#(ash does not know the truth either)

[ginzuras]

still thinking abt the ashfur redemption au if anyone was wondering

[sylviareviar]

hey guys i've been playing through pokemon black and white (i borrowed a copy of white from my local library) and every time i play these games i always do it with a "Pip" and "Fluffy". Since the game would be unplayable if I kept Fluffy as a Swablu, I allow myself to evolve him into an Altaria when the time comes, but the whole point of Pip's character is that he doesn't evolve, because he just can't. Therefore, anytime I play a game that has Piplup in it, I use it without evolving it and treat it as my main Water-type Pokemon, sometimes even replacing my starter.

My question is this: I'm getting to a point in Pokemon White that it's getting a little too difficult for me to keep playing with Pip as he is (if I could only give him custom stats, I'd give him higher bulk and special attack with a small boost to speed so he'd be able to take more hits without being so helpless). Should I evolve him and forget about my little "anime challenge"?

I feel kinda bad, but since White isn't my game anyway, I don't feel as bad as if it were my own game, Pokemon Black or Black 2. I don't intend to evolve him in either of those games. Plus, if I evolve him in White, it would be as though, in another universe, Pip was born with the capability to evolve. I'll be able to teach him moves I couldn't teach him as a Piplup and pass those on to future eggs if I want to do any further breeding. It's just that I keep hesitating anytime he levels up and keep cancelling the evolution.

I've kinda found myself at a crossroads here...

[multimilfs]

Lilia Calderu x Fem!Reader: In Omnibus Aequitas

Summary: Agatha isn't the only witch with a force of nature trailing after her.

AO3

A/N: oh my god i can't explain how excited i am to post this! so much thought and careful crafting went into this!! actually begging someone to ask for the TED talk on my planning process for this because hooooo boy

this is my first time writing Lilia, so apologies if the characterization is shaky at all!

also to give credit where credit is due, the idea for this Reader was prompted by a post from the brilliant trickofthelights, whom i admire greatly. i'll attach the post here

Tag List: @emiliaisdead @kenzie-floops @nightmare-of-homophobes @thepotatoislost @mckiejames @women-are-so-ethereal @galaxydreamer468 @angeliccss @goldenautomaton @asolitaryrose3 @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld

Warning(s): None

Shadows often linger in the periphery of Lilia’s vision; this she has grown to accept, on the basis that they are gone when she turns to face them. And she is glad of it each time. The twisted shapes and figures of the primordial horrors that linger are not made to be witnessed, even by her eyes.

So when a figure lingers, she turns with the expectation of seeing the silhouette vanish, but she’s not the only one who turns.

It strikes her as odd that Rio should see whatever she does. This thought occurs to her mid-ballad, fire licking at the back of her neck. When she looks, though, the figure does not vanish, but neither is it a horror to behold.

You are as beautiful as she remembers. The memory, coupled with your eyes on her, nearly trips her up. But Lilia holds strong through the rest of Lorna’s ballad—even as the burns on her shoulders ache, even as your eyes dart away and meet the curious gaze belonging to Rio, even, even as you watch her with that unerring devotion she had once craved.

When Alice tilts her head back, singing with the full force of her soul, Lilia’s eyes leave you. She watches the curse burn to ash above Alice.

You’re gone when Lilia glances back.

---

Sharon, human she may have been, was right about one thing—no witch can be expected to traverse the road without rest. So, the coven opts to take turns keeping watch around the little fire they’ve built.

Lilia volunteers for the first watch, restless, feeling the weight of eyes on her still. She should’ve known you wouldn’t stay away long.

Your entrance comes when the rest of the coven has fallen asleep; Jen and Alice on one side of the fire, propped up against the rock they sat upon, Agatha furthest from the fire, back to it, while Rio—if that is her true name—sleeps near enough to lay a hand on her waist. Teen, she assumes, remains in the makeshift bed they made for him.

She sees your shadow at the edge of the clearing, hesitant. Looking over her coven one last time, she stands, and walks to where you wait outside the light.

“What do you want?”

You reach out, a hand on either side of Lilia’s face. She doesn’t shake you off. Yet.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I left.” You murmur.

Lilia’s lip curls, “Are your brutal truths meant to be endearing?”

“No. They’re meant to be nothing more than what they are.”

Against all odds, Lilia has yet to throw off your hold. You run your thumb gently over the curve of her jaw. Everything in you wants to kiss her—has dreamt of it for over a century—but you know it won’t be welcome.

Her curls are frayed and wild around her face in an endearing picture. Mess suits her just as well as refinement; though that could be your bias talking.

“Why are you here?” Lilia asks.

“Because you’re here.” And because your job brought you here, but that’s less romantic.

She seems to sense the omission. Any warmth drains from her expression, her hands removing yours from her person. You miss the closeness immediately.

“A truth and a lie. Which will come next?”

“It wasn’t a lie. I could’ve been anywhere.”

“Then go there. But leave the coven out of this.”

“I have no choice, Lilia.”

Lilia scoffs, “You had a choice when you vanished for a century!”

You close your eyes against the reminder. Hurt flares through you. The ache from years of longing, feeling that veil between you exist so thin, yet being unable to reach through. You hadn’t even been allowed a glimpse.

It was torment. A century should have been easy, but a life without Lilia felt like clawing your way through. If you tell her, will she believe you?

“Please.” You whisper. You’re not sure what you’re asking for.

“Goodnight.”

You hear her walk away, can’t stop yourself from blurting, despite the consequences, “Please, don’t put yourself in harm's way.”

Her jaw is tight, eyes wary. She looks you over as if something about you will give away what you know.

She crosses her arms over her chest. You recognize it as both a way to keep you out and support herself. You ache to be let back in.

“This whole Road is a death wish.”

“Don’t put yourself in more danger than normal.” You say, then, smaller, “I can’t protect you.”

“Are you asking for my sake or your own?”

“Whichever you’ll listen to.”

“Why ask at all?”

You step forward, hands outstretched to take hers, but you stop short, “Because I love you, Lilia.”

The admission makes her flinch. Her eyes water and she swallows hard. For a fleeting moment you see the startling vulnerability behind her eyes—the loneliness you should have quelled—before she locks it away.

“You can’t love.” Lilia sneers, “It would tip the scales too much.”

“That’s not true.” You defend.

“Oh? Then who, in this wretched universe, have you decided to hate?”

You bite your tongue. Lilia takes your silence for its own—incorrect—answer. Bitterness creeps into her smile.

“Goodnight.”

---

“Here to watch the big show?” Rio asks, lagging behind while the others move forward.

“Just doing my job.”

“Really? I’d say things were pretty square when you showed up.”

You eye her, despising her knowing smile, “Why are you here?”

“My job.”

“Hm. And how many bodies have you collected, again?”

Her smile is wide, but her eyes are cold. She’s always despised that the two of you are equals; that she can’t add you to her menagerie of bodies. Just the same, you’ve despised that you can’t write her name down.

Agatha looks back and tilts her head. You know she can’t see you. Like nothing has happened, Rio turns that grin on Agatha, skipping back to her side.

You catch Lilia’s eyes on you and ignore the question in them.

---

Lilia watches. She follows you in her periphery, makes note of where you are at all times. Her eyes always dart to your hands. Every time she finds them empty, she relaxes.

She’s taken watch, again. You read the weariness in her posture.

Against your better judgment, you lay your hands on her shoulders. She doesn’t shrug them off.

“You need rest as much as they do, beloved.” You murmur.

She stiffens at the old endearment, “We’re splitting the time. I’ll manage.”

You run a hand through her hair. The curls are still loose, wild. You untangle a few of them. Squeezing her shoulder, you place a kiss to the top of her head, savoring the closeness.

For a moment, your hand quivers. You still it. Your punishment was endured with grace, you must endure the distance with the same.

“Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Lilia scoffs, “Right.”

The weight of her mistrust is like a knife in your chest. You do not endure the pain with grace; you flinch, tears springing unbidden to your eyes. Lilia’s eyes close in regret.

You wonder if your presence is more of a burden than blessing. Had you mistaken her intent all those years ago? Love is not an emotion that’d come to you naturally. Perhaps, in your learning, you misunderstood, and Lilia’s kind heart wouldn’t allow her to break your illusion.

She had loved you once, hadn’t she? You could swear she had.

“You have to know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Unless the greater universe calls for it.”

Her tone is honest, but sadness lingers within it. All you want is to see her face.

“If I thought it would do you any favors, I’d throw it all away.” You admit in a whisper.

Lilia turns, then. Her brows are furrowed as her eyes search your own, frantic, swimming with fear. In another time and place, you’d follow the statement with a smirk; but you cannot bring yourself to summon the facade now, not with her.

It isn’t a lie—your admission. If not for the overturning of the world without you, you’d forsake the job on your shoulders. You’d unmake yourself in a moment for her. For the younger witch who sang freely and lamented her gifts. For the wizened witch who eyes you with trepidation, mind rife with your betrayals and shortcomings.

“Where are your lies?” She asks.

“I tell them to myself, so you can have all my truths.”

Lilia smiles then, but it’s bittersweet. A warm hand settles on your cheek. You can’t help it—grace be damned—when you press yourself into the contact. They’re still there—the callouses you remember, rough against your flesh. She still smells of smoke.

There’s a rustling of fabric across the space. Alice shifts, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. Lilia’s touch is gone from you. You settle next to her as she rests, not brave enough to lay another hand upon her.

---

You watch the knife fall as if time has slowed; absently, you think it might be, Time always did love her cruel jokes. It falls with Teen in the direct path. You feel the pen heavy in your hand, the paper near-weightless and yet the heaviest thing you’ve come to bear.

But then Lilia moves. The one moment you need time to slow for you, it’s returned to normal. Lilia shoves Teen out of the way and takes his place in the dagger’s path.

You fall to your knees, “No!”

Throwing your arms out, you aim a burst of magic for the dagger. Consequences be damned. Alice is faster, though, and moves Lilia from the dagger’s path before your magic can make contact.

Rio’s eyes are heavy on you. She can’t do anything—you didn’t technically break any rules, but the intent is damning enough.

“Now this is going to be fun.” Rio purrs.

You stare at the pen and blank paper you dropped in your haste to save Lilia. Your purpose. How close you’d come to unmaking yourself and yet… yet, a part of you is ambivalent to this. The larger part is freaking out, though.

Everyone’s eyes are on you. You flinch. They shouldn’t be able to see you.

Checking your mental list of active charms, you realize you’ve made an error; in your grief-induced act of heroism, you dropped every single charm on your person and directed the energy toward Lilia. The cat’s out of the bag, it would seem.

Lilia is the first to recover, moving out of Alice’s protective hold, “Do you ever think?”

You bristle, yet to stand from your kneeling position. It gives her an advantage over you this once.

“Well and often.” You defend.

“Well?” She questions, beautiful in her terror and rage, “You call that thinking well? You could’ve been killed!”

“You were in danger, Lilia.”

“And you’re not allowed to interfere.”

Ignoring all the eyes on the two of you, Lilia turns and storms through the exit that opened. You watch the road-conjured costume melt back into her normal visage as she gets further away.

It’s then that you recognize the silence.

All of them are staring at you save for Agatha, who eyes Rio with a mixture of trepidation and understanding. You stand as gracefully as you can manage. Smoothing down your clothes, you try to smile, but the action feels slippery on your features. How long has it been?

“What is it with you witches and beautiful mysteries?” Jen asks, “And where can I get one?”

You flush and fidget. The weight of their attention is so much less pleasant than your beloved’s.

Alice tilts her head, “Who are you?”

Holding out your hand, you speak your name. Rio laughs. You blush, remembering that mortal creatures don’t comprehend the original language, not like the two of you. Lilia once said it sounded like botched latin. The coven exchanges various looks of confusion.

“Lilia just calls me—”

“A pain.” Lilia’s voice cuts in, “A very severe, persistent pain. Are you all coming?”

You’re the first to follow, which prompts no shortage of grumbling. You find yourself grinning.

---

“Well, at least we have extra help on The Road.” Jen shrugs, later.

“She can’t help.” Lilia and Rio say in unison.

The two share a look. You can read the distaste in Lilia’s eyes. She doesn’t seem to think much of Rio, not that you do either—and you actually know her.

“Seemed pretty eager to help you, Lilia.”

“A foolish, misguided mistake on her part.”

You flinch at the statement, staring down at your hands. With the charms gone, you witness their true appearance; one completely dark, as if left to char in ember, the other so pale-white it is near translucent.

The beauty of a mortal body with a mortal heart is a range of emotion you’d have never felt before. Though lately, the gift feels more like a burden. Pain is your ever-present companion these days. Even when you look at your beloved, the love that overtakes you is laced with poison; with the reminder of what you had to do.

You can’t bring yourself to wish away the heart in your chest. But you do wish Lilia would be a bit more gentle with it. You’re hardly in the position to make requests, though.

“I can assist in small ways. Taking a watch at night, tending the fire.”

“No.” Lilia shuts you down. You freeze, “You are to do nothing but observe. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, beloved.”

You ignore the look between Alice and Jen.

---

The end of The Road is so near you can practically taste it. It tastes of rot and chaos, but you put that down as a symptom of your disposition. You watch Lilia and the rest of the coven relax, inhaling deeply.

A smile teases at Lilia’s lips.

“What do you smell?” You whisper.

The smile doesn’t vanish as you expect. Rather, it extends to her eyes as she regards you.

“Your perfume.”

You melt. Knees like jelly, you take her hand in your own, and press a kiss to the back of it, ignoring the eyes on the two of you. The Witches Road will give you what you most desire at the end. And before the last trial, it gives the traveler a taste of what their prize is. She can’t reach the end without knowing the truth.

“This body wasn’t mine, did you know that?” You ask. Her expression shifts as she grows a bit more tense in your hold. You hold tighter, “The witch before me had a little over a century left in her when I came. As payment, I had to serve out the rest of her years without the one thing that made it feel like living.”

The words are tumbling from you faster than you can comprehend them. You watch her face, hoping that what you’re stringing together makes enough sense for her to see. Even if it takes some other force whispering the facts into her ear for her to understand, you’ll just be happy that she knows.

Lilia’s the brightest witch you’ve ever known. She’ll figure out what you’re saying, but you just can’t stop; you need to say the words you’ve been dying to say for all these years.

“I never wanted to leave you, beloved.”

There’s no privacy on this cursed road, but you don’t care. If she asked it of you, you’d tell every soul you met how you love her. Lilia Calderu owns your heart, but even more than that, she owns your soul, and you have no desire to take it from her hands—even if she decides to rip it to pieces as repayment.

Let the coven know how you lived a century-long prison sentence to be with her. Let Rio and the greater powers know. You have no shame.

