#though i feel like i should re read some canon stuff again

[cathalbravecog]

please know anytime i get an ask like this im EATING IT UP even if my thoughts are messy and all over the place. would take some while to make up something fully cohesive and of quality so yknow i hope even my on the spot ideas are interesting to you all :D

[irisintheafterglow]

No Prey, No Pay (opla!zoro x you)

summary: after steering him to a successful bounty, zoro can't stop thinking about you. he decides to do something about it. (Part 2 to Parley)

wc: 1.67k

cw/tags: domestic zoro crumbs, idiots in love but they don't know how to express it, canon-typical violence, zoro is so himbo i love him

note: thank you for all the love on my first two zoro posts!!!! i'm so so so happy y'all liked them; this is one of the first times in a while i've actually been super giddy writing a character. i really hope he's not too ooc, i tried to keep his himbo-ness intact. hope you enjoy!!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

“Here to try killing me again?”

“Oh,” is all he can sputter out, frozen on the doorstep of the Lady’s manor. The stout, shriveled old woman before him was not who he was looking for. To make matters worse, the flower he’d picked from the hillside on his way up the driveway suddenly seemed like a gargantuan beanstock in his fingers. His face was warming but, for the life of him, he could not figure out why. “You’re not–”

“Nope. They’re in the Farmers’ Market,” she deadpans without hesitation, eyeing him with all the amusement of a PhD candidate reading a children’s book. “The Farmers’ Market I created, by the way.” 

“Right,” he replies shortly, turning abruptly on his heel and letting his eyes widen in pure horror when she can’t see his face. He tosses the flower into a nearby planter, well aware that she can still see his every move. After several misguided attempts to navigate back to your isolated piece of land in the East Blue, he approached the ornately decorated door with a little more excitement than he expected. Having the Lady whom he’d tried to kill a few weeks prior be the one to open the door was another funny twist of irony that caused him an odd feeling of embarrassment, like he’d dropped you off after a date ten minutes past your curfew. “Thank you for your time.” 

“Tell me, pirate hunter,” she called to his back patronizingly. “Why grace us again with your oh-so-menacing presence?” 

“I’m wondering the exact same thing,” he mutters, irritated at his failed attempt to find you on the first try. 

“When you find them, tell them to pick up more sweet potatoes. I thought we had enough for dinner, but we could use a few more now that you’re here,” the Lady instructs him and her words take a few seconds to register in his mind. But, by the time he’s turned around to ask her what she meant, the door is already shut and he’s too proud to knock again. 

As if the mortification on your porch wasn’t enough, it’s nearly impossible to find you in the milling swarms of people in town. The people part naturally for him as he passes, sneaking anxious glances at the three swords on his hip. Whispers of his occupation and intentions float around his ears but he pays them no mind, determined to spot you. Again, he wasn’t sure what he was doing there in the first place; but, no matter what anyone else said, he did know one thing. By some unexpected turn of Fate, he missed you. 

“Shopping for produce while you hunt? I didn’t know you could multitask.” The teasing lilt of your voice appears behind him and he can’t help smirking. You’d found him before he found you, even though it was his job to find people. “Word to the wise: the vendors will upcharge you because they know you’re not from the island.” 

“What if you’re there with me?” When he finally turns to face you, his eyes flick to the canvas bag slung over your shoulder. It’s stuffed with fruits and vegetables, along with a jar of honey from the beekeeper just up the road from your house. 

“They’ll upcharge you more and insist you pay for my stuff,” you reply nonchalantly. “Now that I think of it, maybe we should walk around together.” You brush past him and re-enter the bustling square like he was the last thing on your mind, when really he was the only thing for the past week. You’re certain he’d follow behind you and your theory is confirmed when his voice comes from over your right shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

“You’re wearing the bracelet,” he observes, easily slipping into place next to you as if it was natural to be by your side. With the sword-clad bounty hunter next to you, it was much easier to navigate the market without bumping every resident of the island. 

“Mhmm, I told you I liked it,” you say absentmindedly, stopping at a stand and picking up a vibrantly colored fruit from the stack. Observing it for bruises and finding none, you signal the seller that you’d like to buy the piece in your hand. His farm-worn hand stretches out to you and you fish around in your bag briefly for coins. But, before you can place the money in his hand, Zoro’s fingers are already dropping an unnecessarily large quantity into the shocked farmer’s palm. You gape at him and his unchangingly blank expression, shaking your head in disbelief when he glances at you, eyes shining arrogantly. “Where’d you get all that money and why did you do that?” 

“Bounties,” he answers plainly, “and ‘cause I wanted to. Next stand?” You’re still slightly frozen from pure surprise, but he shrugs carefreely and tilts his head toward the rest of the vendors.

