought you were alone.
Having latched the barn doors, you leaned against the post and closed your eyes, finally done with the final chore for the day. You feel your fingers itch. You dug through the front pocket of your overalls and searched for the cool metal to hit your skin. You flicked open the small metal lighter. The flame sparked to life with a practiced motion. The cigarette balanced between your index and middle finger felt like it had always belonged there, the tingling sensation residing.
You took a long, steady drag.
And for a moment, you relaxed. The tension that held your spine straight evaporated. You let your shoulders fall slack in a way they hadn’t all day as you let your weight melt into the hardwood. You focused on the harsh, familiar crawl of it hitting your throat as you exhale, only opening your eyes to watch the grey cloud drift upward into thin, pale ribbons.
“You quit those.”
The voice behind you made you choke halfway through a drag. Your spine snapped straight, the sudden movement sending a sharp pang of embarrassment through your chest. The shock made your fingers clamped tighter around it, the thin paper crinkling as ash fell to the grass.
Between small, frantic coughs, you tried to compose yourself. You waved a hand through the air, trying to billow the evidence away, but the smoke was stubborn, clinging to your hair and the wool of your sweater.
After a couple minutes of psyching yourself up, you turned around. Lance stood several feet away on the path that led towards the farmhouse. He wasn’t wearing his full adventurer gear today—navy cloak tucked on the crook of his arm, vambraces tucked into his belt. The sword at his hip caught the dying sunlight. Even off-duty, he looked every bit a soldier; poised, alert, and impossible to fool. The dying sunlight glinted off the pommel of his sword.
You watch as his eyes settle on the lit ember.
Not angry. Not yet.
There was a weight in his gaze. Your mind believes it’s a quiet, analytical disappointment that only serves to make your stomach turn. You instinctively lowered your hand, tucking it closer to your hip so the drifting smoke wouldn't reach him, but you couldn't bring yourself to stub it out. Not yet.
“I did,” you said, your voice sounding thin against the vast quiet of the valley. The cigarette burned steadily between your fingers. Your fingers twitch.
You felt more than saw him step closer. “You did,” he repeated. His tone was level, stripped of its usual warmth but lacking any sharp edges. His demeanour was calm, too calm. You’re terrified. “Six months ago. At the caldera. You threw the pack into the magma and told me the habit was a relic of a life you no longer lived.”
“I remember.”
“Then why,” he asked gently, “are you holding a ghost?”
You shrugged, looking far away towards the river. The water was turning a deep, bruised purple. You wonder the same thing yourself. “It’s just one, Lance.”
Lance’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”
You hated how easily he read you.
Being an adventurer meant Lance spent most of his life observing danger—watching for sudden movement, studying patterns and behaviour, noticing small details before they turned deadly. Unfortunately for you, that same sharp perception extended to everything else. Including your bad habits.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said.
“It’s not a big deal,” you repeated, quieter this time as if it was meant more for you than him. The cigarette’s almost burned up but you still won't let go.
Lance didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed the remaining distance, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned against the fence. The wood creaked softly under his weight. For a long moment, he simply watched the fields stretch out toward the forest, the silence heavy but less tense.
“Do you remember,” he said after a while, his voice dropping lower, like he’s about to share a secret, “the first time I saw you smoke?”
You let out a long, ragged sigh, slumping further against the post until the wood dug into your shoulder blades. “Do we have to—”
“It was the middle of winter,” Lance continued anyway. “ Our first season attempting to cultivate void roots. You thought I hadn’t noticed you slipping away after our fifth failed attempt.”
A ghost of a memory unfortunately resurfaced. The biting chill of the wind and the way your breath had hitched when you saw his figure in the distance.
“You were standing behind the greenhouse,” he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he could see the past written across the darkening sky. “Freezing. You tried to hide the embers in the snow when you saw me coming.”
“That was embarrassing,” you muttered. You looked down at your current cigarette and took one final drag, the smoke tasting like ash and regret, and wondered if you still had that same childish urge to shove the evidence into the dirt.
“Yes.” A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It was.”
“But you told me something that day.”
You didn't want to hear it. You knew exactly what was coming.
“You said,” Lance replied, finally turning his head to lock his eyes onto yours, “that you only smoked when you felt like you were losing control.”
The words hung in the air. Your chest tightened slightly, a familiar knot of anxiety twisting in your gut. You stared out at the fading sunlight over the fields.
“Well,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible over the rustle of the leaves. “The farm’s been… a lot. It's been stressful.”
