#WAHOO IT'S FINALLY HERE

[jankwritten]

It is a little late but CHAPTER 9 OF HOCKEY AU IS NOW POSTED!

please mind the CW for this one!

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FOUR: CASTLES CRUMBLING

AND HERE I SIT ALONE, BEHIND WALLS OF REGRET. FALLING DOWN LIKE PROMISES I NEVER KEPT.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, mentions of RUMORS of workplace sex scandal, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.4K+

☆ A/N: if you would like to listen to the song that eddie is recording at the end - it is an actual, real life song. :-) it is called "blood sport" by sleep token (one of my favorite bands i get to see live next week!!), and i highly recommend listening to it during your reading. especially the latter half of this chapter.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright, so – anyone care to fill me in on what the Hell that was?” 

Matt stands like a disapproving father figure as the band lines up opposite of him just outside the building. Eddie had hoped nothing would be mentioned until they were in the car, but the driver was clearly running a few minutes late.

Three of the boys glance at each other, worried expressions immediately giving up the hoax even as Eddie only shrugs and says, “What do you mean?” 

“Cut the shit, Munson,” Matt had never appeared so livid, so undone by irritation. His usual patience with Eddie is nonexistent, “What’s going on between you and that girl? Is she a past groupie?”

The insinuation gets a scoff out of Gareth. Jeff side-eyes him in warning, but Eddie couldn’t care less, “No, she’s not a past groupie. This was the first time I’d ever-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Matt points an accusatory finger at Eddie, narrowing his eyes, “I am your manager. If you have any unsavory connections with that girl, I need to know so I can decide if we need someone else to organize the event. We are not having another repeat of the Lewinsky scandal.” 

“I knew it! I fucking knew you called it that, too!” Gareth cheers, but he’s quieted by one look from their furious manager.

The Lewinsky scandal had been their code-word for when the tabloids had become convinced that Eddie was fucking an assistant at the label. A girl had even come forward and claimed to have had sexual relations with Eddie, and he had taken heat for it for a full month before the buzzing novelty worn off.

Eddie had only spoken three words to the girl. No, thank you when she’d offered him a mug of coffee during a late night at the studio. He wishes now he’d been less polite. 

And he also finds himself wishing that’s all this was. He wishes you were just another scandal, another terrible rumor spread around. If all the accusations between you two were false, if all the hatred was based on misconstrued circumstances, it would be so much easier. He can talk himself out of that. He can confess to those sins and get off with no more than the order of one hail mary from Matt. 

But you? The reality of all that had happened, both all those years ago and just thirty minutes ago? He can’t find the words. They choke him up, unwilling to leave the cavern of his chest and enter the world, just like all the songs gathering dust as demos. 

“It’s not going to be another Lewinsky scandal,” Eddie scowls, feet shuffling against the concrete below him. Can’t be another Lewinsky scandal if she wants nothing to do with me anymore, “Maybe she just doesn’t like me. I am allegedly a very polarizing public figu-”

The car pulls up, and Matt is quick to grab Eddie’s shoulder before glaring at the boys, “Get in, I’m not finished with our polarizing public figure yet.” 

Grant and Gareth only let out low whistles, following instruction without lingering as they clamber into the back row of seats in the SUV. Jeff takes his time, though, going as far to pause beside Eddie and place a hand on his back.

“Just tell him the truth, Eds.” 

It’s the final nail in his coffin. Eddie is cursing Jeff’s retreating figure as he climbs into the vehicle and shuts the door, leaving him alone with Matt. 

“Explain,” Matt demands, “Now.” 

Eddie’s eyes focus on a gaping crack in the sidewalk, jagged and uneven, right down the center. 

He has two options. He could continue to lie, insist he knows nothing about you until Matt just gets bored of not being offered the truth. Or he could admit it all, reveal the muse behind the art he had been fiercely protecting over these last few months. Every line, every chord, every broken note that had left his lungs during those witching hours in the studio. 

On one hand, it’ll rip away the opportunity that has been offered to him on a silver platter – the opportunity for closure. Selfish, bloody closure that neither of you had gotten, it seemed. But on the other hand, it might grant him some sympathy. Matt, the label, the producers – they had all grown tired of the dance Eddie led them in every time they’d inquire about the music. But if Matt knew-

It’s a dead end trail of thought. He knows he won’t admit to the worst of his atrocities he’s committed. No scandal, no late night ending with him in handcuffs, no fraudulent headline is going to compare to what he did to you. What you did to him.

It’s a little too late for damage control, anyways.

“I went to high school with her,” the lie works well enough, easing some of Matt’s frustration, “I was just shocked to see her. All of us were shocked to see her. No big deal.” 

Eddie knows the people around him have come to learn that they must pick and choose the battles they engage in with him. And he can see that decision flash across Matt’s face as he decides that this is not a battle necessary to the war.

“Alright. But if you’re lying to me-“

“I’m not lying.”

“If you are, that’ll be one of my last straws, Munson.”

It won’t be. Eddie knows it won’t be. Everyone, every single goddamn person in this world it seems, is capable of giving Eddie Munson unlimited chances — except you. You, it seemed, were the only person who had come to their senses. 

You always were smarter than people gave you credit for.

—

“Run the track again.” 