Lilia sneers, “You foolish woman.”

Her hands fist in the front of your shirt and pull your lips to hers. It’s messy; a clash of teeth and lips and noses, a poor imitation of the world-tipping kisses the two of you have found in one another. You’re both horribly out of practice. Never let it be said, however, that passion does not make up for tact. The near-quivering of Lilia’s grip and the force of intent behind her kiss makes up for any clumsiness.

The time on The Road has left her lips chapped, bitter with the remnants of lipstick, and never before have you known something so utterly perfect. You wrap your arms around her waist and pull her close enough that not a breath can exist between you. She sighs against your lips.

A curse of a mortal body is the functions that a higher being like yourself wouldn’t deem necessary; in this case, the need your lungs have for oxygen. Your heart is beating out of your chest and not from desire.

You pull back, panting, forehead resting against Lilia’s.

Breath successfully acquired, you tilt your head and press your lips to Lilia’s cheek, her temple, her forehead—anywhere you can reach, murmuring, reverent, “Lilia. My Lilia.”

“Darling.” She whispers with every kiss, voice hushed with devotion.

A lifetime apart seen to its end. Your fingers still itch with the pent up desire to hold her despite doing so. You were shameless before, but now… Gods help her.

Rio watches the entire display with shameless interest. Her eyebrows are high, a small, curious smile on her lips. Teen had been the first to turn away and busy himself with watching The Road. Somewhere mid-kiss, the remaining three found something more pressing to devote their attention to.

The lack of seeing, however, does not stop Jen from sighing, “When will it be my turn?”

Alice laughs at her side.

---

“Did you know all along?”

Lilia looks up at Agatha’s hushed question. She takes in the messy, haggard, but satisfied look of her fellow witch. She also catches the look Agatha throws your way. You sit across the clearing, Teen at your side, listening with rapt attention as you explain something about the moon.

“I had a suspicion when you mentioned my fortune.” Lilia admits.

A suspicion. A burgeoning hope she hadn’t let herself acknowledge.

“Oh?”

“What is fortune if not a lack of balance?” She shrugs, unable to look away from you, “To change it meant the end of my pain.”

“Enter, your solution.”

“Solution and problem.”

The two share a wry laugh. Lilia’s careful not to ask any pointed questions about Rio, though curiosity does eat away at her. Is anyone better suited to appreciate her experience?

Rio, while polarizing, is beautiful—and seems to have attached herself to Agatha in a way best suited to the witch. There is a beauty in it. Though she admits she’ll always prefer your well-meaning brutality over that which Agatha receives. To each their own.

“The Road seems to play favorites, giving you your prize early.” Agatha muses.

“Having her isn’t the prize,” Lilia corrects, “keeping her is.”

Agatha hums, eyes contemplative.

You’re aware of the eyes on you from across the clearing, but pay it little attention, instead devoting yourself fully to the question Teen has asked you. Gesturing with your hands, you weave similarities between the First Coven and their own. He watches you with a starstruck expression.

Something in your conversation prompts him to tilt his head. He fiddles with the little spellbook attached to his hip. Your musings come to a natural close and he speaks up.

“Can I ask—why Lilia? I mean, she’s great, but I guess I don’t understand.” Teen changes the subject.

You smile.

“Do you know the average person’s response to upsetting the state of the world?” You ask. Teen thinks, then shakes his head, “There isn’t one. It doesn’t matter what they’ve undone in the grand scheme, they’re painfully ignorant of what they’ve done. And what’s worse, most don’t care.”

It’s an old grievance you have with the greater universe. You recognize the necessity of it, but will never deny how it grates on you.

“Lilia… Lilia spent a large part of her life as a harbinger of tragedy. She’d travel through villages and upturn their worlds with a prediction.” You sigh, chest aching with the pain you know she suffered, “But when she did, she always sought to fix it. There were times she leveled the scales so completely that I didn’t have to do a thing. Few had ever considered me in such a way before.”

You look up from your fidgeting hands to Lilia. Her eyes are already on you. The warm, steady weight of her gaze makes you melt.

“And the others, well, none of them were her.”

Teen nods, “That’s sweet. I think.”

You chuckle. In a moment of fondness, you ruffle the curls on his head. He rolls his eyes but allows the contact; how do you tell a force of nature no?

---

You stare back down The Road with the coven. Though the return journey will be without any of the usual hassles, you curse the greater powers for not just providing an exit door. Your feet are killing you.

Lilia looks weary despite having rested. You rub a hand over her back, working out the knots you find with a skilled hand. She sighs.

“Where do we go from here?” She asks.

You raise a brow, “Back to the start of The Road.”

Lilia glares, though it lacks significant heat, “Us, darling.”

Ah.

“Wherever you lead, beloved.”

“That’s a lot of control.”

“Give me a century or so and I’ll start making decisions again.”

Her fingers lace through your own. Lilia stares down the length of The Road she has traversed and conquered, yet the greatest battle lies beyond. The world will never again be the same for her.

You raise her hand to your lips. You press gentle kisses to the knuckles.

“To the return of your glory.” You murmur.

Lilia looks at you for a long moment. Using your hold, she pulls you down, into a short but mind-numbing kiss. You hold tight and sigh, content.

She corrects, “To the return of balance.”

[pasukiyo]

PERHAPS, PERHAPS, PERHAPS.

eric (a quiet place: day one) x f!reader word count: 2,894 warnings: a little bit of violence summary: perhaps it's chance. perhaps it's happenstance. but perhaps it is fate. perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

 Hands find the sleeve of her sweater and she’s pulled backwards, her lips parting in a gasp as she turns. A woman, with dark hair beginning to fade into gray, locks her hands around her wrist, trembling. 

 “Please!” The woman shrieks. “I don’t know where to go! I need help! Please! Help me!”

 She’s frozen, her mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out because the truth is, she’s just as helpless. She wishes she could help, she really does, but she’s alone in a foreign city while the world around her falls apart and all she knows to do is run. 

 She tries to shake off the woman, but she only tightens her grip, and it’s not until she screams again that she lets go. It happens in a blur. One moment the woman is on her arm and the next she’s taken away by one of those things. She can’t even process what they look like because they move so fast. 

 She stumbles backwards as a car alarm sounds and she only just manages to duck in enough time to avoid being crushed as the airborne vehicle flies overhead, crashing into the building behind her. Her teeth catch her bottom lip and she whimpers, holding her head in either of her hands. Screams sound and die, wheels screech, vehicles crash, windows shatter, people are torn apart and it’s all just too loud. 

 She sinks to her knees in the middle of the chaos-ridden street and covers her ears, the hot water in her eyes falling fast down the apples of her cheeks. She feels utterly alone and only now does the weight of her family’s abrupt deaths begin to seep in, like poison injecting itself into her veins and wearing down her bones. 

 She wonders if this is it— if today is the day she dies. 

 She wonders if she should just stay here: on the ground, unmoving, waiting for death to take her. 

 It’s harder to breathe than ever now and she can’t calm herself down, can’t even focus on inhaling a steady breath. The ground quakes below and she thinks something explodes, but it’s hard to hear over the ringing in her ears. She only thinks to duck until she faces the ground as smoke pervades the air and ash falls and all she can see is gray. Her hearing is only just coming back to her when she hears a scream— whether it was her own or somebody else’s, she’s uncertain— but all she knows is in the next moment, everything is black. 

 The world is still black when she hears her name. She stirs and thinks it must be death calling upon her but then she hears her name again and it sounds… real. Still, she does not open her eyes, lingering in that state between waking and oblivion. 

 The voice calls her name again and suddenly it sounds… familiar. She’s heard it before but she’s unsure where. She must be dead, she thinks. 

 But is the afterlife supposed to feel so… real? As in, she feels the warmth of fabric above her and thinks it must be a blanket, the cushion of what she can only think can be a pillow beneath her head. She can feel her feet, so she moves them, and she can feel something soft underneath them, something her entire body can feel. It must be a mattress she sleeps on but how when only a moment ago, her knees were on the asphalt of a crumbling street?

 Her name is called again and this time, she feels a weight on her shoulder, a hand. It suddenly registers that she isn’t in the city at all but rather somewhere else entirely different and her eyelids snap open at the realization. A shadow looks over her and she pushes herself to sit upright, her throat tightening as she tries to blink the blurriness away from her vision.

 “Hey!” The voice calls again, the hand on her shoulder firmer. The silhouette before her warps and moves and it must be the source of the voice but her muscles remain taut with panic. “It’s me! It’s just me.”

 She tries to draw air into her lungs but it’s hard when she can hardly make out where she is and the hand falls from her shoulder to instead find her cheek, pulling her face towards the shadow. Her chest rises and falls with her breaths as she continues trying to make out the face of the shadow before her. 

 “It’s me!” The voice says again. “It’s Eric!”

 Eric. 

 The shape in front of her finally materializes and indeed, it is Eric. His brows are drawn in concern, his big, signature doe eyes round and searching hers. Her mouth feels dry and it opens and closes multiple times before he places his hand on her chest, right over her pounding heart. She glances down to his palm, watching as it rises and falls with her breaths before his other hand reaches for her chin. 

 Their eyes meet and for a moment, it’s like the world stills and it is only him she can see. His eyes are so dark a brown that they seem to merge with the sea of black in its midst and she thinks she will lose herself if she stares too long. His lips move to form the words “breathe” and “it’s over now, you’re safe” and it seems easier now that she’s rapt in his eyes, shining like dark topaz. 

 Her chin rises as she inhales and she focuses on his hand on her chest as her head dips with her exhale. Air floods her lungs and the world begins to turn again.

 “Okay?” Eric asks carefully, his hand no longer on her chest but still hovering above just in case. She takes another deep breath before she nods, sniffing. It’s only now set in that she was sleeping and she was living a nightmare, or rather, reliving her nightmare. 

 It’s been three months since day one, since the nightmares began and every day since has been long, some longer than others. Every day since the first sort of happened in a blur, but she remembers the day she met Eric like it was yesterday. 

 She remembers the boat, the boy with the cat who she’d just watched escape death before he swam to his new beginning. She remembers the conversations they had on the (what felt like at the time) seemingly never-ending boat ride, the vow they didn’t speak aloud but seemed to silently agree on that they’d stick together, and they did, even when they arrived on the island. She remembers it all and so she pulls the boy in front of her into her until she can rest her head on his shoulder, fingers clutching his white t-shirt. 

 His arms wrap around her middle and hold her close, his breath warm as it threads through her hair, seeping down to her scalp. Her nails burrow into his shirt, deep enough to snag skin underneath and her heart pounds against her ribcage, dread creeping up her spine at the realization that she doesn’t want to let go. When he inevitably begins to pull away, she sinks her nails into his shoulders like the claws of a cat and a crease forms between his brows. 

 “What is it?” He asks and she swallows, brows pinched together. “Will you stay with me?” She questions and his expression softens, nodding as he lets go of one of her shoulders to gesture with his thumb behind him. 

 “Yeah, you know I’ll always be right over there,” he says, referring to the small sofa bed across the room. He gives her bicep a reassuring squeeze and turns, moving to pull away again but she finds his hand, clasping it between hers as tight as she possibly can. 

  “No, I mean will you…” she pauses, sighing as blood bites her cheeks, filling them with color. “…will you lay with me?” She finishes quieter, his hand growing warm in hers. 

 He turns to face her again and when their eyes meet, silence strings between them. She swears she can see him connecting the dots until realization washes over him and finally, he understands. He blinks again, once down to the bed and once to the open space beside her. On his next blink, color floods his cheeks and he nods, lifting up the blanket to slide underneath it. Their legs touch for the briefest of moments and either of their breaths hitch. His skin lingers for a heartbeat before it’s gone and she has to take in another deep breath through her nostrils to quell her quaking heart. 

 They both settle themselves down on the mattress and it creaks beneath either of their weight. She holds her breath again, still under the guise that one of those things will come snatch her away at the smallest of sounds, but the reminder that they are on the island, that they are safe fills her with some solace. Even though the relief never stays long. The past always comes back to haunt her, as if some sort of evil spirit has made it its sole mission to taunt her. 

 “Hey,” Eric whispers and she turns, realizing he was looking at her. “Are you alright?”

 She nods, sniffing again. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking,” she replies, blinking back towards the ceiling. “I had another nightmare.” He sighs beside her and she hears the sheets shift a little as he adjusts his weight. “It’s okay. I get them too.”

 It’s easy to forget she’s not the only one who experienced the horrors of the invasion, that she isn’t the only one who lost things, people. She forgets she’s not the only one who is haunted by what transpired that day and she peers back over towards Eric. He stares up at the ceiling, his hands neatly folded on top of his stomach and his lips pursed. He taps his fingers against the back of his hands a little awkwardly, as if he wants to speak but isn’t sure what to say. So instead, he remains silent, waiting for the moment he succumbs to sleep. 

 “Tell me about England,” her voice fills that void between them and he almost flinches, snapping his head towards her, an incredulous look upon his face. “What?” He says as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. The corners of her lips twitch, “tell me about England,” she repeats. “I’ve always wanted to go. And well… it doesn’t look like I’ll be going any time soon.”

 He exhales and it almost mimics a laugh but it dies as soon as he rolls his head to face the ceiling once again. He stares into the darkness above, sifting through the memories he has of home. The truth is, it’s been so long since he’s been home, the memories are already beginning to fade away. His mother, his father, his little sister, their cat, his childhood home, the town he grew up in. The more days that pass, the farther away all those things seem. He can still see them toward the horizon but they’re fading behind shadows. He fears that soon enough, they’ll be nothing more than black shapes out in the distance, too far away to make sense of what they are. 

 For a moment, she wonders if he’s going to speak at all. Frodo purrs as he leaps onto the bed, curling into a ball at their feet. And then, Eric finally speaks. 

 “Growing up, I never thought where I grew up was small until I came to the States,” he begins. “Did you know that the entire population of New York City is over four times the population of Kent?” 

 Her lips curve into a tight, genuine grin and she shakes her head. “No,” she replies and he scoffs. “It’s crazy,” he mutters. “I’d never seen so many people in one place before in my life.”

 She laughs again and this time, her grin splits her face and when Eric turns, his gaze lingers. She stares back, finding his eyes even in the darkness. Even in the dark, she can see the way they soften in searching. Whether it is her or his memories he is searching, she is not sure. She grows warm at the sudden awareness of their closeness and she has to turn away again to ease the erratic beating of her heart, folding her hands just beneath it, sucking in a deep breath. 

 Eric clears his throat. Then he continues, “there was this bakery around the corner from my house. My sister and I practically kept that place afloat all on our own with how many times we went.” 