“Feel like enlightening me on why you’re here again?” It’s the fourth or fifth stand he’s accompanied you to and, at this point, you were just window-shopping. Since he joined you on your errand, you hadn’t spent any more money; before you could pay any of the sellers, they were already thanking you profusely for your generosity with a pile of shining coins in their hands. Zoro proved to be a very patient companion, respectfully giving his opinions on which piece of produce looked bigger or more appetizing. With most of the required items on your shopping list successfully in your bag, you find yourself drifting over to the stalls of mundane things like pretty flowers and colorful crystals. 

“There’s a Marine defector turned intelligence smuggler hiding somewhere in the area. Thought I’d knock out two birds with one stone.” You turn over a piece of aventurine in your fingers, admiring it from different angles in the sunlight. Your breath hitches slightly when Zoro’s face dips down next to yours, watching the crystal from the same angle. 

“What’s the other bird?” You glance at him from the corner of your eye. 

“Visiting you,” he replies without hesitation, plucking the crystal from your fingers and tossing more coins at the vendor. You don’t stop the laugh that escapes your mouth and you swear his smirk gets more self-assured as he drops the rock into your bag. At a point when you aren’t looking, he swings your bag onto a broad shoulder as easily as if it was a piece of paper. “Also, we need sweet potatoes.” Your eyebrows raise in amusement at his slip. 

“We?” You have to fight down another giggle when his face becomes slightly pinker, imperceptible if you weren’t already staring at him. “Since when were we anything?”

“Your boss said she needed more sweet potatoes. Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

“I wasn’t aware that you went to go see her.”

“I wasn’t either, and then she opened the door instead of you,” he admits and you chuckle at his expression of distaste. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have–get behind me.” Before he can finish his thought, his arm shoots out in front of you, effectively halting you a split second before a knife darts across your vision, embedding itself into the wooden post next to you. The surrounding market-goers break into chaotic panic and you have no choice but to press your back against Zoro’s to prevent getting swept away. Emerging from the crowd, a lethal-looking group of fighters encircle you two and your hand finds the hilt of your saber. 

“Pirates?”

“No. Bounty hunters.”

“Friends of yours?” You eye the group warily as the marketplace empties, people running into the nearest building they could find to spectate the upcoming battle. 

“I’d call them ‘occupational competition’ on a good day.”

“Ah, great,” you huff sarcastically. “What’d you do to piss them off?”

“Exist,” he deadpans and you hum in assent. 

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you mutter and you start to pull your blade from its sheath, anticipating the fight ahead of you.

“Don’t.” The single word halts your movements and your stomach drops in fear of what he’s sensing.

“What?”

“Let me handle this,” he says in a low tone that makes your skin break into goosebumps. “Can you hold the bag while I deal with them?”

“You sure?”

“Yep. This won’t take long,” he says irritatedly, scowling at the rival hunters that interrupted his day.

“Alright. I’m gonna go get sweet potatoes, then.”

“Third one down on the left. I’ll meet you over there,” he promises before moving faster than you can comprehend, whirling and downing the two attackers in front of you without even drawing his swords. They howl in pain when you stab your blade into their feet for good measure before leisurely making your way further down the street. As you walk, Zoro clears the path for you, mercilessly incapacitating every enemy with ease. By the time you find the sweet potato stall, there’s only one persistent fighter still giving the swordsman problems. You don’t feel any ounce of fear, however, as you pick through the salvageable gourds while the clashing of swords rings out behind you. Eventually, the street quiets and Zoro returns to your side as if nothing happened at all. “Good?”

“I’m fine,” you say truthfully, running your thumb over the bruise of an otherwise good potato. “You think this one’s still okay?” After peering at it and deeming it safe, he nods.  

“Yeah, it should be fine. If anything, you can just cut off the ugly spot.” There’s a splattering of red just under his eye when you meet his gaze. Your fingers unconsciously come up to wipe the speck of blood from his cheek and his skin feels just as electric as the first time you touched him. 

“Cool. I’m done shopping then, so we can go back home.”

“We?”

“You’re staying for dinner. It isn’t a request,” you command lightheartedly and smile when his steps fall into line next to yours. 

“Mmm, I can’t wait.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[linmeiwei]

OMG! I recently found your stories and

I'm.

In.

Love.

You've rekindled a fire I haven't felt about P&P variations in a very long time! Yes, there are many good writers, but not very many excellent ones! Your Darcy and Elizabeth, their interactions in all stages are—at least to me—so true to their canon selves, I can easily imagine several parallel universes in which Austen herself might have come up with something like I Dreamt or Betrothed!

Another (very, very) important aspect of their dynamic I absolutely adore in your portrayal of ODC is their sensuality and ardour. It's unlike any other I've read so far, and I'm so grateful for the little scenes of intimacy you've given us— in spite of the position of much of the fandom on sex no less!

(Alas, I am greedy fanfic heaux who was raised in fandoms much hornier than this one, so i cant help but wish for Darcy-centric outtakes for Stranded. Does this exist??? Can it????)