They’d spent a few hours in the studio already. It was an odd hour for them to be haunting the space, more used to visiting in the dead of night rather than the middle of a weekday, but it was down to the wire now. Vocals needed to be recorded, instrumentals fine-tuned, tracks properly mastered. Eddie could no longer hide in the night when it came to recording the haunting melodies stained with the blood of his past — no matter how wrong it felt to see a sliver of sunlight breaking through one of the windows, just through the top of the blackout curtains.

“I really think that was the one, man-“ the producer starts, probably just tired after repeatedly running in circles with Eddie’s perfectionism.

He doesn’t care. He’s paying them, they can stand to let him re-record as many times as necessary to satisfy Eddie, “Run it again.” 

The silence only continues to buzz in Eddie’s headphones. He’s ready to cuss out the producer as he angrily shoves them down, off his ears and hanging loosely around his neck, the wire a leash as he whips to face the one-way glass wall. The lights are off at the main board, guaranteeing that they can see Eddie but Eddie can’t see them.

Until suddenly, the light comes back on, and the reason for the absence of the repeated track Eddie had requested becomes obvious.

Gareth.

He stands at the center of it all, a few paces from the seated producer with a deep scowl on his face. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, mouth just close enough to the mic for them to catch his overflowing annoyance, “I said-“

“We heard what you said, Eddie,” Gareth interrupts, his voice just loud enough to be faintly heard even as the headphones curl around the nape of Eddie’s neck, “But I need to talk to you.” 

It’s the strictest tone that Gareth has used on their lead singer in an unfathomably measure of time. Probably because it’s the most words he’s said to Eddie in a very long time, as well.

Eddie finally removes the headphones, hanging them carelessly on the mic stand and moving towards the door — surprisingly, without putting up a resistance.

The control room is warmer than the fairly large area that served as a ‘booth’. Smaller, as well. Cramped with a low couch and one too many chairs available to trip over, the control board spanses the entire wall that holds the oversized window into the recording room. A plethora of small lights twinkle like stars, and numerous switches that Eddie had come to know better than the back of his hand alternate positions to guarantee the clearest sound. Only Gareth and the producer occupy the room, the rest of the band having taken off around the fifth time Eddie had requested a redo of his vocal tracking.

“This better be good,” Eddie complains, furrowing his brows, agitated at the interruption. 

But Gareth shows no remorse, “We need to talk.” 

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“We need to talk,” Gareth repeats, eyes flickering to the poor soul still seated at the controls, “Alone.” 

Eddie hardly has to open his mouth, the man jumping out of his seat the moment the lead singer flicks his wrist to signal for him to leave.

Whatever Gareth was about to say had to be important, and it’s that thought rather than the difference in temperatures that has sweat building on Eddie’s brows.

Is he about to quit the band? Is he about to tell me he’s had enough? Maybe he’s done with my bullshit — I would be.

“Speak, Emerson,” Eddie flatly insists, grabbing a small water bottle out of one of the mini fridges in the room before he throws himself onto the worn leather of the couch, “And make it quick. We’re on a time limit, you kno-“

“We’ve gotta talk about her, man.” 

Her as in you. 

For a moment, Gareth sounds like a friend again. He’s dropped all the persistent perturbation he’s taken to defending himself with when it comes to  Eddie, his voice pleading as he stands before the distant man. All the rueful power plays that had developed over the last year vanish. It’s just Eddie and Gareth, bandmates who started out in the latter’s garage in some small Indiana town. Not Eddie Munson, infamous rockstar with a chip on his shoulder. Not Gareth Emerson, passionate drummer overshadowed by the ego of his lead singer. Just Eddie and Gareth.

 “We all know you didn’t tell Matt the truth.” 

“I did tell him the truth-“ 

“Not the whole truth, then. There’s no way he’d let it slide if he knew that she was your ex-girlfriend.” 

The defiance vacates Eddie’s body quickly. He doesn’t even attempt to prowl his mind for a quick quip in response. All he does at the words is drop his shoulders, the defeat creeping up on him as he deflates. 

Ex-girlfriend. The title feels so pitiful to truly describe what you were to him. 

But to be fair, even when he had been in your good graces, girlfriend had also never felt significant enough.

“Did-“ Gareth starts after a beat of silence, noting the way Eddie couldn’t quite hide his wounds on the topic, “What did you guys talk about? When you went after her, what did she say?” 

“Nothing important.”

Eddie turns into a shell, a zombie as he stares straight ahead and tries to compartmentalize. That always worked; with meetings, with arguments, with lectures. Even before the fame, it worked.

It doesn’t work quite as quickly when it comes to you. His brain, it seems, is incapable of uncrossing all the wires you twist within his brain.

“You two were alone for, what, ten minutes? And you’re telling me she didn’t say anything important?” 

“What the fuck is there to say?” Eddie laughs soullessly, “Oh, hey, stranger! Remember me? The guy you up and left without a word?” 

“Yes!” Gareth shouts unexpectedly, “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done! She left. Not just you, but all of us. We never even really knew why. And now- what? Are we just supposed to pretend we don’t know her?” 

Eddie knew why. She’d never had to say it, and that was the issue. He always thought about all the answers he swore he craved, and always let every question he claimed to have haunt him during the waking hours. But when the day turned to night, when he was left to nothing but his own devices in a dark and empty apartment during the witching hours, he knew. The question of why had been answered since the first phone call cut short with you during that goddamn tour.