 She turns and watches his side profile as a soft smile curves his lips and she thinks to herself, how can she possibly look away? Neither one of them ever really talked about their life before the invasion much, but maybe they should’ve tried sooner, if he was going to look the way he does now. It’s the brightest she’s ever seen him, the fastest he’s ever talked. His eyes gleam at just the mere mention of home and she wants to know more, wants to learn more about him. 

 “Have you ever had focaccia?” He asks, turning to find she’s already staring and she raises a brow. 

 “Ever had what?” 

 His brow furrows and he looks almost offended, a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Do the Americans not feed you focaccia?” She laughs, shrugging. “I honestly have no idea what you’re even talking about,” she replies and he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 “It’s only, like, the finest bread in the world,” he says. “But the best is at the bakery near home. It’s the focaccia of all focaccia. Their focaccia beats all focaccia.”

 She chuckles, “I’ll have to take your word for it then.”

 “Well, anyway, my sister and I would get focaccia from that bakery everyday after school,” he blinks, brow dipping. “Except Wednesdays. They were always closed Wednesdays. I always hated Wednesdays because of it.”

 She cannot help it anymore so she laughs, her shoulders wracking with the sheer power of the action. She clasps a hand over her mouth to attempt to suppress any embarrassing chortles and Eric sputters, the mere beginning of his own laugh. 

 It’s something she can’t remember doing last: laughing. At least, genuinely laughed. It must’ve been before the first day but that day feels so long ago that she can’t place a finger on nearly anything before it. 

 So this feels good. It feels like things can be almost perfect, because even if this lighthearted feeling is only fleeting, in the moment, it feels right. It feels right to be here with Eric, laughing over a life that neither one of them will ever have again. Laughing even as the world crumbles around them. Laughing as they pretend that everything is okay, if only temporarily. 

 There are tears in her eyes now from how hard she’s laughing and she blinks them away, peering over at Eric through her watercolor vision. He’s still coming down from the high his laughter gave him when she reaches over, fingers finding his arm. 

 “Eric?”

 He hiccups with laughter, “yeah?”

 She sniffs and bites back another laugh. “Can I kiss you?”

 Maybe it's the spur of the moment. Maybe it’s just happenstance. Or maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be. 

 She doesn’t know. 

 But none of it matters right now. 

 Because his gaze drops to her lips and when he looks up, she finds he wants her just as much as she realizes she wants him too. 

 Eric says nothing, only reaches for her, his hand finding the back of her head to pull her in and her arms wrap around his neck and then their lips are one. They fit together in the perfect mold, as if it truly was just as she thought: meant to be. 

 Perhaps, Eric was who she was meant to find all along. End of the world or not, life— at least on Eric’s end, it was more chance on hers— brought them both to New York at the same time and she can’t help but wonder, as his tongue swirls her mouth, whether she would’ve found him anyways. 

 Perhaps they would’ve run into each other on the street. Perhaps, even on the subway. Maybe they would’ve walked into the same restaurant at the same time and locked eyes. Or maybe they would’ve gone to the same shops, the same hotel, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

 An arm slithers around her waist and draws her into his chest and she knows that this is fate. It simply can’t not be. 

 She pulls away for a moment, just so either of them can catch their breaths, and their eyelids peel open and seemingly nothing else matters. There’s a sort of silent understanding between them— Eric must feel the same. 

 And that’s enough. It’s all she needs to be okay again, to want to live. 

 They crash into one another again, like two stars in a stellar collision. She burns brighter than she ever has before and they melt into one another and relish the notion that this is enough. 

a/n; saw a quiet place day one the other day and i think writing an eric fic was inevitable so... HERE YOU GO! i hope you all enjoy this one and let me know if you'd like for me to write up more eric fics! i'd love to explore this character some more :)

🤍 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! ✨

[ohsohoney]

When it comes to love you're just as blinded.

Part Thirteen

Eminem x Musician

Summary: It starts with a drunk embarrassing video, it spirals into something a whole lot more.

Note: Thirteen!! I'm actually so excited to post this one. There's some angst, but like it's not all bad, this is actually probably one of my favourite updates to date. But this is just a forewarning! Lots of swearing too, to be expected really so.. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, have a feeling there's gonna be a lot of emotions over this one!

Thank you again for all the love this series has gotten, means so much and really does keep me writing:)

| Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2

taglist: @thelastemzy @helloitsme1223

Masterlist

It was strained. 

The entire house, its whole atmosphere. It was just incredibly heavy and strange.

It wasn’t hard to miss either, judging from the careful way Rosie had been watching the two of us since she’d first woken up this morning. 

But last night hadn’t fared any better. Em had been weirdly distant; not meeting my eye, dancing around subjects, hardly speaking at all in actuality, and then he went as far as to avoid my touch— even as I’d handed him a fucking fork. 

It was such a harsh reality check for me in truth, because suddenly, I felt like an intruder. 

“El?” Rosie’s voice rang out, drawing me from my inner musings as well as the slice of toast I’d practically been burning a hole into. 

“Hm?” I replied belatedly, dragging my eyes up and away from my plate to cast her a distant look, but Z was just wearing this perplexed sort of frown that had me blinking away any remaining haze as she dropped her spoon into her bowl of cereal. The splash sent a few drops of milk flying over the countertop.

“Called you like four times.” She sighed, that frown of hers still prominent enough for me to throw a small smile back in apology.

“Sorry, just– must be half asleep still.” I attempted to shake off the solemn feeling I’d been cast in, laughing faintly before I finally took a bite out of my own breakfast, hating the way the bread tasted like ash in my mouth.

She didn’t seem to take the bait though, not if the scrunch of her brow was any indication, or her next words, “Are you sure? ‘Cause last night–”

I didn’t know whether or not to be grateful for Marshall’s sudden appearance in that next moment because the girl swiftly cut herself off in favour of hurriedly spooning another load of cereal into her mouth.

Marshall whipped around the island without so much as a glance in my direction, opening up the fridge before he turned towards the coffee pot he had laid out but hadn’t used since my first day here. The kettle and the half-made mug of tea I’d set out for him either going unseen or just ignored. I was betting on the latter.

I opened my mouth to say something, if only to break the debilitating silence, when the man himself unknowingly cut me off. “You almost ready?” He questioned Z, who was still slurping up the remnants of her bowl. 

The girl’s eyes darted towards him from over the porcelain brim of it before she dropped her arms to cast him a buoyant grin lined with, what could have only been, a milk moustache. I couldn’t help the fondness my smile gave way to, or how I reached out to wipe her upper lip with a nearby napkin. 

Her expression softened at either the gesture or my laughter, I wasn't quite sure, but her bright eyes glanced back over to her Dad just as I withdrew my hand.

“Nearly, just my shoes.” Rosie told him easily enough, kicking her legs out beneath the table to better show him her shoeless feet. I saw Marshall roll his eyes out of the corner of my own eye and deigned to take a long sip of my brew if only to keep from flashing him the shared smile that threatened to break through. I didn’t think it would fair well right now, me trying to buddy up to him over his daughter's shameless antics. 

“We got fifteen minutes ‘fore you’re late.” He replied to her as he all but drained his mug dry, the heady smell of coffee grinds polluted the kitchen's air. I bit the inside of my cheek when the familiar warning of scalding his mouth crawled its way out across my tongue, but I didn’t dare speak a word.

Rosie bobbed her head in a quick understanding, already jumping down from the barstool to run and grab the last of her things before she could set off for school, forgetting the dirtied bowl she had left on the counter.

I didn’t think much of my next movement, in truth, mostly looking for a reason to ignore the heavy cloud which had since settled over the shared space, as I picked up both the bowl, my plate too, to carry them both over to the bin and sink. 

A sound had me glancing back over my shoulder instinctively once I’d turned on the taps though, surprised to find Marshall already looking in my direction, or rather the sinks, I supposed.

But maybe I was wrong about that, because my surprise jumped straight up to shock when I heard him speak, to me. “How many times I tell you, you ain’t gotta do that?” It didn’t sound much like the question it was meant to be, more of a grunt than anything else as his hard stare flickered up to meet mine.

It was instinct for me to frown, but as my forehead went to furrow I was quick to smooth it back out again and turn my back on him, knowing this conversation would be much easier if I made quick work of the dishes in the sink. “I don’t mind.” I muttered back, hands already covered in soap duds.

He didn’t deign to respond, just let the sound of the water fill the lengthy space that had been created between us so suddenly. My heart ached a little over it, in truth, as I wondered what I’d done so wrong to have fucked up the easy thing we had going on here. 

Because look, it wasn’t as though I was new to quick snipes or heated conversations, or whatever the fuck this was. But it unsettled me enough to know that it was him that I was on the outs with. Marshall, he’d practically taken me in, done more than just house and feed me, but now he was just over it? Done with all the niceties because of an almost– what, kiss? If it had even been that at all. 

But I didn’t, scratch that, I couldn’t linger on the thought because if I did, then I would be sure to start fucking throwing back words a lot more scathing than just ‘I don’t mind’.

I was broken from the way I was furiously scrubbing away at my plate with the scour when my personal space was suddenly invaded. I all but jumped out of my skin as my head shot over to the left to find Marshall now stood there, leaning over me in the tight corner which sat between the two adjoining counters, just so that he could drop his cup into the soapy basin. 

His eyes met mine the second I looked up at him, mouth somewhat agape enough to have those icy blues of his dropping down to catch a quick look before they settled back on my own again. I went to swallow, confused and caught entirely off guard by the intrusion, but found I couldn’t. Which was good, in reality, seeing as I didn’t dare want to let onto the fact that he’d garnered anything more than surprise out of me.

“Seein’ as you don’t mind then.” 

Marshall’s comment perplexed me further, before I caught wind of what he was really getting at with it. So it was in that next moment that I allowed my eyes to narrow, even as he brushed back against me slowly, almost languid in his retreat. 

I huffed out a tiny, grim laugh, more air than anything, when I shoved the dish I’d been cleaning into his chest, flicking soap and water all over him. But it was missed only slightly by his moving form, catching his bicep instead and allowing a trail of water to drip down his bare forearm. “You won’t mind dryin’ then.” I shot back scathingly, clenching my teeth.

As much as my own action had surprised me, the drawl of my accent heightening in my anger gave way to the actual shock which lined beneath it, forcing me to turn back to the sink before Marshall could realise or actually comment on it. 

I didn’t know what it was about what had transpired that kept him from jumping down my throat, but he kept quiet even as it took him a good second or two to grab the towel hanging by the draining rack and wipe at the sodden plate. 

It was tense after that. Not a word was spoken, and so a shaky exhale left me the moment Rosie reentered the room, her shoes clicking against the kitchen tiles as she slung her school bag over a single shoulder. 

If Marshall heard the reaction, he gave no indication, but was quick in the way he jumped back from the counter to meet her. “Let’s go.” He all but demanded after he’d chucked the towel down onto the side so that he could round the island. 

I didn’t have to look back to hear the confusion Rosie obviously felt, “Is El not coming?”

Opening my mouth to answer her, my chest pinched when Marshall did so for me instead, “Not today. Come on, you gone be late.”

It was with that which he withdrew from the room with, leaving me blinking and Rosie gaping at his retreating figure. I wondered then where the hell it had all gone wrong. 

When Rosie casted her eyes back to me, my hands were still hovering over the sink but I witnessed the way her usual smile had transformed into something more solemn, or perhaps just ruminative. 

Being the adult, as well as the ‘bigger fucking person!’ I wanted to scream at his back. I forced my expression into something a whole lot sweeter than just the bewilderment that had plastered it a second before. I let go of a large breath and reached for the tea towel. 

“I just got a new idea for a song, figured I’d write it down before I lost it, you know?” I attempted to reassure, brushing off how odd the entire situation must have seemed to her.

Because why was I covering for a forty-something year old man and his pissy demeanour? Well, one simple reason could be that it wasn’t Rosie’s fault that her Dad was being a massive prick at the moment, and that I for one wasn’t going to be shucking her with the bubbling irritation I felt for him. Something which I’d picked up from living in a house a whole lot worse than this, where you didn’t know whether a reply would earn you an outright laugh or something to tell your future therapist about.

Z was nothing if not perceptive though and so when she just hummed I was quickly taken back to my own childhood, to when some of my mum’s less shittier boyfriends had attempted to lie their way out of what was obviously happening between the two of them. My skin itched at the thought.

“You gonna be here when I get home?” She asked me before I could say anything at all, which broke my fucking heart, because Rosie was so quick to add to her question, if only to make it seem as though it had been something other that it was, “You know, ‘cause Dad’s talking to the school about what happened yesterday… So I just figured you might wanna hear about it when I got back.”

“Of course I do, Z.” I promised in one hasty reply, already moving to dry my hands before I could even really think about it. “Of course.” I repeated as I made my way over to her, smiling warmly when she met me halfway. “It’ll all be just fine, you hear me?” I murmured to her the second I let myself get swept up in one of her gentle hugs, “Your Dad will sort it all and I’ll be here waiting to hear about it the second you get home, okay?”

She was quiet for a long moment before she just whispered, “Swear it?”

My eyes shuttered closed and I buried a sad smile in the top of her head, already reaching out to lock my pinky with hers. “On my life.” I swore quietly, forcing myself to match the wry grin she wore when she pulled away to peer down at our interlocked fingers. Rosie giggled lightly, choosing to swing our arms back and forth.

I shook my hand in return, wobbling the pair of our limbs ever so slightly, before a slight cough gained our attention. I looked up whilst Z spun around on her heel to find Marshall stood waiting just outside of the doorway, a hazy shadow crossing over the bridge of his nose as he toyed with the set of keys he had in his hand. 

His voice was all too soft when he spoke, eyes zeroed in on his daughter, “Time to go, bean.”

It took everything in me then to look away from him and over to the clock stationed on the far wall, letting Rosie’s hand slip from mine after I gave it a small squeeze. “He’s right.” I sighed lightly, “I’ll see you later, ‘kay?”

She was already peering back up at me when I looked over and so I wasn’t too startled by the sudden embrace she wrapped me up in before she hastily made her way towards the front door. 

The quiet which settled in after her wake forced my gaze to return to the man who had yet to follow, his eyes faltering between my own before he dipped his chin in a barely there nod, a gesture which spoke volumes as he turned to leave.

–

Messages  Lottiebug 🐞 In school!! Sorryyyyy didn’t mean to ignore u Was out late and passed out At lunch now, promise to call later xxxxx Love u don’t miss me too much:))

I actually wanted to wring the kid’s neck. She was such a stress inducer that I was sure to head back home to her covered in hives come this point. I mean, where did she get off on making me worry like that? Especially after all that had gone down, all that she had kept from me. And with Rosie last night too, her entire situation having flooded my mind with memories of the past.