“This farm has always been a lot.” He shifted his weight, his presence looming closer. He studied you with the same intensity he might use to map a new area of the caverns, searching for the cracks, the weaknesses. “You quit anyway.”
You didn’t respond. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound like an excuse.
“Something else is bothering you,” Lance said softly.
“Of course something’s bothering me!” The sudden spark of frustration caught you off guard but you’re growing tired of this drawn-out confrontation. You turned toward him, gestures sharp and jagged. “Everyone depends on me, Lance. The town, the Junimos, the Guild, the–” you trailed off. The sudden burst of anger leaves just as fast as it came, leaving you tired and hollow. “It just, never stops.”
To end the conversation, you crushed the cigarette against the fence post. You watched the sparks die out against the grain of the wood, the burn mark still warm to the touch as you tucked the filter into your pocket to dispose of later. “There,” you snapped, trying for a finality you didn’t feel. “Problem solved.”
Lance didn’t move. He didn't even blink. “There are three more in your jacket pocket.”
You froze. The blood drained from your face as you looked at him, your hand instinctively hovering over your side. “…You checked my pockets?”
“No,” he said mildly, his tone maddeningly level. “You left your coat in the Highland outpost last week. You forgot they were there, I did not.”
The outpost? That was over a week ago. He’d known all this time? You groaned, looking away in vexation. “Your observational skills are extremely inconvenient.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Crickets had started their evening chorus along the riverbank, their chirping filling the space where your arguments had failed. Lance pushed away from the fence, the movement fluid and silent. He gestured toward the path that wound deep into the darkening woods. “Walk with me.”
You hesitated, looking at the warm glow of the farmhouse windows and then back to the tall, imposing presence of the man waiting for you. “That didn’t sound like a request.”
“Good,” he replied, already stepping into the shadows of the trees. “It wasn’t.”
The barely visible trail in the backwoods was a comforting landmark. You and Lance had walked it dozens of times. Sometimes on your way to the Adventurer’s Guild when you want to take the long way, most times just to clear your heads after long days on the farm and guild.
Tonight the sky had turned deep wine violet, the moon almost peeking through the clouds. The torches you’d tucked into the hollows of trees and between the thicket flickered softly amidst the darkening sky. Neither of you spoke for several minutes. You kept your gaze low, distracting yourself by checking the wick of a torch or two every so often. Finally the silence broke. “When did you start again?”
You shoved your hands deep into your pockets, but there was no refuge there. You could feel the crinkle of the pack through the fabric. It made your chest feel heavy. “It’s probably been more than a month by now,” you admitted. You weren't proud of it, but a small part of you felt relieved to finally stop the exhausting game of hide and seek .
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You huffed a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Because I knew you’d react exactly like this.”
“Like what?”
“Concerned,” you said, kicking at a loose stone. “Disappointed. Possibly about to give me a speech about endurance and the mental discipline of a warrior.”
Lance slowed his pace, glancing sideways at you. The torchlight caught the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m not disappointed.”
You blinked. “…You’re not?” That surprised you enough to stop walking.
Lance halted a few paces ahead, turning to face you. In the dim, flickering light, the amethyst of his eyes looked almost black. “I am worried,” he corrected simply. The raw honesty in his voice was far worse than anger, it made something uncomfortable twist and ache behind your ribs. “I thought you quit because you wanted to,” he continued, his voice softening.
“I did.”
“Then something changed.”
You rubbed the back of your neck, looking anywhere but at him. You haven’t been able to look at him straight-on these days. The truth felt embarrassingly small—frivolous, even—compared to the way the habit had clawed its way back into your routine. “I guess. It’s just... everything has been a lot lately. The requests, the demands, the expectations. It doesn't stop.”
Lance didn't offer a platitude. He didn't tell you to be stronger. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the distance until the warmth radiating from him was more effective than the torches. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently rested it on your shoulder, his thumb grounding you against the frantic pace of your own thoughts.
“You carry the weight of this valley as if you are the only one with shoulders broad enough to hold it,” he murmured, his gaze searching yours. “I am not here to be another judge of your character. I am here to stand beside you.”
For a long moment, you couldn't find your voice. The silence of the backwoods was no longer heavy nor did it feel like an intervention. It was consoling, a quiet space he had carved out specifically for you to fill. You looked down at your boots, the leather scuffed and caked with the day’s tasks, and felt the hot prickle of tears you hadn’t expected.