Since I don't yet sound desperate enough, let me ask this: Please tell me you're currently writing a new story? I do realise it takes work and effort and time. Nevertheless, i'm fully committed to being the needy, greedy reader and have therefore no shame in demanding ever more!!

(in reality, of course, I'm beyond thankful for what we have, and can't wait to read all your stories from back to front again and again and again once I've rampaged all the way through, which, at my current speed, should take just another couple of hours, lol 💗💗💗)

Oh wow, thank you so much! It genuinely means so much to me that someone reads what I write, let alone likes it. It's so nice to hear, genuinely, thank you.

Partially, I'm a little flustered reading comments like this, because I write so painfully slowly, and honestly have to go through fifty complete re-writes (as in start from scratch-go again) before I think a story fit to be seen by the eyes of another human being, and even then I'm a bundle of anxiety until the first review comes in. But the fandom has been so forgiving of my many mistakes and so kind in their feedback, and so that really helps me keep going. So, again, thank you!

It does mean that I'm slow with producing more work, though! I do in fact have a completed draft of another novel, that I am now letting rest before I start re-working it again. Which is my long-winded way of saying that, yes, there's something new coming out at some point, but I really don't know when it will be ready (I'm really rather ashamed of how long it's taking me). I have a little toddler and a full time job, which doesn't help, I'm afraid!

Oh and the sex scenes! Yay, I love a good sex scene! I also love horny P&P variations! And I'm so rubbish at writing them, lol! My genuine position on this is that the sex scene comes if it feels right that it should be there (like, in Betrothed it felt right to be more descriptive when it happens, because something fundamental changes for Elizabeth at that point in the narrative, and she breaks the distance between them, purposefully, er, letting him in, so to speak). Stranded was my first novel, so I didn't really know how to do this stuff, so it's coy and full of banter, rather than anything remotely explicit. I hadn't thought about writing any extra scenes for that one, but maybe I will (and if I do, I'll pop it on AO3 for everyone to laugh at :D)!

[olderthannetfic]

Hi there! I hope you're having a nice day.

Little bit of a rant and a bid for advice, if you or your readers have any. I hope that's alright.

I'm currently writing a fic or maybe multiple fics (plot bunnies be running rampant in me brains) about a rarepair of two guys. I'm a bi woman and have basically zero social skills, so in order to properly understand other people's body language, I like to look up guides or articles about body language between two people, although I know those things are full of bullshit and don't mean anything, and it's hard to find articles for example about whether another woman's body language indicates interest in you if you're a woman yourself, but eh, they're still better than my brain which is usually like "eh, could mean this or that or this or that or this or that or- basically could be anything, I wouldn't know that lol, now I'm tired and will shut off, bye" aka useless as well.

The results I've found have been absolutely useless. I like writing characters in a slightly plausible-sounding way, so I like incorporating body language as in acting choices or subconscious body language (or whatever a proper term might be) in my writing to make it sound more in-character. So for stuff like this, I usually just think "ok what is that person's expression and if I do it, what would that indicate me to be feeling currently", and I don't know if other people do that or if that's just me being bad with social stuff and intuition about it again, and if I should really try to get re-evaluated for autism which I have been advised to think about doing multiple times in multiple direct and indirect implicative ways such as people being like "hey btw are you autistic? no? you sure?" or "I know you got a negative diagnosis as a kid, but maybe that was wrong and you might wanna do it again because of all your social struggles and sensory stuff etc.", heh. (Have been diagnosed with ADHD though, so that might also just be it.)

Sorry for the rambling. English isn't my first language, so if anything sounds strange, that's to blame.

My question or rather bid for advice is: I am wondering if you or your readers might have any advice on where to find resources for reading body language and romantic or sexual implications in body language between two parties, in this case between two guys.

(Hopefully this is not too nonsensical or insensitive or something like that because that's not my intention. I just really don't know how to human or if there actually is some difference on how different people of different genders flirt consciously or subconsciously or if that's some weird unnoticed transphobic bio-essentialism shit that I hadn't yet noticed and sorted out of my head because I don't want to be transphobic since that sucks.)

--

Weeell...

If people have links to guides, that's great, but I do think that in the context of fanfic, people often write flirting that they find sexy or they write whatever the canon style of interaction is and recontextualize it as how these particular guys flirt.

They're not usually thinking "What does flirting look like in general?" and then having the characters behave in a new way.

A lot of our interpretation of body language in written fiction has to do with information we get from the POV character about how they're feeling internally. For the non-POV character, we may have the POV character's thoughts on what the body language means, but we're generally interpreting it based on media cliches and based on knowing this is a ship fic.

So the other dude acts like he doesn't like our POV dude and the POV dude is like "Alas, my pining is unrequited!" and the audience goes "Ooooh, it's one of those fics!"