Messages  To: Lottiebug 🐞 You’re the actual antichrist I swear Where the hell have you been Lotts?? I’ve been worried sick just waiting for a text or a call, did your phone just die? Or did your charger break again? I swear I’m flying home if you don’t call me the second you step out of those school gates

Or you know, maybe sooner if things with Marshall carried on.

I sighed at the burst of adrenaline which had rushed and drained from me in a too short moment, before I tossed my phone down onto the couch I’d taken to sprawling on, a plethora of notes and pages dotted all around me. 

I figured it was at least one less thing to worry about now though, even if everything going on with Lottie was still a rather large issue at hand. I wanted to scream about it all actually. But currently, my biggest problem was this song. And maybe the man who was set to return in the time between now and the moment Rosie got out of school. 

Because see, I had a small hunch that Marshall was probably going to avoid me for as long as he possibly could, which would end up being the very second his daughter danced back through that door.

The thought had me groaning again, unhappy with how everything was turning out, as well as the lyrics that I just couldn’t get to sound quite right. See, I hadn’t been outright lying to Z when I’d claimed that I had an idea for a new song. Being unable to sleep truly worked wonders on the psyche and could send your imaginative thoughts into a whole other realm.

But still, I was struggling to get it all to fall into place, the verse sounding much more like a bridge and the chorus still lacking something. Even so, it was promising. That much I could tell. Only thing was, I was stuck on whether or not it was going to end up on Marshall’s scrapheap or my next album. 

It was what I was here for, wasn’t it? To write, to collaborate. Even after we’d gotten a little bit side tracked the last few days. But I just didn’t know how much he wanted from me, we hadn’t really spoken about it or hashed over all the gritty details. And yet, even after last night and this morning, I was still here trying to pull something together for him to come back and hear. Even if I was sure that he’d can it the second he did.

“You look like someone just shit on your chest.”

I startled at the voice, flailing a tad to get a better look at the figure which now loomed behind the sofa, but it seemed as though the scare had been enough to send all my hard work flying. 

Three things happened in the next moment: I gaped, frowned, and then ultimately topped it all off with a rather hefty huff, turning back to grab at the pages I’d just been scrawling on with my tongue tucked between my teeth.

“Shat on my chest?” I answered back in the same dull monotone he’d just used, face screwing up slightly as I stretched to collect the last page that had slipped its way further down the sofa. “You know that expression intimately, or just guessing?”

A breathy snort sounded just as the page I’d been reaching for was snatched up before me. My gaze snapped upwards in narrowed slits to scowl at him, unimpressed by the action, before I held out a hand towards him, silently asking for it back.

Marshall took no note. Instead his eyes flitted over the red ink I’d been working on, reading it at a mile a minute. He handed it back without another word said and then rounded the sofa to fall into the seat beside me. 

He had picked up a couple drinks whilst he’d been out, it seemed. Just a couple of coffee’s from what I could first tell and so I wrinkled my nose at the obnoxious smell they let off whilst I settled the final page back into the pile I’d since formed.

“Figured you’d be gone longer.” I couldn’t help but mention whilst he settled in, taking a slow deliberate sip from one of the brown paper cups before he slid the other across the coffee table in my direction, an action to which I raised a brow to.

He shrugged languidly as though nothing had occurred between us earlier, like he had the entire world at his feet actually, and then gathered up the pile, flicking through the pages without much care. “Dealt with that kid and his shitty-ass father, stopped off to get somethin’ to eat when Paul called, then came home.” He quipped promptly enough, leaning forward in his seat to rest his cup back down on the table and shuffle the first few pages between the hands he now had resting on his knees, “This new?”

I flicked my tongue over my front teeth, harsh enough to feel it drag and keep my head from imploading, but careful enough that it didn’t bleed– just yet, I allowed myself to add on. Because honestly, if I had to refrain myself much more than I currently was it sure was going to. 

“Yes.” I quipped shortly, picking up my phone to slide through the brief voice notes I’d made the previous night in bed and then again when I’d stepped out of the shower this morning. “It was just something I kept on replaying, a little melody.” I explained if only so that I wouldn’t allow myself the space to start pestering him with questions and his sudden switch up, because what was with that? “Figured I’d just get it down whether it was good or not.”

He grunted out a hum.

I gritted my teeth.

“What happened at the school then?” I asked in a mutter, feigning nonchalance even though my eyes were already trained on him reading my words and the fact that I was now dying to know what he’d been on about when referencing this kid’s ‘shitty-ass father’. 

His eyes were slow in the way they sloped over to me, my own darting back down to my phone if only so that I could pretend to meet his stare. He looked away again a second later, rolling a single shoulder. “Some teacher caught the shove yesterday, principle was already waitin’ for me when I pulled up.”

Surprised, I blinked. “What, he dragged both you and the kid’s dad in?”

“She. Misogyny has no place in the modern world, Elia.” Marshall corrected all too easily with that curt smile of his that he was so used to using. Typically it would have had me chuckling, but now it just pissed me off further, especially with the use of my full name.

Instead of reacting though, something I supposed he was aiming for there, I rolled my eyes. “She, what the fuck ever. What happened?”

Marshall leaned back in his seat with a quiet huff, “Guy got what was comin’ to him, fuckin’ wrung him and his kid out. Bitch figured he could say a bunch of shit about me and my daughter and I’d just let him?” He blew out a small titter then, though his evident smile was grim, “Bastard’s jus’ lucky I didn’t throw him through one of them windows. Could pay someone more than what he earns in a year to chop his fuckin’ hands off for me.”

I didn’t know how to take his words, all I knew was that a strange emotion had settled over me upon hearing them, almost uncurling the coil that my shoulders had wound themselves into. 

Still, I licked at my lower lip and reached out to take the other cup he’d pushed down onto the table, pleasantly surprised by the lack of coffee it offered. Infact, the sweet taste of chocolate started to chip away at the icy irritation that had been brewing since early this morning. 

“So, no lawsuits?” I murmured over the brim, pulling up a leg to get more comfortable on the sofa, seeing as my little makeshift workspace had now been overtaken. 

Marshall’s eyes caught on me in that next moment and, stupidly, I wasn’t put off by the way they were so clearly examining me. The grit of his jaw softened after a minute and so I figured he’d found whatever it was he was searching so intently for. “A fine for parkin’ in a no-stop zone. But nah, no lawsuits this time ‘round.”

One corner of my mouth ticked upwards impulsively, though I was quick to smother it behind the paper cup, feigning a sigh instead, “And here I thought I’d get to witness a real court in session.”

Em didn’t hide his own smile at my words, his eyes gleaming in a way that gave more away than he realised. You see me, they said. 

I supposed I did.

–

Working on music had always been a way for me to channel or process my emotions and thoughts, whether it was when writing or just messing around. It was possibly the reason as to why I was constantly in a bubble of it, when working, when cooking, driving, when I showered or got ready for bed. It was just always there, a constant companion in a way. 

Em seemed to be torn from the same cloth. In the days I’d spent with him and Rosie, I’d gotten to understand that in a whole new way, he played music almost as much as I did, even if it was barely audible, I could still see the way it settled him in the drum of his hand or the tapping of his foot. I guessed it was why we worked so well together, just in the studio of course.

Somehow we managed to leave whatever resentment and odd feelings we’d been experiencing at the door to the downstairs studio when we’d moved from the living room to get a start on writing again. The song I’d been working on earlier had been pushed to the side so that Marshall could show me the few verses and ideas he’d had for the song we’d been messing with previously, the same one he’d called Dre and practically fawned over.

“I figure it’ll open the album.” He explained from where he’d wheeled his way over to the sound deck, scribbling over the top of it with the pen he kept chewing on subconsciously. “Set the tone, then we can just work around it.” 

I hummed noncommittally, rereading the chorus I’d jotted down and since toyed with. “Could have a big voice on it,” I suggested to him, “Like, it sort of feels like a symphony in the way it builds, I reckon a few people could be jumping over one another for a chance at it.”

When I was met by an immediate silence, the scratch of his pen having paused, the rustle of his papers too. I dragged my eyes up and away from my own page to cast him a sparing glance, but was evidently surprised to find him already watching me. Rather intensely.

“What?” I queried, dropping my hand away from where I’d been rolling my lower lip between my fingertips.

He levelled me with a blank look, “You’re fuckin’ stupid if you reckon I’ma ask anyone but you to sing on this.”

My brow furrowed, before I raised my hand in a placating gesture. “It was just a suggestion– a good one too. Song won’t get as much recognition if I’m on it.”

That blank look shifted so quickly that I could barely even blink before it morphed into something which visibly portrayed his inner irritation. “You think I give a fuck about shit like that? I care about how it sounds, not how much it can make.”

Rolling my eyes, I just shook my head and looked back down at the marked margain, not entertaining him with a reaction. I knew I was right in my words and hadn’t meant anything by it, he could take it how he liked for all I cared. 

He didn’t appear to enjoy that though, seeing as he dropped the pen down onto the deck with a clatter to push himself to his feet and walk closer to the couch I was still perched on. “I mean that shit. What, you think I was jus’ gone push you aside? You think that little of me? Last I checked, this was your fuckin’ song.”

His voice was littered with misplaced exasperation and the way he chose to tower over me, even if he was still stood a foot and a half away, showed it too. He was looking for a fight, had been waiting for it, gearing up. I realised then, rather belatedly, that he wasn’t too good at holding onto his emotions. Sure, he could wait and bite his tongue when he chose to, but those feelings he had only seemed to bubble further the longer he held them in, as though they were stewing in the acid of his stomach, waiting to burn through.

I could really see it now. He was antsy, overassessing, overthinking this entire situation. I could almost smell the unease he’d been simmering in, and I knew it was all down to what had transpired the night before. Only now, he had a real excuse to bite back at me. Rosie wasn’t around to hear or interrupt, and me? I was done being impassive. 

“Yeah, Em. Of course,” I drawled with little to no care as to how I was practically scoffing at his words, “I think you’re an egotistical prick who just wants to steal my work, wasn’t as though I was the one to suggest getting someone else on it or anything.”

He didn’t take too kindly to the sarcasm. 

“You’re awful fuckin’ mouthy for someone who claims they a nobody, you know that?” He sniped back with enough heat to have my back immediately straightening, “All high and mighty, that it? Like you can do no fuckin’ wrong.”

My mouth fell open because– what?

“Just waltz in here,” He continued on in his tirade, “Into my goddamn life and jus’ throw your opinions out, then expect me to lap it all up. Well I ain’t your fuckin’ lapdog and I’m sick of listenin’ to you tell me what to do and how to do it.” He shot out, casting me away with a gesture of his hand which seemed so pointless, what with the way his unblinking gaze was still hooked on me. 

“Me?” I bristled, my voice high in the face of his outright irony as I stared up at him. “You brought me here! You! You were the one to call me, Marshall. You were the one to ask me to collaborate. To come stay with you here. To invite me into your fucking goddamn life!” I mimicked callowly, “So don’t go throwing that shit back in my face just ‘cause it's blown up in yours now.”

“The fuck’s that meant to mean?” Marshall seethed, ridgid in his stance as I forced myself to my feet too, done with sitting below a man so full of anger. 

I laughed bitterly and shook my head at him. “I don’t know what the fuck last night was, but since it happened you’ve been acting like a proper dick about it. An even bigger one than I’d been expecting, too.” I told him plainly, pointing towards his chest as I tried to bite back my gall smile, “And everyone else might be fine soothing your ego and apologising to appease whatever fucking delusions you’ve conjured up in that thick head of yours, but I’m not gonna let a grown man mess with my head and make out like I’ve done something wrong or acted inappropriately. ‘Cause look, I’m sorry if I offended your sensibilities, but again, you’re old enough to fuckin’ be able to work through your own feelings. I can’t be expected to read your mind!”

My chest was heaving with all the anger that fueled my words and I only realised a second too late just how close we’d grown in the short space that sat between his heated question and my reply. 

I glanced up into his eyes, that familiar blue gone, now swimming in dark hues. They flickered between my own and for a split second, I wondered what he saw. He was breathing just as harshly as I was, lit by the intense conclusion we’d been pulled into. 

It was make or break, I figured. 

But then he met me halfway and suddenly I was drowning in him. His hands in my hair, tugging, my fingers digging into his sides. It was unlike the night before, where his breath had been teasing, ghosting over my skin in baited wait. His words soft and genuine. Now it was just sparks flying off–  only not in that shitty Disney magic sort of way, but instead it felt like steel being forged in fire. 

I couldn’t concentrate on the way he was biting at me, teeth clashing as he forced me to expose my neck, me responding in the only way I knew how, dragging his lip between my incisors and pulling. Tugging. Hoping it hurt.

He walked us backwards, feet encasing mine, drawing me up against the nearest wall. My fingers dug in harder, feeling the muscle of his torso jump beneath me. He knocked my head back and we both heard the collision it made with the concrete there but neither of us seemed to care. The sting was enough for me to sink my nails into the skin of his neck and he retaliated by dropping his mouth to my jaw, leaving me gasping at the ceiling that sat above us, pulling him closer even as his own hands started to explore.

“Bastard.” I blew out, voice hitching when his tongue circled around my pulse point.

He answered me by nipping at the skin there, not enough to bruise but to mark, dragging his mouth lower and lower, tugging at the hem of my top until he bit harshly into the collarbone he’d exposed. I choked on my next breath, clawing at his nape until he soothed the sting with a featherlight kiss. 

I dragged his face back up to meet mine, his jaw in the palms of my hands as I knocked my nose against his, panting against his open mouth, not even questioning how I’d gotten this worked up by just his teasing. Because that was what this was, a game. The opener before the real show could begin. He seemed to know it too, smirking briefly at me before he slotted his mouth back over mine, dragging his thumb down my cheek to pool in the small dip there.

My hands fell too, they clung to whichever part of him they could find, but it wasn’t enough. It felt as though everything I’d been feeling, every emotion I’d experienced, not just over the past twelve hours, but during our phone calls, our texts, and the days I’d spent with him here, were pouring out of me. From crevasses that I didn't even know could exist until then.

He pushed and he shoved, greedy in the task of getting what he wanted, but I was just as bad. Just as eager. The moments over the past week where I’d lingered too long, looked too intently, were all making sense now. Silently, I hoped I left my own mark on him, something that was enough to have his mind lingering on me instead. 

I wondered then if he’d known this had been coming. If all his irritation had just been pent up tension. If he’d been angered by the fact he’d given himself away last night.

But then he pulled away. 

My eyelids fluttered.

His thumb dropped to swipe over my bottom lip. It settled there for a second, then two. 