The songs knew, too. He supposes it had been an arrogant assumption to believe the band had read into his lyrics and put the pieces together. 

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Eddie nearly whispers, throat tightening and fighting him on the words. It’s the opposite of what he wants and needs — but it’s what you want and what you need. And so he plays the messenger, even as it kills him, “We are going to completely disregard my past with her. We are going to treat this entire situation as professionally as possible. I’m talking the full nine yards: you will not mention the fact that we know her, you will not question her about anything from the past, and you will not, under any circumstances, ask her why.” 

His own set of rules he’d privately set for himself in his own mind during the car ride over. 

Gareth squints his eyes in disbelief, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you serious?”

“Deathly so.”

“This isn’t just about your past with her,” the boy nearly passes, starts to reach up to tug on his hair before he thinks better of it, “This is about the way she left all of us. Not just you. She was a friend to all of us. She was the one who taught me how to tape my drums when I’d bust a hole in them, she was the one who helped us design our first merch, she was the only person any of us would let be in the room during practices. And not just the band stuff, either,” Eddie watches tears form in Gareth’s eyes, “She was the only one who had the patience to help me with my fucking math homework back in school, man. She was the one who nearly curb stomped Jason Carver the week he sent Grant home with a black eye. She was the first person Jeff called when his parents broke news of their divorce, for fucks sake. Not me, not you, not any of us — her,” Gareth’s breaths come out as pants as he stops his pacing and stands before Eddie. The tears continue to lace his bottom lash line as he heaved silently at the end of his rant, his pained expression completely unexpected to Eddie. 

This is the part Eddie chooses to forget. He’ll let himself swim in the memory of you late at night, he’ll indulge in vices that always amplify his pain rather than succeeding in his attempt to numb it, he’ll stare down the mirror each morning and curse the reflection he finds with all the blame in the world he is capable of holding in the palms of his hands. But in all the ruptures of his own old scars, he fails to consider that he is not the only one burdened with loss. 

They all lost you. When Eddie lost you, so did the band. You’d become a ghost to more than just your abandoned lover — you’d become a tired haunt to boys you’d known, boys you’d befriended and burrowed your way into the lives of, just as well. 

“She was our friend,” Gareth chokes out, fists curling at his sides, “Jesus Christ, I- I get it. She was everything to you. Whatever. But she meant a lot to the rest of us, too. Whatever happened wasn’t just some isolated event — you two didn’t just hurt each other. You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that.” 

This is the part where Eddie should apologize. This is the part where, once upon a blissful time, he would have said his repentance. 

He doesn’t.

“I don’t care how hurt anyone is,” he lowly responds, eyes unable to meet Gareth’s any longer, “I’ve told you the rules, we’re going to follow them. End of discussion.” 

Gareth throws back his head, and Eddie winces at his scoff, “She’s not your fucking property, Eddie! She isn’t solely yours to keep or whatever the fuck you think you’re doing!” 

Eddie can’t even deny the action of keeping you. All the demos, all the songs laid to the grave because he couldn’t stomach the thought of releasing them for others to experience. 

But that’s not what this was. This, the cataclysm that was sending Gareth to finally release all this pent up frustration, was him following your rules. You’d made your wishes for this project very clear, and he needed to at least try to respect them. They all did. 

So he takes on the role of the bad guy. He lets them paint him as the villain if it means no red will stain your ledger. 

“Oh, I think she’s made it very clear that she isn’t mine,” the mask slips on far too easily for Eddie. Cool demeanor, compartmentalizing. Not you, but his emotions towards his friends, if he could even still call them that. His bandmates that he had once seen as brothers. “Doesn’t change what I said. Don’t push it, Emerson, or there’ll be Hell to pay.” 

“What are you going to do? Disappear on us?” Eddie finally looks back up to meet Gareth’s fiery gaze as he spits out hateful words, “Hate to break it to you, but you already left this band behind two years ago. And if you ask me, you should start leaving the vanishing act to her. At least she doesn’t make us pay for her mistakes.” 

Eddie is by no means done with the conversation, more than willing to continue fighting with Gareth, but the other boy clearly feels differently. He leaves his words hanging in the air as he spins away, storming out of the door, the air in the studio now several degrees hotter now with the irate fuel of the fight.  

It was all a blood sport. All of it. It didn’t matter if Eddie was fighting with the band, the management, with you. It was all bloody and fruitless, and it all left him the same awful type of hollow in the end. 

He stares blankly at the wall as he makes a silent decision.

By the time the producer has timidly returned to the room, Eddie has already set up his laptop to connect to the studio's system, prepped so that any recording would automatically copy into his personal hard drive. A way for him to listen and ruminate in the privacy of his own apartment. 

The sheet music torn from his notebook already lays at the table besides the entrance to the booth. 

“Do you… want to run the track again?” the man, the stranger, asks. He clearly heard the fight. Eddie and Gareth hadn’t been exactly quiet in their screaming match. At least, Gareth hadn’t been. 

Is it really a screaming match if only one side fights back? 

“I want to lay a new track,” Eddie’s voice is deadpan as he clicks a few buttons, finalizing everything. He only needs the man to click record, “A raw piano and vocal demo. We can add the rest of the band later.” 