If the goal is writing certain types of fic, you may not need a guide to How People Really Act as much as one to How Fans Interpret Such and Such a Behavior from Canon as Subtext.

[despairforme]

canon questionare.

what made you pick up this character? Nnoitra first became my mood from me drawing him. I was just randomly drawing some Bleach characters one day, and I ( for some reason ) tried drawing Nnoitra, and - I loved drawing him. I became absolutely obsessed with drawing him and he just brought me so much creativity. He is my muse after all. Since I loved drawing him so much, I became interested in his character and re-read and re-watched the canon content for him. Then I decided I should try writing him, and... Well, 9 years later, here we are.

how did you get into this franchise/fandom? My s/o showed me Bleach like 14 years ago or something. I originally wasn't all that interested ( he basically had to force me to watch the first 70 episodes ), but yeah, eventually I got really into it.

what’s the best thing about the show/series/books/comics/etc.? Definitely the characters. I think Bleach has a lot of cool characters, and while I'm not the biggest fan of the main ones, or the story, the side-characters really carry it for me. And, of course - Nnoitra is the best thing about Bleach for me, since I forever love him so much.

what’s the worst thing about the show/series/books/comics/etc.? For me, I don't find the story all that interesting, or the main characters. I did enjoy them more on my latest re-watch of Bleach, because yeah, they really are just teenagers so you gotta cut them some slack. I also really dislike the pacing of the TYBW anime.

what’s the best thing about the fandom? Everyone is so nice!! I've had the most amazing experiences in the BLEACH fandom! Literally everyone is so kind to me. In 9 years I only had a few not-so-nice experiences, but every issue was resolved. I always feel welcomed and taken care of here, so it's like a wonderful safe-space.

what’s the worst thing about the fandom? Hmm... That's a tough one, since I generally think the fandom is awesome. I know some people have had bad experiences, but I think that'll happen in any fandom, so I definitely don't see the BLEACH fandom as toxic. I guess for me, the "worst" thing is the feminization of Nnoitra in fanart, because it's just so off-putting to me ( and Nnoitra ). But I easily avoid that stuff so it's not a big deal. I also dislike self-shippping, but again, I easily avoid seeing posts about self-shipping with Nnoitra.

what’s the best thing about the canon you are writing? Oh boy, where do I even start... It's super hard to choose, because I love everything about Nnoitra. One of the best things would be his independence and his bravery. He just does his own thing no matter what others say. Writing a character like that is really satisfying.

what’s the worst thing about the canon you are writing? I personally love everything about Nnoitra, even his bad sides, because they make him more interesting as a character. Characters without flaws are kinda boring to me. Maybe the "worst" thing about him is that he can be really difficult to approach.

have you tweaked the character from canon? if so, what did you tweak? I do try to stick to canon in my canon verse, though I did give Nnoitra the accent ( I gave it to him in modern/human!au and it just carried over to all his other verses ). Nnoitra is a minor side-character, so "sticking to canon" is really all about your own interpretation of said canon.

are there some things you dislike about how the show/series/etc. portray the character you have picked up? if so, what? No, I love Nnoitra's canon, it's great. I love that he dies so that his canon is "complete". That way I won't have to deal with new information about him being released.

what would you say is the most unique trait about your character? Most unique... I mean, probably how disagreeable he can be. You don't often see a character be this off-putting. Especially with how bigoted he is. It's a very unpopular character trait.

are there any other characters from the franchise you’d like to play? I have written several BLEACH characters in addition to Nnoitra. At the moment I'm also writing Kuchiki Byakuya and Kurotsuchi Mayuri. I have a couple more I'd like to try my hand at, but I'm just not able to fit more muses into my writing schedule these days.

are there some characters from the franchise you can’t stand?  I used to dislike quite a few characters, but over the years I've learnt through interactions on here to see different sides of them. Now I find some of them interesting, and some of them I feel neutral towards. I don't have very strong negative feelings about any characters, but if I had to choose my least favorites, I'd say all the members of 0 Division.

what are your thoughts on the canon ships for the character, if any? The most common ship for Nnoitra is Nnoitra x Nelliel. I personally don't ship this, since I don't see Nnoitra wanting to be in a relationship with her. He'd definitely be interested in something sexual with her, but it would all be incredibly toxic. The second most popular is Nnoitra x Tesla, which, again, I don't personally ship. I can see it as a one-sided thing from Tesla, where he worships Nnoitra while his feelings are not returned. Sure, Nnoitra does care about Tesla, but I don't see Nnoitra being romantically interested.

what is your personal ship bias for your canon character? I prefer crossover ships. I love imagining Nnoitra with characters from other fandoms. I also had a lot of fun shipping my Nnoitra with Lexie's Grimmjow, but I can't see that happening with another Grimmjow.

are there any ships you can’t stand, why? My least favorite ship for Nnoitra is Nnoitra x Kenpachi. It makes no sense to me.

how long have you been writing the character? A little over 9 years.

should people get into the franchise your writing from, yes or no? I have had wonderful experiences with BLEACH, but it's not my favorite show or the franchise I'd be first to recommend.

if you could sum up your character with one sentence, what would it be? "There ain't gonna be no mercy from me."

which song do you feel describes your character the most and why? Oh, tough one. There are so many good songs for Nnoitra. I really like Carnivore by Starset for him.

tagged by : @vilesn4ke ( thank you for tagging me! )

tagging : anyone who wants to do it! :D

[blindmagdalena]

Heeey, can I ask ypu something?