It withdrew, smeared in a sheer coat of spit. I watched on, jaw agape, as he lifted it up to meet his own mouth, wiping it clean in one swift suck all whilst he stared back at me, his eyes taunting. Mouth menacing. 

My next breath escaped me in a silent shudder.

His eyes, dilated and glimmering, flickered between my own. Mirrored arousal looming over us like a thick fog, before he took another step back.

Away.

Retreating.

Only, was that what it was?

I watched, baited by his stance. By the devious look his gaze gave way to. The rest of his features were solemn almost, so blank that it was practically daunting. But his eyes…

They told a different story.

The studio was so quiet I doubted the thought that he couldn’t hear my heavy pants, or the way I swallowed around the lump in my throat. I waited, pondering over his next move, what he might say, before he tilted his head.

The motion caught me by surprise, ever slight as it was, before he spoke, “Times up.”

My face must have ploughed through a dozen different emotions in that brief pause, but confusion won out, head shooting to the right the second he decided to move, crossing the short distance which stood between him and the door.

“Z’s home.”

Ah.

Fuck.

[lunarflux]

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

part 3: truth in spirit

word count: 1,171

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

"I go out of town for two bloody weeks because you wouldn't cease to be insufferable, insisting I go on holiday -" Polly's grip on her cigarette tightened. She shut her eyes in frustration as if trying to sum up all that's happened into one sentence was quickly eating away at her sanity. "- and suddenly that fucking informant you pulled from the river is running the place."

Tommy held his glass, nearly empty, up to his nose. He let the soft burn of whiskey fill his lungs before responding. "She's not from the river, Pol. And she's not an informant. She's a bookie."

"Under whose payroll, Thomas? Whose books does she run?"

"Her own," Tommy muttered before throwing back the last of his drink, "doesn't really play well with others, that one."

Polly chuckled at the madness of it all. She pulled up a chair and sat across from him, eyes down to the table as she carefully decided what questions needed to be asked to fully understand what had transpired while she was away.

"No argument then? So, she is running the place."

"She's useful to me."

"Don't fucking lie to me. Lie to yourself for all I care," she scoffed. "Arthur told me what happened the other day. With those boys from London. She rattled you."

"She was supposed to stay hidden."

It had been your choice to handle the last situation, and you’d taken control in a way that caught even him off guard. What started as his order quickly became your game. The way you came in silently—a cold negotiation that left them cowed, without ever firing a shot or lifting a finger—shifted the air. They’d left the room looking to him for validation, but they’d taken orders from you. He might have told them to get out, but it was only after you said it first.

That moment returned to him now, the realization sinking like a weight in his chest. He’d always been in control, always the one to make the calls, pull the strings. But with you, no.

This isn’t loyalty, he thought, the concept cold and cutting. You don’t follow his orders; you interpret them. You played the moves he maps out, but on your own time, under your own circumstances. You maneuvered people—him included—as if you were making sure they stayed within the boundaries of a game only you understood.

He lit a cigarette, dragging in a lungful of smoke. His mind reeled, tracing over your every action, every look you’d given him. That slight smirk, the kiss on the cheek that was almost mocking, like you knew something he didn’t. And you did. Because while he was so caught up in his attempts to keep the room under his heel, you’d positioned yourself as the source of unearthly gravity that kept them all pinned to the floor.

“So, she is the one pulling the strings, is she?” Polly said, her tone casual but with an all-knowing edge. "No, too easy... Maybe she's just pulling your strings."

Tommy’s jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance passing through him, but he didn't deny it.

Polly gave a low, humorless chuckle, shaking her head. “You should have seen this coming,” she said, stepping forward. “You’ve brought her in to work for you, but she’s not here to follow orders, Tommy. She's here to test you - test us. Whether you like it or not, she's reshaping your territory with her pretty little finger.”

He flicked ash from his cigarette, his voice controlled. “She’s useful to us. Even a blind man could see that.”

“Oh, she’s more than that.” Polly’s eyes narrowed. “She’s here for something else. Might be she’s got you wrapped around that same pretty finger, and you're too thickheaded to admit it.”

Tommy scoffed, leaning back in his chair, but the dismissal didn't have its usual conviction. “You think I’m that easy to manipulate?”

Polly’s gaze hardened. “Not easy, no. But you’re a man, and men have a tendency to underestimate certain kinds of people. You think she’s just here to take care of business? She’s here to test you, to see what you’re really made of. You pulled her from the shadows, and you have yet to deliver your end of the deal. She would not have allowed herself to align with you unless she was waiting for something.”

Tommy stayed silent, his expression guarded, but Polly read him all the same.

“She’s not loyal to you, not yet,” Polly continued, voice dropping lower. “And she won’t be—not unless you can prove that you’re worth it. I saw the way she looked at you during the meeting this morning. Calculating, studying your every move, every inflection of your voice that others would never otherwise detect. She’s deciding if she wants to play by your rules or if she’ll make you follow hers.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened around his glass, and he met Polly’s stare head-on. “You think I don’t know how to control someone like her? You think I have to, what, spend my time trying to prove something to her?”

“I think,” Polly said, leaning in closer, “that she’s got you doing exactly what she wants. You’re so used to leading, Tommy, you don’t even realize when someone else has started to steer.”

She paused, letting the words sink in, watching his expression shift as the weight of her words takes hold.

“She’s here for something,” Polly whispered with a hint of warning. “She’s clever enough to have worked her way into your business, but if you keep pushing without giving her what she wants, you’re going to regret it. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that she’s here for you. She’s here for power. Or loyalty. Something that you can’t just give with a few good words and a share of the profit. She wants something intangible, and she'll make sure it'll be painful for you to give it.”

Tommy remained silent, the gears turning in his mind, calculating, reassessing.

Polly sighed, standing straight again, her arms dropping to her sides. “Maybe you can have her on your side, Tommy. But you’ll have to prove you’re not just another man who thinks he can control her.”

With that, she left him alone with his thoughts, her footsteps echoing as she exits. Tommy sat there, motionless, staring at the spot where Polly stood. The silence felt heavier, the room smaller, and the realization more profound.

You’d already taken the lead, he realized, and he’d been too focused on using everything you offered to see it. The subtle gestures, the quiet manipulations, the way you brushed off his attempts at intimidation with an almost amused indifference. He had mistaken it all as loyalty waiting to be earned, but now he understood. You were here for control. And somehow, you already had it.

But if you expect loyalty to be his debt to repay, he’d have to find a way to make sure it’s a debt you can’t walk away from easily.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: You get what you give

For this round, drabbles are written based on a random choice of character and image from this pinterest board. Pls feel free to keep adding to it.

Character: Andy Barber

Prompt

Warnings: this drabble includes elements such as mentions of alcoholism and cheating. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

Andy Barber.

You'd know him anywhere but you didn't expect him there. The tight-ass, straight-laced family man in a place like this. His department store suit stands out on the dingy bar. So does the woman grinding in his lap. She's not his wife. 

He has one hand on a pint of foamy beer and his other on her ass. He encourages her with a growl as she nips at the air before him. The tension is palpable. 

Your hand rests on your phone as you hide on the gloom at the other end of the bar. Your vodka tonic is forgotten as quickly as the shitty day you hoped to drown in it. Your thumb hovers above Laurie's name, hesitant, calculating. 

Andy fucking Barber. 

That jackass with the side eye. You're not stupid. You heard what he said about you. He didn't realise you were in his bathroom, that you were witness to yet another row with his long tortured wife. 

Well, you might be a goddamn drunk but you're not a fucking cheater. The only man in your life is the bartender.  

You flick away your contact list. Instead, you tap the camera icon and swipe into recording mode. You carefully angle the lens up to catch the screen. Yoi watch through the screen as the woman straddles him, grazing her fingers through his beard as she draws him into a sloppy kiss.

Oh yes, it's very messy indeed. 

🍺

You expect chaos when you hit send. It isn’t thoughtless or spiteful. The truth is the truth. As he always says, honesty is the greatest virtue of all. You always roll your eyes when he goes on his exhaustive lectures; often treating Laurie no different than their son. 

‘Sorry, Laurie. I didn’t think you’d believe me but proof is in the pudding.’ 

Maybe there is a bit of spite left in you. You hope she’s happy now. Andy may have been right about you but you were just as on point about him. Let it burn, you might just smell some of the ashes as they settle. 

Days pass. No response. You don’t expect one. You were surprised she didn’t block your number when she cut you off. You wouldn’t have blamed her either. But you can still hate them all. 

It’s not Laurie, it’s him. He shows up at your office. You sit behind reception where you always do and tuck away the flask you keep in your bottom drawer. Shit. 

“Hello, sir, how can I help--” 

“Don’t fucking do that,” he points over the top of the square desk and grips the edge, “you know why I’m here.” 

You can’t help a smirk. You wiggle a pen and innocently tap your bottom lip, “I’m sorry, did you have a meeting with one of our agents?” 

“You are fucking low,” he snarls. 

“Ah, yes, but seems like we frequent the same gutters,” you sneer back. “She looked young. Did you check her ID? You might not just be a creep, you could be a criminal, Mr. ADA.” 

“Fuck you,” he bends over the higher shelf of the desk, “do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done?” 

“Mr. Barber,” you reach for the phone, resting your hand on the receiver, “if you don’t calm down, I’ll have to call security.” 

He quakes with rage as his face turns red, “you’re a fucking bitch.” 

“Might be, but at least I’m not a cheater--” 

“Alcoholic slut,” he sneers. 

You lift the receiver and hit speed dial. You stare him down as you do, “hi, Joey, yes, I have a client here who’s a bit... aggressive, do you mind coming up here? Thank you.” 

You wink at Andy and put the phone down as you sit back. He glares back at you and stands straight. He puffs through his nose like raging bull. 

“Just you fucking wait,” he threatens as he retreats, “you ruined my fucking life. I’m gonna burn yours to the ground.” 

[booksandabeer]

Steve-Centric Stucky Fics: 5 Recs + 1 TBR

As promised, here is the rec list for Steve/Bucky fics with a focus on Steve-centric stories—all of them not EG-compliant, as requested. It's not quite as long as my usual rec lists for two reasons:

(1) I'm still sick and I can barely sit up straight, so please forgive the brevity of the list, and

(2) I deliberately wanted to include exclusively fics that were written in 2022 and 2023 to shine a spotlight on a few of the many wonderful writers and artists who are still creating absolutely fantastic works for the Stucky ship and who deserve to be read just as widely and passionately as older works in the fandom. Recency bias, but make it positive!

So without further ado, here are five Steve-centric Stucky recs and one more fic that I can't wait to get to:

1. say it soft and it's almost like praying by Somanywords | 41K, M

Author's summary: Natasha says, “Look, whatever the truth is about you, we have no way of really knowing the Winter Soldier's intentions. He’s not all there, he’s not who you remember. He’s a hot mess, Steve.”

“Why does everyone think that?” Steve says, and he’s nearly yelling, but not quite, because he doesn’t need to, not when they’re so close. “Why does everyone keep saying he’s a mess—have you seen me?" 

Post-CA:TWS canon divergent. I literally finished this fic about 15 minutes ago, so I haven't even left a comment yet. I'm still processing, you could say. The author tagged this with "just another post catws fic (but by me)"—and yes, that's what you get. All the usual ingredients are here, but the joy of TWS canon divergence is of course in the endless possibilities of how these well-known ingredients are used, re-arranged, and re-imagined as something new, exciting, and often much more satisfying than in canon. This fic excels at all three and is an absolute joy from start to finish.

2. Daybreak by BonkyBornes, art by PottersPink | 9K, NR

Author's summary: They called it project Rebirth because the person was supposed to be reborn, like a phoenix from the ashes. Steve was supposed to be the phoenix. He was supposed to rise from the ashes of his old body, he was supposed to leave behind his deafness and his limp and the scoliosis that bent his entire body to the left. He was supposed to leave behind everything that held him back.

In the end, the only thing that left was the only thing that mattered.

Shrinkyclinks canon-divergent AU. What if Project Rebirth didn't go right...but it didn't go entirely wrong either? A story about ghosts but not a ghost story. Or maybe something else entirely? Steve fights his body and time and the memories that keep haunting him. Beautifully written, with gorgeous art by PottersPink that perfectly complements the story.

3. Exhale by seapigeon, art by dudewhereismypie | 15K, M

Author's summary: After the Chitauri invasion, Steve parts ways with SHIELD, unsure if he can trust an agency that tried to deceive him and built weapons from the Tesseract.

He finds himself alone in an unfamiliar future, penniless, not even legally alive. Fortunately, he knows how to survive. Steve Rogers is used to getting by on his own.

The thing is, he doesn't have to.

Shrunkyclunks. Post-Avengers canon divergent. A fic that asks the question: What if, after the battle of New York, Steve had told SHIELD a polite but firm 'No'? Follow him as he strikes out on his own, finds an apartment, a job, and friends, figures out life in the 21st century...and of course falls in love!

4. Preberseeschießen by Ginny_Potter | 6K, T

Author's summary: Bucky breathes out and shoots. The bullet hits water… and there it is, the zapping sound of paper tearing.

The light turns on and off three times. Third circle. Just a lick out of bullseye. The Howlies explode in cheers.

Or, the Howling Commandos play a shooting game with the Austrian Resistance and Steve has lots of unresolved feelings about himself, his new body, and his changing relationship with Bucky. In other words, comrades are comrades, angst looms, and Steve feels.

Wartime fic. Would you like to read some excellent gay angst full of yearning and unresolved tension, peppered with interesting and wonderfully specific historical details and Howlies camaraderie? Would you like to get your heart crushed a little? Yes? Here you go. And if this makes you feel too sad by the end of it and you crave a bit of a happier resolution, just jump straight into a fistfull of dollars (5K, E) by the same author, which is not intended as a companion piece or even set in the same universe, but it works just as if it were. (Look at me sneaking in extra recs.)

5. Not In The Answer But The Question by aimmyarrowshigh, art by PottersPink | 27K, T

Author's summary: It rankles that his drink was made before he even got a chance to order it. What if he wanted a change? What if he were adventurous and bold? What if he tried something new?

---

Or, Steve Rogers shakes up his gray daily routine in 2014 by going back home to Vinegar Hill. To his surprise, the Jewish deli he used to frequent with Arnie is still standing.

And Steve's whole life changes again.

Shrunkyclunks. Post-Avengers canon divergent. A lost and lonely Steve tries to figure out who he was, is and most importantly, wants to be in this new century he's found himself in that is both terrifying and full of possibilities. Told in vignettes (I did not count, but I believe all of them are exactly 100 word drabbles) that perfectly illustrate the fragmented mind and life of its protagonist and his experience of constantly shifting and adjusting between past and present. A story about identity, memory, self-acceptance, and finding the courage to love and let yourself be loved. And food. So much amazing food!