“I-“

One look from Eddie, hardly passed over his shoulder with a glimmer of unbridled determination, and the man quiets as he takes his seat. 

Eddie storms into the booth without another word, fist curled around the page of lyrics and terribly hand-drawn music clefts. 

She isn’t yours to keep.

Eddie was aware of that. Painfully, painfully aware. But it had never been about his claim to you. 

Gareth was right. Eddie never wanted to own you. Keeping you, however, had been something he should have taken more care with.

The chill of the small room to record in does little to lessen the flames eating Eddie up as he bypasses the assembly of various instruments all crowded in the space. Gareth’s drum set, Jeff’s guitar, Grant’s bass — he storms right past them, eyes locked on the grand piano in the fair corner. It took up the most space, far too large to have been forced to be contained within this compact room. 

Eddie drags the mic from where it had been stationed previously with him, quickly and recklessly resetting it at the piano. 

Once he’s seated on the bench, crumpled pages thrown up onto the music desk of the piano and headphones snug over his ears again, the producer finally clicks on his mic to speak.

“Hey, uh… Does this demo have a name by chance? Or do you just want to label it as an unknown for now?”

It certainly does have a name.

“Blood Sport,” Eddie spits out. “Just name the file Blood Sport.” 

The hum that would indicate to Eddie when those on the other side of that glass window were speaking clicks off, and he takes it as his cue.

He’d written the song a while before. There were some gaps in the lyrics, some notes he’d played with on his personal piano scribbled over and never replaced. He’d never played it in its entirety before. 

It starts slow. His fingers hold the ivory keys delicately, arranging for the first opening notes as if he were slotting his knuckles against your own for the first time over again.

She isn’t yours to solely keep. 

Were you ever his to keep, ever? 

Even the ivory keys of the Steinway are more solid than you ever were. You were nothing more than water, than blood, destined to slip between Eddie’s fingers. He never stood a chance in having you, in holding you, in keeping you. 

Not just now, but before all the blood shed, as well. He should have recognized Cassandra’s curse the first day he looked into your eyes. He should have known the twist in his stomach was only Fate sinking its claws into the two of you. 

A tale fit for a Shakespearean stage — a tragedy always meant to be.

“I want to roll the numbers, I want to feel my stars align again.” 

Eddie’s voice is soft to match the steady beat of piano notes that emit from the crooked curl of his hand against the keys. A soft thump, a gentle lull. And instead of losing himself in the music, he finds himself wrapped up in one of the many memories he’d chosen to lock away for the last two years.

Something was off. 

Eddie’s stomach had twisted with anxiety of something being wrong for weeks. You stopped answering his calls, his texts, every form of connection with him. But as he stood in front of the door to your shared apartment, the bile rose even higher in his throat. 

He smelt the decay of what he had done before his key had even entered the lock. 

“Would you invite me again? Won’t you pay for your arrogance? Won’t you show me your weakness?” 

You were never his to keep. 

His voice nearly cracks as he approaches the first chorus, not finding the strength behind the vocals he’d always envisioned for the song.

The click of the door opening echoed through the apartment. It felt empty the moment he’d crossed the threshold – you could have just been tucked away in the bedroom, or even in the bathroom, but he knew. 

You hadn’t been returning his phone calls. You hadn’t been returning his texts. He knew something had happened, something had changed. Irreversible damage had been done, and he would now have to face the mess he’d created to return home to. 

“I made loving you a blood sport.” 

He repeats the line until it rings in his head, over and over. Until he swears the words could crack his bones, and the stars that will show in the night sky will do nothing but mock him for the self-inflicted pain.

At first, he convinced himself you just weren’t home. You’d gone to the store or to see friends. You’d be home soon enough and then, the two of you could scream at each other all you wanted. You were angry with him, rightfully so, but he’d rather you yell and scrap with him than the alternative. He didn’t care. Because he was here, back in the flesh and willing to take any and all cruel words you had sharpened for him. The two of you would fight, yes, but at least that meant there was still something there worth fighting for.

After the first three hours, he realized with a sinking stomach that the alternative might just be his reality. 

“I want to be forgiven.” 

He recalls the look on your face when you’d first seen him today. The fall of your act, the discarding of grace and composure.

The look that told him that he can want all he’s capable of. He can want, he can crave, he can yearn, he can tear himself apart bit by bit with his feeble yet shattering cravings — it won’t change a thing. 

You were never his to keep.

After the clock struck the fifth hour of his return, he started his calling.

Over and over and over, he was met with your voicemail. Endless messages spoken and sent alike. Every single one trying to be gentle as they inquired where you were. Letting you know he was back. Going as far as to ask you if the two of you could talk. 

He wanted to fight. He wanted to fight, because it meant you still saw something worthy within him.  

But even more than Eddie wanted a fight, he wanted you to come home. He wanted you to be there, to welcome him into your safety and remind him he was human again. It was selfish – he was so goddamn selfish – but he needed to feel your skin against his and remind him that he was still a person beneath it all. Beneath the demand, beneath the unwarranted adoration from strangers, beneath all the fractures the sudden traction had left him with – he was still a breathing, living person. He was still your person. 