I've never seen Diabolical, but I've stumbled across a few tumblr posts trashing on Stillwell for doing stuff to Homelander in the episode because he's suppossedly underage.

Is this true? I always thought that Stillwell grooming Homelander was just fanon. I figured the whole tension between them steemed from Unresolved Sexual Tension, at least on Homelander's part.

Then again, if she's actually a predator, it could be that their relationship (?) ended because Homelander "got too old" and she re-started it in order to manipulate him.

Now, I don't know what to think 😩

In Diabolical 8, she absolutely has a very inappropriate moment with him. He’s 18 at the time, so not technically underaged—still gross—though we don’t really know when she met him. I was under the impression she was newly assigned to him, given how in that same moment she makes a comment about how they should drop ‘the’ from his title “The Homelander.”

honestly, I take the canon of Diabolical with a grain of salt, especially because it contradicts some points of canon in the main show. their relationship in s1 does not read to me like two people who’ve been sexually intimate over the course of the last 20+ years. like you said, it feels like extreme UST between them.

Grace Mallory describes their relationship as “special, complicated, intimate, hard to quantify.”

that seems like a really convoluted way to describe it if they were just fucking. imo, it reads as something aside from that. something Mallory didn’t know how to define.

I don’t really believe Madelyn ever had an earnest interest in Homelander, or that they had a true romantic relationship at any point. I think it was always a tenuous leash she had on him, something he projected onto her. but Madelyn 100% did manipulate him. the extent of it is just largely left to implication and interpretation.

[needtoloveoutloud]

On average, how long does it take you to write a chapter of this. Planning to write my own fic (not MHA) and wanted a ballpark for how long it'll take

Hey! :)

Depends on the length of the chapter. The new ones I'm currently writing are a bit longer (13-16k words). In general, if it involves canon scenes from the manga/anime, it takes me a little bit longer - because I like switching up the dialogue a little bit and have to either pause the anime or scroll down on the manga (I read it online). If it's original dialogue/original storylines, it flows a lot more easily.

I'd say on average, it takes me about 4-7 days to write (depending how life goes and how supportive my inner muse is lol), then again, of course, comes the re-reading of the chapters, which also takes some time.

But: I started brainstorming and planning out this story sometime in fall last year and have a whole ass trello board with mapped out scenes/dialogue/character studies etc. even in the future. Personally, it helps me to not write everything in order. It definitely helps to have major plot points mapped out already.

But there is no good or bad amount of time it should take to write chapters or stories in general - it's about how motivated you feel, how the ideas and the words flow and how much fun you have with it. So, just go at your own pace! :)

I have to say, though, that this is the first ever story I'm writing, so I'm figuring stuff out as I go as well. I think the most important thing is to have fun, no matter how quick you are or how long it takes you.

It's super cool that you think about writing your own fic! Go for it! The most important thing is, I think, to write for yourself first and foremost. And if you do it for yourself, and not for others, it's literally more about the journey and less about the destination (although the destination is pretty awesome, too :) ). So, timing wise, I don't think there's a wrong or right way to go about it.

There are authors who update every other month and their readers stick with the story and really look forward to new chapters, while other update every other day and the quality of their chapters is just as high as the ones who update less frequently.

So, basically: go at your own pace. I try uploading every seven to fourteen days, though.

Have fun writing! You can do it, go for it! <3

-Becks

P.S.: Sorry for the long ass answer haha

[krischaoz]

Some rp stuff incase anyone is looking for an rp buddy

My Guidelines

☆ Must be 18 or older

Purely for saftey purposes as much as it is for my personal comfort. It can be pretty stressful and limiting for me to write with anyone younger (even if it is sfw). So please understand and respect this.

If I do decide to forego this (not likely), please understand I may not be as engaging and there will be limitations to what I can / feel comfortable writting with you.

☆ The general 'dos' and 'donts'

I typically don't write the general triggers anyhow unless I feel it can be handled appropriately and safely. So this should be a problem.