+ 1 TBR: Operation: Gros Michel by SquadOfCats | 358K, E

Author's summary: “It starts with bananas. Of course, it's not really about the bananas. Just like a camel isn't bothered by one single straw, just like a dam doesn't break because of one extra drop. Obviously, Steve's mental breakdown isn't about bananas.”

Steve is overwhelmed and hanging by a thread, doing his best to take care of Bucky while still deeply traumatized himself. He finally has a breakdown over the stupidest of things: bananas. So Bucky takes care of him.

In which Steve learns to surf, Bucky becomes a gardener, and they both begin to heal.

Post-CA:TWS canon divergent. No, I did not make a mistake, the word count for this story really does come in at an impressive (or intimidating, you decide) 358,225 words! Which is the only reason why I haven't read it yet. I do want to make time for this asap because the snippets I've read so far were very intriguing and everything I've heard about it from people who have finished it, sounds absolutely amazing. So, this is the wild card pick!

Happy reading! <3

[thedarlingdearestdead]

The Jedi Way:

A quick oneshot for Anakin Skywalker! Might do a pt2 depending... Ok I did - here it is.

Summary: Anakin questions the war and his place in it, you interrupt him and try to calm him down, it does not work, he just gets wound up...

Warnings: MATURE, almost smut, dub!con kiss, angst, jedi heresy, etc.

Word count: 1,070

Anakin wasn't quite sure how he had ended up here, but he wasn't upset about it. For the first time in a long time, the world had gone quiet, and he relished the feeling. It was far too often these days that the Force became too loud for him to concentrate, for him to function. He knew it was becoming a problem but wasn't sure how to fix it. He also wasn't willing to think about it now, not when he had finally gotten some peace.

Rain was falling outside of the windows at the Jedi Temple where Anakin had returned just days before. He hadn't yet been assigned another mission, and he hadn't yet asked either. His head still buzzed with energy and fire from the days before; he'd been finding it hard to breathe, hard to focus. It was by accident that he arrived at the edge of the gardens, looking out of the large window at the end of the pavilion. He acknowledged that it might have been a habit from his days as a Padawan.

His master was always keen on this room, always brought Anakin here to practice meditating. The humidity was slightly comforting to Anakin in its warmth.

Perhaps he should try meditating. Anakin was usually so restless, but recently, he just felt tired. Tired of the war.

"Anakin?"

Of course, it was you; you always had the ability to find him. Anakin turned with a small smile on his face. "Where did you come from?"

"Master Plo and I just landed; he is doing a debrief with the Council, and, I fear, picking up another mission."

"So you're on a layover?"

"Practically. What are you still doing here? I thought the Hoth offensive ended days ago?"

He looked down at his hand; the blurry memory of blood and ash turned them red and marked in his mind. He cringed slightly and pocketed his hands in his cloak. "Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be off again soon too."

His shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped. It had been a while since you had seen your childhood friend but surely this change in demeanour was wrought by something… 

“Anakin, what's wrong?” 

In that moment, he made a conscious choice: to tell the truth. Maybe you would understand. If any one could… ”It’s been a long war."

You reached across to him and grabbed his hand, standing beside him much closer and staring out of the window into the storm. Battle fatigue was common, you had seen it in many of your clone forces in the past months. You sighed and attempted to reassure him, to give him some of your spirit and strength, whatever remained you would share with him. 

"I know you're tired—"

"I'm not tired.” His voice was stony, stubborn, frustrated.

"I know the last few trips have been hard—"

"It's not just the last few trips."

"I know."

"Do you? I thought you would but now I wonder. How can you, and I, and everyone else know and let it continue… Why are you asking me questions? It is so obvious what is wrong.” Anakin's voice grew in volume as he continued, "The Jedi Council—"

"Anakin, stop talking."

"No, I have to. I have to speak. How can you not? How can you stand there and look at me like I'm crazy? I'm not crazy. You have to know this has gone too far." He was looking down at you now, almost challenging. He edged toward you, and you shuffled backward through reflex. “Something has to be done, some decisive action taken. There is a reason the war is continuing for so long, it isn’t an accident.”

"Anakin, you scare me sometimes. The things you say…"

Anxiety now flushed through Anakin's system. A horrible icy cold of misunderstanding, because you didn't get it. You were far too caught up in the Council's propaganda, you hadn't experienced the things that he had.

"What about the things I do? All I want is for the council to listen, to think about what I say. They exclude me but have I done anything wrong?" He was expectant, he was insistent. 

"Not yet. But you’re going somewhere dangerous. And there are some lines you should not cross.”

And suddenly, you weren't talking about the war. You were talking about the air between your bodies, the unlit spark, the quiet buzz which surrounded the two of you whenever you were alone.

He searched your eyes for a minute, angry and determined to make you see. Make you realise. And suddenly, he kissed you. His hand immediately came up to grip your face, pull you toward him. His lips were hot and all-consuming in their hunger. It took a moment for your mind to awaken to your reality, and you shoved him away violently.

"What do you think you're doing!?”

His lips were red and swollen, so were yours, you assumed. He didn't seem the slightest bit put out by your rejection.

"I'm doing what I have to do to make you understand. Don't tell me you've never thought of it; I know you have. I've felt it."

You bristled and blushed, ”I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Anakin, please…"

"Say that again." Now he moved back toward you with a dangerous, devilish look in his eye, backing you up against the window as you unsteadily attempted to push him off. One meek hand rested on his chest.

"It isn't the Jedi way…"

You were looking down at your fingers splayed on his chest in fickle protestation. His beautiful muscled chest.

"Let me teach you the Jedi way.”

As Anakin's lips hovered tantalisingly close to yours, a storm of emotions raged within you. Your heart pounded, and you felt a heat rise in your cheeks. The rain outside the window intensified, matching the tumultuous uncertainty inside the pavilion.

You took a deep breath and tried to gather your thoughts. Anakin's persistent advances had caught you off guard, but you couldn't deny the undeniable attraction that had simmered beneath the surface for years. The unspoken tension between you and Anakin, your fellow Jedi, had grown to a breaking point.

His intense gaze bore into your eyes, demanding a response. The connection between you two, an unspoken bond formed through countless missions and shared experiences, had reached a pivotal moment.

He leaned in again and you couldn’t help but to surrender. 

[croquis-el]

Continuing the theme of Naruhodou’s character, I would like to mention a few more striking details that run like a red thread throughout the series of games.

In addition to the incredible strength of spirit, perseverance and stubbornness, which I wrote about in the post below, the fandom also (fortunately) mentions his secrecy (he doesn’t reveal much about himself). But since I’ve already seen such a post and I’m unlikely to make a discovery for anyone, I won’t repeat it.

I want to talk about Naruhodou's short temper, his impulsiveness and how this complements his complex personality and difficult character.

Again, to avoid confusion: Naruhodou = Wright

It was a discovery for me that some part of the fandom considers Naruhodou an extremely patient person, ready to put the brakes on absolutely everything.

After all, this is not the case.

He isn't afraid that his words can touch a person to the quick (especially when it comes to the truth). There are times when he speaks without thinking or after thinking poorly (however, more often he speaks directly, clearly and carefully calculating his moves). He also doesn't give up his words, and if he understands that he was wrong, he admits it to his opponent, accepting defeat.

Returning to the topic of temper: Naruhodo can be easily angered. He is short tempered. Hothead. His dynamite fuse is quite short. It ignites quickly, explodes and cools down as quickly as the ash settles.

The first time (if we consider the chronology of events) we are faced with the consequences of Naruhodou's temper and subsequent anger is during 3-1 (Turnabout Memories; jp: 思い出の逆転).

Naruhodou testifies that after he listened to warnings about his girlfriend from her ex-boyfriend, he became very angry. Not believing a word of it, he lost his temper and “lightly” pushed the guy in the chest, causing him to fall to the ground (that’s strength!). Eventually, after his outburst, he began to worry (the ash had settled) and returned to check on Nonda (Doug Swallow), but unfortunately this led to his further arrest (again, when he made an impulsive decision to flee the scene of the crime).

Even if we ignore or question what Chinami (Dahlia) said where she mentions that Naruhodou can be quite violent (because all of her testimony was created to frame him), he himself mentions this several times in his testimony. Naruhodou himself knows that his behavior can change dramatically as a reaction to words or moments that are unpleasant for him.

Naruhodou has some patience, but it quickly runs out and he loses control over the volume of his voice and the words he speaks. He gets very annoyed by the strange or dishonest behavior of others and he unconsciously begins to raise his voice (this is all accompanied by a shaking screen while typing).

Naruhodou also admits that he can act like a child when he is angry.

Those who are spared the consequences of Naruhodo's temper are children. Naruhodo does not raise his voice or get angry at either Harumi (Pearl), Minuki (Trucy), or Ahlby Ur'gaid (Bokuto Tsuani) for their words or behavior.

The courtroom is no exception.

In most cases, Naruhodou pays close attention to his speech and behaves accordingly when in the halls of law. However, when his patience comes to an end and control of his voice recedes into the background, the judge is forced to reprimand Naruhodou. (But I want to write about Naruhodou’s behavior in and out of the courtroom, as well as his increased control over his outbursts and emotions, in a separate post.)

It is also impossible not to mention his impulsive actions, which he commits at the peak of emotions (the decision to study law, cross a burning bridge, defend the accused even under the threat of the death penalty, and other equally reckless ones). Despite this, he doesn't regret for a minute such turning points in his life.

I admire how alive and multifaceted Naruhodou turned out to be. He has many qualities that make the character very interesting. He isn't perfect, but at the same time, I want to sing odes and give flowers for him (beg, not only me).

P.S.

Let me remind you once again that English is not my native language.

I'm using screenshots from the game from the adaptation because the main post is still in English, and when translating from my native language or from Japanese, there may be misinformation that I would like to avoid.

[whyeverr]

popping in from my accidental semi-hiatus to share something that’s been on my heart lately…

my sims story / gameplay / whatever-you-want-to-call-it — the world I’m building in Rebuild A City — is about picking through the bones of society post-collapse and rebuilding something better. (sorry if you actually thought it was about zombie townies! it was socialism all along 😩)

I started this save because I was in a place where I didn’t feel a whole lot of hope, and I wanted to spend my free time and creative energy on something healthier for me than what I’d been doing previously (that is, killing sims slowly, on an island, with Nietzsche). I wanted to reinforce my faith in the best of humanity — mutual aid, community care, imagination, perseverance — and my belief that a better future is possible, in stories and in real life, even when the idea collapse starts to feel more and more inevitable…

and you know what, friend? I think it’s working 😳

and here’s the thing… in the endless discourse™ about the US election — and all the ways our candidate may or may not fall short of our own ideals as individuals, mine included! — I hold tightly to this hope I’ve worked to nurture, this feeling of promise that I’m excited about, but I refuse to let fantasies of building a better society from the ashes — in my silly sims story or in some hypothetical American future —to cloud the truth that we don’t have to burn it all down to begin with in the first place!

when voices say there’s no hope, or there’s no substantive difference between Trump and Kamala, or there’s no point in voting because we’ll keep arming Isr*el either way, or that we should all vote third party to “send the Democrats a message,” or that it’s actually somehow better if Trump wins because the US will collapse faster… look at who is saying these things 👀 perhaps a white person in a blue state…? someone speaking from a place of privilege, using their platform to accelerate their political revolution fantasy at the expense of minoritised and vulnerable people living in red states across the country? too many people my age made this same mistake in 2016 and we are still reaping the consequences today.

say no to accelerationist thinking. say no to purity tests, say no to voting third party as idealist self-expression or political aesthetic.

say yes to mutual aid and community care. say yes to voting as harm reduction, and organizing under a president who doesn’t want to outlaw political protest entirely. say yes to protecting people with uteruses, trans folks, queer people, disabled people, people of color, living in red states.

say yes — deep breath — to the reality that you as an American were born in (or decided to move to and become a citizen of) a powerful, expansive, and deeply flawed empire, and accept your collective responsibility to vote strategically. and the only acceptable strategy — the only strategy that does not lead directly to the outcome of a second Trump term, doubling down on the worst political outcomes here and abroad, and the promise of the end of free elections in the US — is voting for Kamala Harris on or before Nov 5. 🇺🇸🗳️

[lilydalexf]

Here are some very good fics that involve the X-Files episode "En Ami." Enjoy!

Animus Possidendi by Aloysia_Virgata (@aloysiavirgata) “It looks good on you,” he said flatly. “It looks incredible, actually. But I still hate it. Get rid of it.”

As Friends by @heartbash Post-episode En Ami (715). Mulder and Scully have a hard conversation about the Smoking Man's manipulation of Scully and the nature of their evolving relationship.

As We Forgive Those by haphazardmethod Mulder was so angry in En Ami. What happened to reconcile him to Scully's actions? Barbara tells me most people said "sex." This is not that story. "The fact that forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us isn't honored more--I blame that on writers. Because the easy story to tell is the vengeance story, and it's known to satisfy. This guy shot my brother. How's the story gonna wind up? And what does a reader think? OK, that's settled. So it's just the easiest of all stories to tell. So it in fact encourages, makes reputable vengeance." -- Kurt Vonnegut. This is not that story, either.

By All Accounts, Today Was A Disaster and The Art of Breaking by @rationalcashew Post-En Ami. We know Mulder’s pissed, but so is Scully. Angst. MSR.

The Choices We Make by a_steady_wish “You need to see a doctor,” he insisted, hand on the small of her back, more forceful than usual; the tips of his fingers pressed into her flesh enough that although she knew she wouldn’t be bruised, there would likely be red marks for a little while afterwards; he was marking that curve as his own.

Coming Clean by @starwalker42 "Loving Mulder is as natural as breathing. It’s not lost on her that she’s currently underwater." Mulder and Scully deal with the fallout from the events of En Ami.

The Course of True Love by ML (No summary provided)

The Darker Side of Love by fragilevixen (@fragilevixenfic) Mulder does not want to talk but he does not want Scully to leave, either. “Betrayal stings in a bitter way but regret leaves an even bigger hole in a heart.” – Unknown

Devoured, cleansed by @frangipanidownunder Set post En Ami.

Divide and Conquer by @mldrgrl A post-En Ami drabble.

False Front by cecily_sass (@cecilysass) Scully comes home from her road trip with the Smoking Man. Mulder’s been waiting and worrying. No one likes to feel fooled. Missing scenes from the end of En Ami.

Haptics by Pam Gamble Another interpretation of the En Ami aftermath. Haptics: Information conveyed through the sense of touch.

Iconoclasm by Diana Battis Variations on a theme of truth.