Eddie’s fingers begin to slam against the keys with increasing urgency as his chest heaves out with every syllable. Repeating, and repeating, and repeating the chorus as if it changes a single thing. He loses himself in it all; in the music ringing in his ears and the memories now drowning him as he confesses all his sins to the microphone. 

You never came home. 

There was no fight, and after the hours reached double digits right along with his ignored phone calls, he had to accept the truth.

You weren’t just at a friend’s, or the store. You were gone. Truly, truly gone.

The drawers once filled with your belongings were vacant. The smell of your perfume was nothing more than a whisper across the pillows. Eddie scoured the entire apartment for signs of you, turning every single piece of furniture over looking for clues. He never thought to check the counter until he’d already ruined the space, terrorizing it in a frenzy before his eyes landed on the letter and the key.

He had approached them both hesitantly. All his denial drained from his body, like the blood pumping through his veins, as his fingers pinched that silver key so gingerly.

A past he can never return to. A home he will never hold the key to again. 

The joints of his fingers ache and his lungs begin to burn for all that he lost — all that they all lost — because of him. His  own foolishness, his own downfall. He did this. 

The aftermath is blurry.

He read the first few words of your letter before promptly crumbling it with his tortured fist, knowing exactly what it said without needing to fully swallow all the words just yet.

He never fully read the letter. He skimmed it, a week later, but not that night. 

Then came the flashes of the pain. The way he’d swung his fists at air and menial objects alike. A vase holding wilted carnations met its demise on the kitchen floor, a hole in the wall appeared that he later had to patch up, one of the coffee tables ended up across the living room with a leg splintered half off. 

He never dropped the key. 

Even as he dropped to his knees in the center of the broken glass, bleeding shins to match his bruising knuckles, he still held that small piece of silver fiercely. He pressed it so tightly, dug it so deeply into his palm that it later left a scar. And not even the way he had grabbed at the broken glass surrounding him had the capability to mar it away as he let it slice his skin, crying out, hopeless and devastated. 

You were gone. He had lost you, and he had been arrogant enough to never even notice it.

“You say it doesn’t matter.” 

The headphones had long since slipped off his head, and he makes no move to adjust them. He hadn’t even noticed that his body had begun to fall forward and curl into the piano until he’s weakly choking out the final lyric that he hadn’t even written down onto the page. 

He hadn’t noticed the tears falling, either.

What were meant to be gasps for air as his fingers fly across the keys in a haunting melody are only sobs. Cries of pain as he no longer can see mere inches ahead of him, a scar of the center of his palm stinging as if brand new, his heart and head pounding in sync. He isn’t even sure if the producer he’s forgotten the name of is still recording. He lets the sobs slip out as he continues to play. 

He can’t quite end the song yet. The moment he does, he’s terrified of the version of him that he will have to face once more. All those surface blemishes from the beginning of the end had run deeper beneath his skin. He was nothing more than rubble and fractures now, splintered every which way until he had become unrecognizable. When he looked in the mirror, all he could see was a creature of destruction.

“You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that,” Gareth’s voice echoes in the silence beginning to gather between the notes.

Another wrecked sob leaves Eddie as he finally finishes off the melody, playing entirely unaffected up until that point. Reality crashes down. His body shakes, shoulders hunched as his forehead connects against the freezing wood of the piano and he pinches his eyes shut tightly enough to be left in total blackness. 

He couldn’t play another note if his life depended upon it.

The memory fades with the final note before his head rattles with a new image. The smile, the grimace, you had offered him before you two parted ways today. An effort at professionalism that Eddie had seen right through. 

Pain. That’s what had twitched in the corners of your mouth. The same pain, if not worse, as the one that now radiated through every atom of Eddie’s broken figure on the piano bench. 

He can’t fix it. Not your pain, not Gareth’s pain, not his own pain. The time for damage control, for sincere apologies and any reconciliation has passed. Just like watered-down blood through his fingertips. 

Eddie hopes that the producer has had half the mind to stop the recording when he stands and slams the drumset behind him into the wall. Destructive, just as he had been the night he returned to an empty apartment. Just as he had been when he’d been the one to rot and wither away all that you two had once held between you. 

They can replace the drum set. Surely, he has a person for that. 

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

join my taglist!

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

I'm not the biggest fan of Oda, as many here already know. That comes from the INCREDIBLE disconnect between the fandom version of him as opposed to the canon. I see often on Twitter, Reddit, Youtube, etc etc. this treatment of Oda as some great force of pure good, and furthermore this scene as a grand bit of final wisdom. So right now, let's talk about his death scene.

The anime puts it like this:

"You told me you might find a reason to live if you lived in a world of violence and bloodshed. [...] You won't find it. You must know that already. Whether you're on the side who kills people or the side that saves people, nothing beyond what you would expect will appear. Nothing in this world can fill that lonely hole you have. You will wander the darkness for eternity. [...] Be on the side that saves people. If both sides are the same to you, become a good man. Save the weak, and protect the orphans. Neither good nor evil means much to you, I know... but that'd make you at least a bit better."

And the light novel puts it like this:

"You told me if you put yourself in a world of violence and bloodshed, you might be able to find a reason to live… [...] You won't find it. [...] You should know that. Whether you're on the side that takes lives or the side that saves them, nothing beyond your own expectations will happen. Nothing in this world can fill the hole that is your loneliness. You will wander the darkness for eternity. [...] Be on the side that saves people. [...] If both sides are the same, then choose to become a good person. Save the weak, protect the orphaned. You might not see a great difference between right and wrong, but… saving others is something just a bit more wonderful."