☆ Be upfront about things

More specifically, be upfront about topics you need me to avoid (i.e., certain triggers or uncomfortable topics). I expect you to follow through as well. Don't wait til after the fact to tell me or try to spin it around on me if you didn't do your part to inform me (considering I avoid general triggers in the first place). I'm not playing those games and I WILL block you. I've unfortunately been in that situation years back and I will not be doing that again.

☆ writting Style

I ONLY do descriptive and prefer at least a paragraph per character. I don't expect it to be perfect (as in grammar or 100% in character all the time) but I do ask you try your best and I will do the same for you.

☆ I only really do oc x canon type of roleplays so I may be less interested if you don't have an oc or if you only wanna do canon stuff.

☆ I generally prefer writting over Discord since it's the easiest for me to keep it organized (between roleplay, random convos or even exchanging oc stuff like art or lore). But I may be open to suggestions to other sites.

☆☆☆

What I roleplay

(May be subject to update, but this is all of what I currently write)

Trigun

More spefically Stampede as I'm most familiar with that version (having been introduced through it and having watched it 20+ times) but I'm open to any iteration. Storyline wise, I generally semi-strictly follow the canon timeline of Stampede (granted things will change and be expanded on with new characters in the mix)

Watched all iterations and I believe I've made it to ch.70 of the manga before starting to re-read it.

Genshin Impact

Caught up as far as world quests go. Can't promise I've done ALL character story quests though. For the most part I kinda go semi-canon kind of roleplay plot as each of my ocs have their own unique story.

☆☆☆

[zyrafowe-sny]

oh I have some questions if you're taking!

11: Link your three favorite fics right now

45: Do you want to break your readers‘ heart or make them laugh?

70: When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

Thanks so much for the ask! Asks come from this post.

11: Link your three favorite fics right now

This is so hard. There are so many good fanfics out there.

I will always love @sercezgazety's/theprincessofdenial's A Potter's Field. It was written before For the Future aired, and is a darker look at how post-Belos life and political restructuring/lustration could look like, particularly for the former Golden Guard. I appreciate how the story is also told/supplemented through other media (like archaeological field notes), and the whole fic matches my academic interests pretty closely (studied anthro, politics, Eastern Europe, democratization, etc. once upon a time). Full disclosure: I did beta read it and was generally a chapter or two ahead of other readers, so that made the comment section even more fun. In general, I highly recommend the comment section of all theprincessofdenial's fics in addition to the fics themselves.

After a long stretch of being most interested in genfic (especially in the TOH fandom), Nimona has gotten me into shippy stuff again. I'm enjoying @peachblossom-odyssey's/LiterallyThePresident's how familiar the danger series because it's an interesting concept for an AU (Ballister doesn't become a knight), the universe is dark/gritty, and all the Ballister/Ambrosius interactions are fire.

I also really like @thegrimshapeofyoursmile's Strange Infatuations series since I am a sucker for worldbuilding, especially worldbuilding based on research.

45: Do you want to break your readers‘ heart or make them laugh?

Both? One of my favorite books - Under the Whispering Door - made me cry actual tears and laugh out loud, so that kind of emotional rollercoaster is something I aspire to.

A good chunk of my writing falls into bittersweet, but even my "funny" fics like World's Best Turkey Carver and LuluRoe include nods at grief. My most angsty fics tend to be short and follow canon closely - I haven't invented much new angst for the blorbos.

I'm a little proud that I get this kind of range of comments across my fics (yes, I re-read comments as a pick-me-up and cherish each and every one):

"I don't know if i should laugh or cry ahdjshjd"

"Thank you for making me look like an idiot in front of my roommate! I laughed way too hard at that part."

"Aaaaahhh this hurt. This hurt me. Akkskssmzndkdk"

"This gave me such a quiet, sweet little heartache."

"I want to cry but I'm in a public place"

"I love this so much! Though you will be paying my therapy bills"

"It took me over an hour to finish reading this fic because I kept laughing so hard kdnfjskdkfmdkdkfjdk Oh my god, I had like twenty different giggling fits."

70: When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

It wasn't until after I posted my third TOH fic that I confessed to my long-term partner that I was writing again and shared my AO3 username. There's just something about writing that exposes a bit of your soul, and having my writing connected to me as a person can feel mortifying.

I have mentioned to a few people that I write fanfic without linking to my work, and that's been easier (sometimes to friends/acquaintances who are also in fandom spaces, sometimes to my real life professional writer friends/acquaintances in a "I am but a humble amateur but still can relate somewhat to your writing vent post/your messed up Google algorithm" sort of way).

Basically, I don't consider amateur writing (fanfic or otherwise) embarrassing, but am more personally shy about sharing what I write with people who know me in real life.

[illwynd]

Not to be overly intrusive but I very much want to hear your rant about jms lady loki arc? Your thoughts about thor stuff are fascinating generally, and it either makes me go " I hadn't even considered this aspect of things ", or " oh that's what bothered me about this but I just couldn't find the words!" I mean it goes without saying that you don't have to if you don't want to, but I haven't heard people say anything about that arc other than it was sexist, so now I'm very curious about your opinions on it.