In Milford by DarlaBlack (@sigritandtheelves) This time she leaves

Let Bygones Be Bygones by @mldrgrl Post En Ami/Chimera smut. Mulder's still just a wee bit mad about Scully running off and Scully's just angry that he can't let it go.

Momentum by @dreamingofscully The choices Scully makes in En Ami cause some unintended consequences for herself and her relationship with Mulder.

Nature's Dark Gift by bluesamutra Daylight is coming and the shadows are gone

No Quarter Given 3: Surrender by Mish It can only end in mutual surrender. (No Quarter Given part 1, part 2, and part 4 - part 4 is unfinished)

A Poison Tree by @rationalcashew Post-En Ami. Mulder and Scully are pissed at each other over the events of En Ami. There do be smut here.

Shadow of the Sword by Dreamshaper 'She had been used before. She would be used again. Spender Sr. might not have realized that she had finally allowed herself to love Mulder, but he had known all along that his deceptive promises would drive a wedge between them, and he probably considered that a perfect reward for his efforts...'

Shadows of Ashes by VivWiley Is the price of betrayal calculable?

Those Who Wait by OnlyTheInevitable (@gaycrouton) Punctuality seemed to be written into Scully's bones, yet when it came to Mulder, she never quite seemed to get the timing right.

Three Times - Overture, Overture Mirrored, and Restart by Joann Humby Scully's missing, having left home with CSM. When she returns, emotions are running high. / After a sexual misadventure in the aftermath of En Ami - Mulder and Scully still haven't talked about what happened. Mulder returns from his trip to England to find Scully considering fate.

Untitled by @mldrgrl Consider this a post-epish piece for En Ami

What Partnership is About by Anna Greenway A post episode story for En Ami. Mulder and Scully play Monopoly.

Wing and Prayer by Revely (No summary provided)

Yo Creo and The Payment by Elanor G Tensions run high between Mulder and Scully after the events of En Ami. A new lead on Cobra threatens to lead them further into darkness. / After En Ami, a conversation. And payment for services rendered.

[unfortunatetheorist]

Why did Beatrice Baudelaire II go to The Hotel Denouement?

This is a question that I think has not been discussed/brought up enough... but that could be due to the answer - it's dark, even for the Snicketverse.

At the start of 'The End', we see Beatrice Baudelaire II ask the trolley driver to take her to, "The Hotel Denouement, please", as this dialogue follows:

Trolley Driver: "The Hotel Denouement burned down in a fire years ago. It's just a pile of ash, why the heck do you want to go there?"

BB2: "I'm looking for someone."

Trolley Driver: "Well, I hope you find them, Miss...?"

BB2: "Baudelaire."

The bold green line, 'I'm looking for someone' is important here; it tells us that Beatrice II was looking for someone at the Hotel Denouement - but who?

There's only one person who worked at the Hotel Denouement with a direct connection to Beatrice; that's right, Beatrice Baudelaire II was looking for her father, Dewey Denouement.

...but why? Why Dewey? Why not Frank or Ernest?

Well, simply put, Beatrice has done enough of her own research to know that both of her uncles, Frank and Ernest, died in the Denouement fire. The Baudelaires wouldn't have known who survived the fire and who didn't, though canon theory states that everyone died in the fire.

But this still begs the question - why was Beatrice looking for Dewey? Her supposed 'aim' was to reunite with the Baudelaires, who she seems to have somehow lost.

She knows her mother's dead, as the Medusoid Mycelium killed her; the Baudelaires wouldn't have felt as bad telling her that. Hence, she looks for her father first to either:

gain his help to track down the Baudelaires

stay with her father and leave the Baudelaires behind

Likelier than not, Option 1.

Additionally, the fact that Beatrice's line comes AFTER the Trolley Driver tells her the Hotel is 'just a pile of ash' is important - Beatrice's research has informed her of the hotel's secret sub-basement containing her father's life work.

This leads to the haunting conclusion that:

THEORY: Beatrice didn't know whether or not her father was alive because, before they were separated, the Baudelaires never told Beatrice II the truth about her father - they felt guilty and responsible for his death, and feared she would betray them. Her research is the only/biggest source of important knowledge that she has about her father.

I find it particularly haunting because, well... Beatrice is 10! Younger than two out of three Baudelaires when their misfortunes began.

Ok, there is the argument that Sunny was a baby when the events of ASOUE happened to her, but as Olaf pointed out time and again, her siblings were always there to protect her. Additionally, (@snicketstrange has a very insightful post about this) the Baudelaires practically had superpowers - mechanics/engineering, reading/research, culinary skills/insanely sharp teeth for each Baudelaire AND a super memory for all three! What powers does Beatrice II have?!?!

Beatrice II had no-one and nothing. She was an only child - nay, an only orphan - who had lost everything and was trying to get her life back on track.

Only adding to the misfortune of the Snicketverse.

~ Th3r3534rch1ngr4ph, Unfortunate Theorist/Snicketologist

[physalian]

10 Plot Premises That Never Get Old

There’s a great many lists out there complaining about the worst and most overused tropes in fiction. I want to pass the mic to tropes that will never get old. The love-to-hate ones, the knife-twisting ones, the shipping fodder.

1. Killing the character who knew too much

Or, the “Maes Hughes” effect. Your story centers around a massive mystery or conspiracy and one lone character is unfortunately not genre-savvy enough to remember that the phrase “the early bird gets the worm” ends in “but the second mouse gets the cheese”.

This is the character who has unraveled the partial, if not entire truth, coming to a shocking realization moments before their untimely murder. Usually, they’re alone. Usually, this death rocks the remaining characters, sometimes for the entirety of the remaining plot (see FullMetal Alchemist). Usually, they become genre-savvy at exactly the moment they realize there’s no way out of this. Conveniently, they’re never on the phone with the right person, or there’s never any cell service. They didn’t write their findings down or didn’t hit record.

This whole entire tragedy is only a tragedy because this character made the wrong choice that is also the only choice this character would have made.

2. The enemy of my enemy

As OSP once said, anyone can be a minion, even the presumed Big Bad. Whether it’s a serialized cartoon with well established sides of good and bad or a single movie, having two entities that loathe each other reluctantly and bitterly join forces to deal with an even Bigger Bad… that’s the good stuff.

Either the villain has been minion-ed, or the good guys and the bad guys’ enduring battle of morals is interrupted by a wild card third party that insults them both or threatens the world both sides are trying to save in their own ways.

This is *not* a redemption arc. This is the temporary alliance that usually terminates once the threat is dealt with (see: Transformers Prime, or ‘Marabounta’ from Code Lyoko). Extra points if they’re age-old rivals who fight better together than the hero does with the rest of their team. Extra extra points if they both realize this and firmly deny that it happens (and even more if the villain tries to exploit the hero with this fact later on).

3. The redemption arc

***Emphasis on the word ‘arc’*** The ones that span 56 out of 61 episodes (see: you know the show). The ones that cost the redeemer their ideals, the friends they thought they had on the wrong side, maybe a limb or two. The ones that start with a villain so convinced they’re right, only to slowly question everything they’ve come to know and, without shedding their entire personality, do the right thing and still survive the process.

This is not redemption equals death. This is not a half-assed heel turn at the very last second—that’s a button mash impulsive act for shock value. This is taking a character almost all of the heroes have given up on trying to save, someone they themselves have nearly written off, and deciding to try anyway. This is a character deciding to do the right thing even if it doesn’t ever redeem them at all. This is a character whose whole life ahead of them is spent doing better than what was done before, and we love them for it.

4. The haunted ashes of a fallen empire

This one is a bit more tricky to define but think Prometheus of the Alien franchise, or Xerxes from FMAB. These are characters in the present exploring the ruins of a civilization that never should have fallen, but did due to the Big Bad they either created or tried to imprison. This is those characters looking around at what used to be, and making history repeat itself whether they’re genre-savvy or not.

These are the glaring red sign posts telling the heroes to turn around every step further in *or else* and they do it anyway. Or, these are the heroes who know exactly what happened and in their own hubris, are convinced it won’t happen this time to them.

5. The Most Dangerous Game

The originator: An island owned by a big game hunter who has evolved into hunting humans. The trope: Powerful and/or incredibly skilled character in any other situation is trapped in the confines of a dwindling clock matched up against the very antithesis of who they are and what they represent, but who is also just like them.

I just love seeing characters who are normally incredibly competent and rarely fazed, tripped up by the horror of being hunted by someone just like them who lost their humanity. So many juicy existential questions arise, so much angst. Double points if the character has a firm no-kill policy or extremely picky morals and has to wager tossing them aside to survive.

6. Stranger in a strange land

Whether it’s a character in a foreign country trying to learn and respect the ways of the people who saved them (see: Last Samurai, or Avatar '09), or an alien who crash-landed on Earth and struggles to assimilate and not get caught by the government (see any PG 13 alien adventure movie), a time traveler to the past or the future (Outlander, Back to the Future), either drama or hilarity ensues, often with a heaping helping of socio-political commentary.

It gets kind of troublesome when the writer is a white guy taking all the wrong messages from throwing his white guy protagonist into a land of the ‘savages’ (see uhhhh all variations of Pocahontas). But then you have strange lands like Wonderland, or Narnia.

7. Magical Otherworlds

Speaking of Narnia and Wonderland—magical hidden otherworlds. They can be incredibly blandly executed sometimes, but some of our most cherished stories come from living vicariously through Harry Potter or the Pevensie siblings. In this case I’m specifically talking about complete otherworlds, not hidden-in-plain-sight otherworlds (see: Percy Jackson) because of the complete freedom and creativity you have in geography, history, and world mechanics.

The possibilities are endless! Double points if the otherworld is a metaphor for childhood adventure and living without adult responsibilities (see: Peter Pan), a world in which we know, no matter how cool the world is, the protagonist was never meant to stay there. They must always inevitably, inexorably, return home and take what they’ve learned there to live a better and profound life.

8. “I know you’re in there somewhere”

Is it done to death? Yes. Is every situation different because it’s completely dependent on the relationship between the characters involved? Also yes. Tends to overlap with a redemption arc, but more often a hero-turned-temporary-villain. The drama! The angst! The shipping fodder! (see: many, many anime, too many to count)

This trope also has some uncertainty to it. You never know if the confrontation will be a success, if the character in question will commit some heinous act to wrack them with guilt later, if they even want to be saved, or if they really were saved and not just faking it. Either we get a POV of the stricken character’s battle in the mind or are left watching on the edge of our seat as unknowing as those trying to save them, and sometimes, rarely, they’re just not salvageable.

9. On the Run

The base has been discovered, the ship has been overrun, the house has burned down, the government is on the hunt. The hero team is forced apart with only the clothes on their back and what they can carry with only one or two others and loses all contact with most of their team, scattered to the wind. They leave a trail of sketchy motel rooms and diner take-away boxes, or they sleep in their car, or are forced to hide out in old bases that the villain definitely knows about but wouldn’t bother checking, built in a bygone era with a friend that’s no more.

Everything they ever knew has been called into question. The character they find themselves stuck with wasn’t their closest buddy on the hero team, but both forge a newfound respect for each other in this new unknown. Poignant conversations are had as one keeps watch in the dark so the other can sleep, and yet doesn’t, as they mourn the passing of the life both knew and vow to take it all back in their darkest hour.

10. The Thing

As in, a mysterious entity or illness has invaded the story and knowing which characters are infected and compromised is impossible. This entity either bodysnatches other characters and can be expunged, zombifies them, or kills and replicates them (see many zombie shows, iterations of The Thing, or “Croatoan” from Supernatural). This entity is a sickness slowly spreading throughout the town or the base or the ship and the heroes (or villains) realize far too late that something is very, very wrong.

This entity brings characters to their breaking point, paranoia making them do very bad things in the name of survival, killing off characters the audience knows is clean, but their murderer doesn’t, for extra knife-twisty fun. This entity brings a morally devout character near to ruin as they almost cross a line trying to do what’s right. This is an entity where, even when it’s defeated, is never really gone for certain… is it?

[azalawa-scroggs]

I'm gonna ride the wave here and talk about Rise from the Ashes and why, even though I think it's a good retcon and doesn't involve any contradiction either factual or thematic, I believe it is still undeniably a retcon.

The crux of the matter, I think, is the definition of retcon. Here's what Merriam-Webster has to say about it:

the act, practice, or result of changing an existing fictional narrative by introducing new information in a later work that recontextualizes previously established events, characters, etc.

It has to change the narrative, not the events of the story themselves. It has to recontextualise the events in question. And I'd argue the case does those exact two things by establishing that Miles Edgeworth not only never willfully forged evidence, but was morally against it in the first place, even though the contrary had been implied in the four first cases of the game.

Here's how Miles Edgeworth is introduced in Turnabout Sisters, in the first conversation we have about him with Gumshoe. There are two dialogue options, one where you can say that yes, you do know him, or one where you say that no, you don't.

Here's what Phoenix has to say about Edgeworth if you pick "I know him":

I know him. He's a feared prosecutor. He doesn't feel pain, he doesn't feel remorse. He won't stop until he gets his "guilty" verdict.

And here's what he has to say if you pick "I don't know him:"

(Of course I know him... I was just playing dumb. He's a cold, heartless machine who'll do anything to get a "guilty" verdict! There are rumors of back-alley deals and forged evidence...)

The words "forged evidence" appear only in one of the two options. They're only rumours; there's nothing established. However this is the first discussion of his character; this is the first impression we get of him. The idea we are supposed to get from him is someone ruthless and without scruples, who "hates crime with an abnormal passion."

Later on there is of course the case of the updated autopsy report. The new report is entirely legitimate and treated as such. However it is presented by the narrative as an underhanded trick, with Phoenix exclaiming against it, and further establishes Edgeworth's lack of limits in his prosecuting ethics set up by the conversation with Gumshoe - confirming our bias. We're still talking about narrative intent here, not merely the facts of the story. The updated autopsy report is not an instance of Edgeworth forging evidence, however it showcases his ruthlessness, which by extension serves to corroborate the rumours Phoenix was talking about with Gumshoe - making you believe Edgeworth would indeed tamper with proof without showing him doing so. Edgeworth coaching the witness's testimony and withholding the wiretap has the same effect.

Right before the second trial day, we get to talk with Edgeworth himself, who has come to warn us that even though he knows Phoenix, Phoenix shouldn't expect any mercy from him. Here's what he has to say:

Edgeworth: [...] whatever Mr. White says today, it will be the "absolute truth." No matter how you try to attack his testimony... If I raise an objection, I have it on good faith that the judge will listen to me. Phoenix: (What, does White have the judge in his pocket, too!?) So... you're saying I'm going to be guilty. End of story? Edgeworth: ... I will do anything to get my verdict, Mr. Wright. Anything. Maya: Why... Why!? How can you torment an innocent person like this!? Edgeworth: "Innocent"...? How can we know that? The guilty will always lie, to avoid being found out. There's no way to tell who is guilty and who is innocent! All that I can hope to do is get every defendant declared "guilty"! So I make that my policy.