I want to break down what bothers me in these. This portion especially.

You told me you might find a reason to live if you lived in a world of violence and bloodshed. [...] You won't find it. You must know that already. Whether you're on the side who kills people or the side that saves people, nothing beyond what you would expect will appear. Nothing in this world can fill that lonely hole you have. You will wander the darkness for eternity.

You told me if you put yourself in a world of violence and bloodshed, you might be able to find a reason to live… [...] You won't find it. [...] You should know that. Whether you're on the side that takes lives or the side that saves them, nothing beyond your own expectations will happen. Nothing in this world can fill the hole that is your loneliness. You will wander the darkness for eternity.

I think we often forget that Dazai is still a suicidal teen in Dark Era, and that he's one that's held on to the hope he'd find something for all this time. I dont disagree with the fact he must know he won't find anything in the mafia already. But Oda misunderstands a lot of fundamental parts of Dazai, which lead to this scene being devastating.

Whether you're on the side who kills people or the side that saves people, nothing beyond what you would expect will appear.

Whether you're on the side that takes lives or the side that saves them, nothing beyond your own expectations will happen.

The thing is, Dazai DOES find things he doesn't expect. He meets Chuuya and Chuuya surprises him! He meets Oda and Ango and they fascinate him!! He meets Kunikida and Ranpo and everyone else and he finds them interesting!!! He gets proven wrong, he gets surprised, he has NEVER been infallible. And he's incredibly hopeful too, as stated earlier. He held on to the hope he'd find something for the past 3 years despite how horrible of an environment the mafia was for him, and he still tried his hardest to save Oda. To tell him that not only would he never find anything here, but anywhere else he goes? It's kind of.... well, shitty.

And there's another thing about this line I have to point out, something from a couple pages earlier.

"But he's different. He's sharp-witted with a mind like a steel trap. And he's just a child—a sobbing child abandoned in the darkness of a world far emptier than the one we're seeing."

"He was too smart for his own good. That was why he was always alone. The reason why Ango and I were able to be by his side was that we understood the solitude that surrounded him, and we never stepped inside it no matter how close we stood."

Oda believes that it's Dazai's intelligence that isolates him. While this is true, it's only true to an extent. Look at Ranpo, who was also isolated because of his intelligence. He doesn't stay that way, despite not having any peers. Ranpo found his place with Fukuzawa at the agency, and there was nothing stopping Dazai from also finding his own.

Nothing in this world can fill that lonely hole you have. You will wander the darkness for eternity.

Nothing in this world can fill the hole that is your loneliness. You will wander the darkness for eternity.

And I don't know how to explain this to people, but telling an emotionally distressed teenager that he's going to be lonely forever is, erm, kind of bad? Especially when the person he thinks understands him the most is like... dying in his arms.

Oda tried to help Dazai in his final moments, I'm not trying to discredit that. He gave Dazai his advice and Dazai chose to take it, because he knew Oda was speaking from his own experiences. But Oda's words were still harmful to him, regardless of how well meaning they were.

[magiefish]

The irony of Elizabeth and Sue both saying "Take care of yourself" at the end of their fitness shows when they are doing the exact opposite like girl the hypocrisyyyyy

[beeteal]

and you may break my body!

[pilotduty]

now and for always ; a perpetual rise

[s-ccaam-era-crepe]

Chapters: 2/7 Fandom: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Glenn Close/Morgan Freeman (Dungeons and Daddies), Glenn Close & Morgan Freeman (Dungeons and Daddies), Glenn Close & Nick Close | Nicholas Foster Characters: Glenn Close (Dungeons and Daddies), Morgan Freeman (Dungeons and Daddies), Nick Close | Nicholas Foster Additional Tags: First off not tagging major character death but morgan is Dead so, Past Character Death, Smoking, Weed, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Child Neglect, (in a way), Depression, Widowed, Angst, Hurt Slight Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, (pre-season 2/doodler), Swearing, Crying, Song Lyrics, no beta we die like morgan, glenn is Not a good dad, we're working on it, 5+1 Things, reading the first part of the series isn't necessary but gives more context, AU where the jodie thing doesnt happen btw. glenns still nicks dad n stuff, basically the glenn arc happens differently (dont ask me how yet) Series: Part 2 of Asters & Asphodels Summary:

Glenn focuses on her name engraved on the headstone, 'Morgan Freeman' and gives a forlorn look for a moment, remembering that they never got and never will get, that storybook happy ending they might have wanted. No damn white picket fence and nice sunset ending for Glenn Close.

It makes him... bittersweet in a way.