"I feel like if I’m not perfect, everything will fall apart," you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could filter them. "I’ve had this looming feeling that if I stop, even just for a second, everything will disappear. The town, Camilla, the people who look at me like I’m some kind of... unstoppable force. When I’m smoking, it’s the only time I feel like I’m allowed to just be tired. To be stupid."
“You’re not stupid,” Lance countered, his voice steadying the air around you. “It is not the healthiest method, certainly, but a relapse is rarely about the habit itself.”
“Then what is it about?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly as you finally looked up at him.
“Control.” Lance’s eyes were soft, he shifted his hand from your shoulder to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. His touch was warm. “When the world feels unpredictable, when the demands of others grow louder than your own heart, you cling to anything that promises a moment of peace. Even if that peace only lasts five minutes.”
“I thought moving here would make life simpler,” you admitted, a stray tear finally escaping. “And it did. But now everyone depends on the farm. On me.”
“That is a heavy burden to carry alone,” he said as he brushed away your tears.
“And if I mess something up…”
“You will be okay.” Lance stepped into your personal space, the scent of the cool night air and the leather of his armor grounding you. “You are allowed to fail, because you are human.”
You let out a wet, shaky laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“It should be,” he replied, his hand falling to unclench yours. His fingers laced through yours, firm and steady.“You don’t have to carry the entire valley by yourself.”
“Tell that to the Mayor. And the council.”
“I will, if necessary. I have faced far more intimidating foes than local bureaucrats.”
The image of Lance lecturing Lewis made you laugh weakly. Reaching into your overalls with your free hand, you pulled out the almost-empty pack of cigarettes and held them out like a peace offering. He took them carefully, turning the box over in his hand and studying the warning labels like they were ancient runes from a distant land.
“These smell terrible,” he noted, his nose wrinkling.
“You get used to it.”
“That is not comforting.”
You smiled faintly. Lance held the pack out to you again. “You’re the one who has to decide what to do with these. The choice must be yours, or the victory won't stick.”
You stared at the thin piece of cardboard. This time, without the craving pulsing in your fingertips. The paper felt light—insignificant. “I don’t want to start chainsmoking again,” you confessed.
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No,” Lance agreed. “It rarely is.”
You sighed and pushed the pack back toward his chest. “Hold onto it. For tonight.”
Lance blinked, his fingers closing around the box. “You trust me with this responsibility?”
“I know that if I keep it, I’ll smoke them.”
He slipped the pack into his deep coat pocket, the silhouette of it disappearing beneath the navy fabric. “I’ll dispose of them later.”
“Please don’t dramatically throw them into a volcano,” you teased, trying to lighten the heavy air. “The spirits would get annoyed again.”
“I shall look for a more... ecologically sound place then.”
You started walking again with Lance falling into step beside you, his presence a silent bulkhead against the dark. The path back toward the farmhouse glowed silver in the moonlight, the torches you’d lit earlier now acting as guideposts. After a few minutes of quiet, you squeezed his hand.
“…Thanks for not yelling at me.”
“I wasn’t aware that yelling was helpful.”
“It’s what most people do when they're disappointed.”
“I am not most people,” he reminded you, and for once, the arrogance felt like a comfort. He stayed silent for a moment before adding, “You know, quitting again will probably be harder this time.
“Wow, really selling the optimism.”
“I prefer honesty over pleasantries. But,” he added, stopping at the foot of your porch steps, “you won’t be doing it alone. Every time your fingers itch for that lighter... come find me.”
“And do what?” you asked, leaning against the column. “You gonna give me a lecture on First Slash discipline?”
He thought about it, his gaze drifting back to the fields. “No,” he said, his voice a low hum. “We will find a different ritual. If your hands need a task, I will give you a whetstone and we shall sharpen our blades together. If your lungs ache for the smoke, we will walk the mountain trails until the air is so crisp it burns the urge away. And if the world simply feels too loud...”
He stepped onto the porch, closing the distance until his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“...You will come to me, and we will sit in the silence until you remember that you are more than just a provider for this valley. You are a person. And you are mine to watch over.”
The weight in your chest finally fully evaporated, replaced by the simple warmth of his person. You reached out, squeezing his hand. “I think I’d like that ritual better.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Now, go inside. I believe it is my turn to make us tea, and I intend to make sure you actually drink it this time.” As you opened the door and the warmth of the hearth spilled out to meet you, you looked back one last time. The phantom craving was replaced by the solid, lingering warmth where his hand held yours. For the first time since the relapse began, your hands were quiet, and as you stepped over the threshold, you realized you didn't need the smoke to feel steady. You just needed to be home.
titsay
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
turnnoffyourmind