Oh nonny you’re not overly intrusive at all! Thank you for asking this and giving me the excuse to blather about it XD and thank you for the kind words. I clearly think about this stuff way too much, and all I can hope for is that someone else finds it of some sort of interest or value.

Re the JMS lady Loki arc…

So OK I guess I should summarize the thing for the benefit of anyone who hasn’t read it. The main gist goes like this: Thor is having to call Asgardian souls back into the world after breaking the cycle of Ragnarok, and when Loki is brought back, he is “inexplicably” in a female body. Loki has in fact arranged this as part of a con, using his new appearance to better sell everyone on the idea that he’s changed and no longer villainous, but the truth is that it’s Sif’s body he’s stolen, and Sif’s spirit is trapped in the body of a dying mortal, so it’s basically attempted murder (though Loki’s plan is thwarted and Sif is saved at the last minute). In the meantime, the “lady” Loki is a sexy, buxom caricature of played-up femininity, using her wiles to manipulate the men around her, and through it all it doesn’t really seem to be motivated by any genuine gender fluidity on Loki’s part. It’s just a trick. 

So I can see where the criticism comes from: that it’s sexist, that it’s bad genderfluid representation since it’s in the form of a murderous villain, that it resembles transphobic tropes of trans women being “really” men trying to steal whatever from women. But those criticisms never seemed to me to land quite right. They seemed to be superficial and missing something important. And there are several angles you can take in looking at it more deeply where all those criticisms just fall apart.

I’m not even really going to go into the problems with decrying it as bad representation because he’s a villain. I really hope we’re past that. It’s not good when your media queers can only be villains, but having every queer character be morally upright and squeaky clean isn’t a good answer either, because real people aren’t like that. What I ask for is that the whole range be available, and that for any given character, they are first and foremost an interesting character with believable motivations for what they do. So “but he’s so evil he was trying to kill Sif! Bad representation! Bad!” is a complaint we’re just going to set aside and make dubious faces at, because for reasons I’ll get to later, I think there is an emotional truth to the portrayal, and in fiction that matters far more than any black-and-white moral claims.

So next up, we have the complaint that he doesn’t seem to be motivated by any genuine genderfluid feelings, since it’s all just a con. And my issue with that is that… it’s a very superficial take. He is motivated by gender stuff. Just not in a way that the complainers recognize. 

The absolutely crucial detail is that his target is Sif. I say again. It really matters that he targeted Sif for this con. And yes, sure, part of his reasoning is jealousy over her close relationship with Thor (thorki is canon, y’all). But another part is this: Sif is the only other (that we know of) gender nonconforming person in Asgard, and definitely the only other one that we see as being close to his social circle. But where she is celebrated as a woman who is active and successful in traditionally culturally masculine pursuits, Loki’s gender nonconformity—his failure to live up to Asgardian masculine ideals—gets him demeaned, derided, dismissed. The gender fuckery going on here is that he is furious at the difference in how their GNC-ness is treated. His resentment and anger at that injustice, and he's being a right bastard in expressing it. We stan. 

(I also do think there is something genderqueer in how the trickster considers using a feminine appearance to be just one potential tool in his arsenal, the kinda just shrugging and doing whatever works for his purposes rather than getting worked up about having to do such a thing? I mean. So shocking for a trickster figure, right? But hold that thought.)

So that was where I was with it for several years. But I kept coming back to how relatable Loki is to me as a trans masc person, and trying to figure out why it was that way, and what that had to do with this particular arc, and then it finally hit me.

This scene. 

“Thus is Loki truly beautiful.”

In this scene, Loki has just been able to finally return to his male body (with Hela’s help), and he expresses his relief and joy in it, all while the art makes him look… kinda grotesque. And my gods that is such a trans masc mood. Knowing that while you pretend to be a woman you’ll be seen as nonthreatening and acceptable, and maybe you can put up with that for practical or social reasons for a while, but it isn’t how you want to live your life, it isn’t how you want to be seen, it isn’t the appearance that makes you happy. Constantly hearing how by changing your form you’ll be changing from sexy and desirable to ugly and monstrous… but thus you are truly beautiful to your own eyes. 

(I think it is worth pointing out here, for anyone who might not know, that it is not uncommon for trans masc folks to have a phase of trying to go hard femme before they really accept themselves as trans. I personally didn’t, but I can imagine that the exaggerated femme lady Loki might be familiar to some of those guys. I, on the other hand, had a phase of treating my afab body as a tool that wasn’t really connected to me, so there are some other bits of the lady Loki arc that I find familiar. And here I should note that I’m not saying JMS had all this in mind, I have no idea whether he did or not, but death of the author, baby. The interpretation is very much there.)