---

Or 5 times Glenn visits Morgan alone and 1 time he doesn't (5+1)

yk that “glenn close visits morgan freemans grave” fic i vague posted about? yeah this is that <33

[blackvahana]

Photo that looks like Yahar'gul on my dash, thinking about how Lev said ANVD is a land of the Sun because... as a sun spirit, the suns now. uh. I don't really want to get into it just yet because territorial animalistic feelings over what I create, but the sun I've decided to just allow to be my metaphorical paintbrush

Anyway. He said that and... My house is slowly turning more into this motif that's been echoing since I created a mindspace with lull when we thought we were a system, sort of? I always have houses now with courtyards in the middle of them, starting from there. Yahar'gul was also The Sunshine Village to us, in that we felt like it worshiped the Sun and the Sun was a huge part of it pre-Bloodborne's timeline... Which of course I now know has huge implications with regards to it being a mirror of the Drowned City and Lev, who I didn't know personally at the time, being a Sun god and all the complicated shit between the two of them... It was just sort of... I don't know. I don't know whether it's "ANVD was a part of me the whole time" or "I could've gone down, and was being brought down, a really bad nightmarish facsimile of the path I was supposed to be on". Maybe it's both, I feel like ANVD has been around since before it's creation in the way Lev says he knew me (Dei) before I was born (as Dei)... But anyway. It was kinda... I don't know the feeling I'm supposed to have here

Anyway. I was thinking about that

Lev was telling me about his study which I did actually remember talking to him about, I was half asleep but definitely awake.. He was sort of fixated on the sunlight in the room and you know. Yeah. Land of the Sun. It does hurt I think, the Sunshine Village I was convinced this life was my home, fake memories obscuring real ones.... And yet... Home is touchable. I knew I belonged to a place of sun's power I just never thought I'd get back in my feet and be allowed to be a sky god again, I thought I'd always be stuck down here

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also tbt but shoutout to the way this one tweet of mine got these Likes trickling in from randos, dunno why this one in particular but win that it was one that outright says Autistic. and taylor mason loyalist / understander

truly in this and any other glimpses it's o7 & warms my heart that there's other absolute randos who are Nonplussed about billions re: winston, that is, they too understand him as a person in the world of the story & from that perspective respond to material like "uh"

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

first AF attack of the year 💪 for @kyotikk!

[pitske]

MORE OC SHIT

[freedomarrow]

Succession [drabble]

There was a time when the banner of Daein fluttered in the winds, carried both by the harsh, unforgiving gales that called his homeland their own, and the proud wings of Daein’s Dracoknights as they looked to the horizon from on high, while the cavalry and infantry below marched in perfect synchronization and harmony — ready for battle, for glory, for victory and death, all in service of their country.

Leonardo only ever saw it once; when he was nine, his father took him to show him his destiny. He was a noble, after all — one obligated and expected to give it his all for the good of the motherland, and he was being prepared for this role since his earliest days. He saw it all… The flags and banners, carrying the name and pride of his country. The black armor on every knight, glistening in the sun. The swords and spears prepared, sharpened, polished, ready to fight for that which must be defended. The majestic wyverns, floating in the air above him, as though the wind itself, too, was at Daein’s command. Father’s horse, Goldmane, with whom he loved to play and with whom he learned to ride already as a little boy, dressed in the beautiful garments befitting the mount of His Majesty’s handpicked paladin.

Only once did he have a chance to witness it, but on an impressionable boy, aware that this was his future, it left a mark never to be forgotten.

Four years later, the Mad King summoned his army to war. A year still passed and it was gone.

Scattered on the winds, lost in the fields of Crimea’s righteous blades as they protected the freedom they deserved. Lost in the name of, as he would later learn, nothing, for they and their valiance were used in the name of madness and greed, little more. Swords broken, shields shattered, his father and Goldmane, too, lost on some battlefield or other, no longer important and relevant to anyone. It was as though they never mattered to begin with.

History would only ever remember them as villains, invaders, those who trampled upon the rights of others. Yes, they too left behind grieving wives, orphaned children and a shattered nation — but those do not matter, do they. Who cares about the bad guys, after all. And it was a reality that Leonardo found he had simply resigned himself to.

It is not as though he ever expected or demanded apologies, sympathy and compassion from others, but perhaps somewhere deep down, it hurt to know that he did not even have the right. He never allowed himself to think even that much, though. It was not until after the Dawn Brigade became a cornerstone of the newly reborn Daein army and he truly began to reclaim the value of his life that he forgot existed, that he finally began to let his thoughts give voice to his grievances and frustrations — and questions on what comes next, now that he knows the “next” will, indeed, have a chance to happen.

What is the point of glory if it only brings ruin? What is the point of reaching for the skies if it only leads you to crash to the ground?

Today, a decorative dagger with the family crest on its hilt rests in a drawer in his dorm room, seen by few, but never forgotten. It is the main keepsake he still owns - Leonardo has preserved little else of his past life. Family riches and belongings were, naturally, stolen by the Begnion army, and though some of it — as well as the family mansion — was regained via reparations, he donated a lot of the former to the Daein army reconstruction effort and the latter… is still a little difficult to think about. Perhaps he will sell it and settle down elsewhere, where ghosts of the past will not plague his thoughts. Or maybe he will eventually find it in him to return to them like a good son, a good brother, a good young master.

When he is certain no one would come to visit or bother him, he will sometimes take the dagger out of the drawer and simply look at it for a while in silence, wishing his father would answer his questions. His fingers will gently rub against the high quality silver blade, and he will close his eyes and listen, hoping to hear his voice, heed his advice — only to then realize that he was deluding himself, and whatever words he heard were actually his own.