There is also the climax of the case, where Edgeworth tries to request the trial to be extended one more day:

Edgeworth: Ergo! I would like to request one more day before Phoenix Wright is granted his freedom. I need time to make one more inquiry into this matter. Judge: Hmm...! Phoenix: (Another inquiry...!? This isn't going to be another one of those "updated autopsy reports"! This guy just makes up evidence as he pleases! This is bad...!)

This heightens the stakes and creates tension as Phoenix puts his foot down and requires for the trial to come to an end on that day - and it does thanks to Mia's intervention. Once more Edgeworth forging evidence isn't shown, but is implied in a way that we are meant to take as fact.

So that is the image we have of Edgeworth by the end of case 1-2, our first confrontation with him. Someone ruthless, someone who will do "anything" to get his guilty verdict - even if that involves shady dealings (such as, but not limited to, tampering with evidence). Someone without limits.

Then 1-3 happens, where in the course of the trial Edgeworth realises Will Powers is innocent and helps us corner Dee Vasquez into confessing to being the true killer, therefore throwing his trial and helping us win against him. This is a big deal. This is a cornerstone of the arc of game 1, of Edgeworth's redemption arc. After that we get the infamous "unnecessary feelings" scene, where Edgeworth confirms it: he was shaken by the events of this trial and his first loss in the previous one. This is something new for him.

And afterwards of course is 1-4, where we get to the bottom of Edgeworth's vitriolic hatred for criminals and discover his backstory. We get to meet his mentor von Karma, "twenty times as ruthless as him," and witness him pull all the stops to prevent us winning and making our life really difficult. Interestingly he, too, skirts the line of forging evidence, but that fact pales in comparison to everything he does do: orchestrating a murder and framing Edgeworth for it, destroying the letter that incriminated him, hiding the evidence of DL-6 so that Phoenix cannot have access to anything to solve the case.

(On a side note: von Karma using "faulty evidence" against Gregory Edgeworth is actually an established fact, and I think the way AAI-2 retconned that to introduce Blaise was quite clever, but maybe I'll make a similar post about Manfred after the AAI Collection comes out in September)

So that's Edgeworth's arc, where he is confronted to a world where getting a "guilty verdict" isn't always the morally correct choice to make, and where his worldview is entirely deconstructed to allow him a redemption arc. His return in 2-4 continues that arc with his new motto of the "truth" being the most important thing (implying that hadn't always been at the centre of his considerations).

Now compares this with what he says in 1-5.

Edgeworth: Of course not! I didn't touch the evidence. Yes, I will do anything in my power to win a trial. However... I do have a code, and I follow it faithfully.

This is the first time we hear of Edgeworth having a moral code. This is the first time we hear of Edgeworth having limits to what he allows himself to do to earn his guilty verdicts. Up until now all we heard was "anything," as well as justifications as to why defendants deserve and need to be punished - "anything," by essence, implies not having limits.

It's not a contradiction. But it's a recontextualisation, and therefore a retcon.

I'm not going to give quotes or we'll be here the whole day, but we all know what 1-5 then does; SL-9, the Joe Darke killings, Gant's involvement.

By giving the rumours of forged evidence about Edgeworth a tangible starting point, the case reframes them, from something that he was previously implied to do routinely to a single event, one that was orchestrated behind his back and that he had no bearing on or even any idea it was happening. By establishing that Edgeworth does follow a moral code, his image of fearless prosecutor is deconstructed even further; where in 1-4 we were given a reason for his actions, now we are actually being told his actions weren't as severe as hearsay (and Phoenix's bias) led us to believe.

The case also introduces the idea of "working with the defence" and the search of the truth to Edgeworth, which plants the seed for his eventual return in 2-4 and deepens his character arc a little more.

Thematically, I personally think 1-5 inserts itself very well into the larger narrative. It plays with both themes and facts established by game 1 and teases themes and facts that will come in the next games (2-4, all of game 4). However it does recontextualise Edgeworth's arc by establishing he never willfully forged evidence, contrarily to what was previously implied, and giving him a retroactive caveat to his policy of "anything to achieve his guilty verdict" that hadn't existed before. Therefore, it is a retcon, albeit one that works, in my opinion, well within the larger arc of the games and with Edgeworth's character.

[lunarflux]

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

part 20: the bitter(sweet) truth

word count: 2,137

tag: @bruhidkjustwannaread | @rubyxx16 | @bellabarnes1378 | @johnmurphys-sass

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

The betting shop was quiet, the usual bustle replaced by the low hum of tension that hung thick in the air. Tommy stood by the window, cigarette in hand, watching the gray Birmingham streets below.

Ever since you threatened Kennedy, Bingham's efforts had dimmed. At first, Tommy thought it was suspicious, but then he realized that your mentor played the game this way. He followed the rules, and it was only in the gray area in between where he pushed the boundaries. It would have been an admirable trait if it was anyone else.

Your mind shifted back into the place where it had been before Tommy found you. Always at work, always thinking, always strategizing. Every second you had to yourself, you were lost in thought, and Tommy found no way to pull you out of it. Only he and Polly were able to recognize what was happening beneath your firm face of efficiency—you were blocking everything out so you wouldn't feel anything. Working was your version of cocaine, the only thing that kept your mind from slipping back into that dark place that Tommy knew so well. He needed to find a way to snap you out of it, to bring you back as far as you were capable of going.

The door creaked open, and Arthur stepped in, already pulling a flask from his coat pocket.

“Are we starting early, or is this serious?” Arthur asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Tommy turned, flicking ash into a tray. “Ezra,” he said simply.

Arthur froze mid-swig, lowering the flask. He didn’t need more context. “What about him?” he asked carefully.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “We need to settle something.”

Arthur frowned, swirling the liquid in his flask. “You want the truth, don't you? And you think digging into that’s gonna fix her?”

“I think she deserves to know the truth."

Arthur exhaled sharply. “And you’re sending me to London to find it.”

Tommy smirked faintly. “That’s right.”

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Bloody hell. Fine. What am I looking for?”

“Ezra was taken to the hospital after she found him,” Tommy said, sliding a scrap of paper with an address across the desk. “Find the doctor. See what he knows.”

Arthur pocketed the paper, his flask still in hand. “And what if I find something she don’t want to hear?”

Tommy’s gaze hardened. “Then we deal with it. Like we always do.”

Arthur looked down to the floor with a soft grimace. “Does she know you’re sending me?”

“She doesn’t need to know yet. If this leads to nothing, we leave it buried. But if it doesn’t…”

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll go. But you better hope there’s something worth finding.”

“There’s something else, Arthur.”

The eldest Shelby hesitated in anticipation as Tommy gave him a second scrap of paper, the name more unfamiliar than the last.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

London was suffocating in its own chaos, a sharp contrast to Birmingham’s rough edges. Arthur’s coat flapped against the cold wind as he approached the modest townhouse on the west side of town. The address matched, and the brass plaque on the door read Dr. James Selwyn.

Arthur knocked, his patience already wearing thin. It wasn’t long before the door creaked open to reveal a man in his late fifties, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose.

“Dr. Selwyn?” Arthur asked gruffly.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, his brow furrowing. “Yes? And you are?”

“Arthur Shelby,” he said, pushing past him into the house. “We need to talk.”

The doctor looked alarmed but closed the door behind him, following Arthur into the sitting room.

"Ezra Hargreaves. You treated him the night he died."

“I don’t know what this is about—”

Arthur grabbed him by the lapels, firmly squeezing the fabric in between his fingers before forcing a smile across his face. “Listen. I'm here on a bloody day job, so do not waste my time. Tell me about Ezra, and I'll be on my way, yeah?”

The doctor’s breath hitched, and he raised trembling hands.

Arthur released him, stepping back but keeping his glare fixed.

Dr. Selwyn adjusted his coat, his voice shaky as he began. “That was years ago... Mr. Hargreaves was brought to me. That much is correct. He was... Weak. He had just experienced a particularly bad seizure. Mr. Shelby, I don't understand—”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Continue.”

“Well, he was only coherent for a moment,” Selwyn said, his words tumbling out. “These things can happen, you know. Sometimes, they get better before they... Well.”

Arthur frowned. “And then what? He just dropped dead? Did he say anything?”

“Actually, yes. He spoke before he passed. It was a bit confusing at the time because his nurse had the same name, but he was adamant he see a woman named y/n. Said it was urgent.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “And did someone try to find her?”

“We assumed she'd be there or at least somewhere nearby as I was led to believe she was the one who sent for a doctor. Naturally, we sent some of the family friends who were there to fetch her. From what I understand, she was nowhere to be found. Like she disappeared into thin air. A ghost, maybe.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened, the pieces clicking into place. “Tell me, doc. Did he say anything else?”

Dr. Selwyn hesitated. “He said he needed to say goodbye. It was heartbreaking to be honest with you. He was lucid, but he wasn't really looking at anyone or speaking to any of us directly. He sounded so desperate to see her." His voice softened as he recalled the memory. He placed his hand on his chest, pressing down gently like his heart ached. "I'm afraid the sound of his voice haunts me every now and then. It's always quite somber here when we're unable to bring in loved ones before a patient passes. I do hope, wherever she is, she was able to grieve properly.”

Arthur took a step closer, his voice low and menacing. “Who was the man you sent to find y/n?”

The doctor looked up at Arthur, wincing. “I didn't know him personally, Mr. Shelby. He only said he was a friend of the family, an Alfred Bingham. That’s all I know.”

Arthur turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him as he left.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Arthur stood on the front steps of the stately house on the edge of London, his hand hovering over the brass knocker. The house was grand, but it felt hollow, the kind of place where grief had left its fingerprints on the walls. He straightened his coat, knocked firmly, and waited.

The door creaked open, revealing a stooped older man with silver hair and weary eyes. There was something about Ezra’s father—his impeccable grooming, the perfectly pressed suit that seemed out of place in his own home, as though he still needed to present himself as a figure of authority. Arthur saw beyond the polished exterior. Frank’s face bore the weight of years spent grieving, the sharpness of his features dulled by regret and time. He regarded Arthur with a mixture of caution and resignation, his gaze lingering on the scar across Arthur’s cheek as if assessing the danger he might bring.

Arthur noticed the slight tremor in Frank’s hand as he gestured him inside, the hesitation in his voice when he asked, “What do you want?”

They sat in the drawing room, a cavernous space filled with dusty heirlooms and fading portraits. The elder man poured himself a drink but didn’t offer one to Arthur, who didn’t mind—his flask was already half-empty.

“I haven’t spoken of Ezra in years,” Frank began, his voice tight. He sat down across from Arthur, but his posture betrayed him—his back straight, hands gripping the armrests as if bracing himself for an impact. “Why now? Why send someone like you to dredge it all up again?”

Arthur didn’t miss the thinly veiled disdain in the words. “I’m here because of y/n,” he said, watching closely for a reaction.

Frank’s face hardened instantly, his grip on the chair tightening. “y/n,” he repeated, the name heavy with bitterness. “That woman has no right to stir up the past. To speak of my son to strangers—it is a most ardent betrayal to his memory.”

Arthur leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “That woman,” he said, his voice deliberately slow, “has spent years believing she’s to blame for your son’s death. And I want to know why.”

Frank’s mouth opened, then closed again, his jaw working as if chewing on the words he didn’t want to say. His eyes darted to the glass in his hand, and Arthur caught the faintest flicker of shame in his expression.

"I will tell you why, Mr. Shelby, but first, I must know why this is a concern to the Peaky Blinders. Your reputation circles even here in London."

"Call it a personal interest of ours."

"How personal?"

"Best to explain that once I get what I'm here for."

“When Ezra died, y/n was dismissed,” Frank said finally, his tone colder now, as though rehearsing an old script. “She had no place here anymore.”

“And why’s that?” Arthur pressed, narrowing his eyes.

Frank looked up sharply, but his defiance was brittle. “Word travels fast here, Mr. Shelby,” he admitted. “It was brought to my attention by a trusted advisor that y/n had been pushing my son too hard to leave the family business, that she’d driven him to exhaustion with her endless demands. She was to blame for the severity of his last seizure.”

Arthur snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. “Let me guess. Your advisor was Alfred Bingham.”

“Alfred was a friend,” Frank said defensively, though his voice cracked under the weight of his own words. “Gave me financial and business advice for years, and without him, I would have not built this empire that was supposed to go to Ezra after my death. He wouldn’t have lied about something like that. I trusted him.”

“Business matters are not personal matters, Mr. Hargreaves,” Arthur shot back, his tone sharper. “y/n has no taste for anyone that would make her do something like that.”

Frank’s face flushed, his eyes narrowing. “You think you understand? You think you know what it’s like to bury a child? To have to see the woman who caused him so much pain until the very end?”

Arthur’s voice softened, but his words cut deeper. “No, I don’t. But I know what it’s like to live with regret.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “What Bingham told you—it wasn’t the truth, and the consequences of that lie lives on.”

For the first time, Frank’s composure cracked. His hands trembled as he set the glass down, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes never leaving Frank’s face. “Your son didn’t die because of y/n,” he said. “And even if he didn't agree with her choices, he never held it against her. The doctor told me himself. In his last moments, your son asked for her and no one else. Not out of anger, but out of love.”

Frank flinched as if struck, his breath hitching. “He… he called for her?”

Arthur nodded. “Because he loved her. Even at the end, she was the one on his mind. Not the business. Not you. Her.”

Frank’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Arthur’s words finally breaking him. He looked older now, as if the years of grief had suddenly caught up with him. “I told her to leave,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I knew that if she'd stayed, I would never get passed losing him. She didn't even fight back. She just... left. I took that as her admission of guilt.”

Arthur stood, his presence towering over the frail man before him. “She left because she thought you were right. y/n isn't someone who would argue against the truth.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “And now, I have it.”

Frank looked up at Arthur, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Tell me earnestly, Mr. Shelby. Is she alright?”

Arthur considered the question for a moment. “That’s not for me to say. But she is alive. And she's under the protection of the Peaky Blinders.”

With that, Arthur turned and left, the sound of his boots echoing in the silent house. As he stepped outside, he lit a cigarette, taking a long drag as he processed the encounter. Frank Hargreaves might never find redemption in your eyes, but Arthur had done what he came to do. He’d uncovered the truth. Now, it was up to you to decide what to do with it.