In the end, however, he had no right to expect anything else. Many perished, young and old alike,

but it is especially many of the former who remain. The nobility, experience, tradition, foundations — all of that, first and foremost, was swept away during those years of tragedy. (And it makes sense, from the war point of view. That, too, is how you kill a nation.) 

(This is what they deserved.)

(Is this what they deserved?)

What remains are those who had seen either too many winters to be called to arms, or too few — provided they made it through said winters to begin with, which especially during the occupation was not a given — and who escaped the work camps, the fate of collateral damage, and the malice of a bored enemy soldier to whom the people of Daein were equal to livestock. As well as a couple lucky people like himself, who fought and made it out. It is their task, now — these children, ready or not, are the people who will shape Daein’s future.

The thought that this is up to the likes of him is sobering and terrifying — and refreshing, too, in a way. They get to decide, now. They can choose what they do, how they fight and who they hate.

Today, he studies and trains for the future in a foreign land far away from home, a land where the fields were not burned, schools were not destroyed, and a place where the less fortunate can come to still continue hoping for a future. Fate saw it fit to place him here and fill his new world with adventures, missions and new companions; one of whom happens to be a gentle, serene mare, reminiscent of the one that accompanied his happiest days - the main difference being the moonlit color of her mane and tail, rather than the suntouched tone that Goldmane sported. In her honor, Leonardo named his new friend Silvermane.

She was somewhat neglected and not in the best of conditions when he first brought her to the monastery. Small wonder, what with her having been wrestled from the hands of brigands, who cared nothing about her health and well-being and treated her as little more than another trophy. When no owner came forward, Leonardo volunteered to take care of her, having sensed the first thread of connection forming between him and the horse from the start. He has taken care of her ever since — feeding her properly once again, turning her shaggy coat beautiful and glistening, and healing her emotional wounds that she could not speak of, but sustained nevertheless. He restored her glory and pride by reminding her that she matters, and made it so that she once again walked with her head held high.

And yet, for a long time, he failed to realize just why and how it was so important for him as well, until Silvermane himself explained to him in her own, wordless way, that she was not the only one being healed through this process. For it was when she first placed her forehead against his chest in a silent request for an embrace, that he made the realization — 

he looked in her eyes, and he saw himself, with his father and brother standing behind him, their hands on his shoulders, smiling with pride and faith.

And today, months later, it is as he sits atop her back, with Lughnasadh in one hand and the reins in the other, that he finds himself looking up to the sky while the gentle wind of Fódlan’s plains ruffles his hair, and he smiles lightly.

I will keep going, always and forever, and so will Daein along with me.

———

Leonardo has mastered: Bow Knight.

[termina-festival]

everyone say hello to gia :)

[katabay]

there's something I do about once a week over on my other art blog, where I write a bit about whatever I'm working on, and I thought I'd start doing something like that over here!

that knight-priest illustration took off way further than I thought it would! it was actually a test run for a short comic idea I had been fucking around with: a disgraced lord who killed his brother and becomes a knight as a form of penance and ends up falling in love with a franciscan.

and underneath that notebook is the notebook I've been writing bad governance in. it is. ohh. the edits are many. I forgot to keep track of the election cycles, which is a huge oversight, since many of the characters are politicians.

[whiskeysorrows]

A COMMENTARY ON THE SACRILEGE OF THE MODERN POET by Patroclus Minh

[orcelito]

Oh yeah so for my UX design class. Our final project is creating some sort of app that links to a wearable fitness device. Like a fitbit. And my group's doing a lil tamagotchi thing, whatever. It's kind of dumb but this class is kind of dumb anyways. I suck it up and do it regardless so that I can graduate.

Anyways so we actually only came up with this idea on Monday lol. Barely done any work on it. But the guy in our group got a fuck ton of interviews yesterday for it, and thank GOD he did bc GUESS WHAT!!! The "check-in" that we had today that was Supposed to be the TA walking around to talk to groups ended up beinggggg INFORMAL PRESENTATIONS!!!!!!!! And no one was fucking ready for it bc on Monday she'd asked for us to choose between presentations or individual discussions and we chose individual discussions. But I guess she decided to do presentations after all.

And well ok so I have a habit of being a little late to this class every day. It's a 3 hour studio and so long as u get there within 15 mins they're chill about it. And today was extra sucky cause I got RAINED ON like pretty hard. Cold ass rain. My jeans were soaked. And well that sucked pretty hard.

But I walked in to find that they were doing PRESENTATIONS and I was like Aw Fuck. And see the thing is, 2 of my groupmates in that class are always *very* late. Like half an hour to an hour late, if they even show up at all. So I couldn't count on them. And my remaining groupmate is the quiet type, so I couldn't count on her either.

So I was like. Aw, fuck. It's up to me.

Sat there in the 5 or 10 mins I had while other groups were presenting to review the interview results from yesterday (I hadn't even looked at them yet 😭😭😭) and then I fuckin gave an informal presentation on the fly about our project that we Totally didn't start working on only 2 days ago (lol). And the thing is. Somehow???? We had the most work done out of the class?????? Most of them hadn't even done interviews yet 😭😭😭😭 like this is due on the 2nd and next week is Thanksgiving break 😭😭😭😭 there is NOT much time left!!!!!!!

But yeah I was riding that high of carrying that presentation for us. I'm so Fucking good at bullshitting.