And there is another little bit that I want to mention. There is one point where Fandral says to lady Loki, “even when you thought you were a man, you weren’t the man you thought you were.”

And. Firstly, screw you Fandral. Seriously. Secondly, the interpretation of this arc as being related to trans femininity gets a lot more press but that is an insult that is far more relevant to trans masc folks. The insults against Loki’s masculinity are reminiscent of how trans guys are not seen as real men, especially if they are GNC in any way, as Loki is. Loki may be amab, but his struggles are so incredibly similar to trans masc struggles (and really, I can’t be the only trans guy who fuckin loves that: a character who feels so familiar and relatable, flawed and angry and messed up in ways that I know all too well, but also has the goddamn body I wish I had. It’s the perfect combination.)

So yeah. That’s the short version, at least, of the rant about what everyone gets wrong about the lady Loki arc. The sexism, and complicated gender politics, is a thing it is commenting on, and I don't see how so many folks miss that.

[selkiefinalist]

ok well i have finished the thing and i think i’m going to do some reflecting on it before i start the next project, which is a much more important project to me.

what went well?

mmm, idk. there are a few things i’d call out as successes, like: actually finishing. the last couple years have been tough from a free time and emotional resources standpoint, and this is the longest thing that i’ve actually finished since the 2020 playoff bubble. also kurtis’ voice was fun to write, and though i let myself get a bit more expansive with it a few times than i should’ve, there were many times that i re-wrote even little phrases to make the voice more consistent and i’m generally happy with how that turned out.

what would i not want to do again?

95% of it was probably written on my phone, which wasn’t great. really hard to get a full perspective on a work of writing when you can only stare at a palm-sized version of it. it worked, it was what it was. probably not going to do that again though. so that’s something i’ll have to work on if i want to keep writing. also while the voice was fun, didn’t feel like the most “me” fic, which — sometimes i get very sick of writing “me” stuff and other times apparently that’s what i want most lmao. the duality of it all.

other general reflections:

god, i just really enjoy writing rare pairs. it’s so liberating - just absolutely releases me from the stress of writing stuff that people might read and have opinions about, the stress of interpreting pairings where there’s a much more rich history of canon/fanon that can be so intimidating! i am at heart a shy person who just enjoys building these little worlds, and rare pair fic is the most pure sandbox. not that it doesn’t also suck in some ways to spend [x] period of time working on something that will only appeal to a very small audience - but that’s a trade off i’m generally okay with.

this fic (and the last one) was really just about getting some writing legs under me again after such a long time, and i wasn’t too concerned with making it ~perfect~. there were some unresolvable pacing issues (well, they could have been resolved, i just didn’t want to) and a couple of transitions i don’t think i really sold and, while it definitely was fun to write, it wasn’t a super important fic to me emotionally. and that’s okay. not every project has to break my heart over my inability to execute it the way i want to.

lastly. as i’m gearing up for something i AM excited about and that will absolutely hurt my feelings - how am i going to propel myself through that? the last few years have been kind of marked by giving up when i reach those inevitable moments of not being good enough to do what i want to do, especially when i have such little time to spend on it. like, when you only have time for one hobby, you want it to be something you’re good at!! i don’t know the answer to this one yet. being answerable to the person who donated in order to receive this fic should help - i hate disappointing people, and participating in fests/exchanges/collabs has been very effective for me in the past.

[strangertheories]

I agree with your post. It's a shame that we can't criticize the show's writing within the Byler community. Also trigger warning for Byler doubt... I wish we could just enjoy the ship without the pressure of it ever becoming canon, and without looking into every single detail that 99% of the time has probably nothing to do with Byler. I feel like I'm the only one but to me it's clear that the writers wouldn't have had Mike confess his love to El if they were planning on making Byler endgame in season 5. It just wouldn't make sense. We now know that Mike being unable to say I love you wasn't because he didn't feel it, but because of his insecurities or whatever bullshit reason they came up with. It's too late for us, but we can still enjoy the amazing dynamic Mike and Will have, and make our own fanart and headcanons like any other ship, and that's wonderful! But it seems like to be in this fandom you have to believe that Byler is endgame, and it's quite tiring. (sorry for the rant I wasn't planning on it lol)

Please give me a second, Byler shippers, this isn't a Byler doubt post! For any Byler shippers reading this, I'm not going to side with the doubt but I'm also not going to try and dismiss it because I think whenever Byler shippers have doubts about canon Byler it's a kneejerk response to try and get rid of it and rationalize it out of existence. I get why, but I think anon raises a good point. I've spoken about this for months and months, but Byler pessimism is a very big thing I feel like nobody talks about. Like we get one piece of bad news, give up and then be sad and venty and genuinely stressed and then we rationalize it and move on but I feel as though maybe we need to actually consider that your love for Byler should elevate the show, not take away from it and make you stressed.

And I know that is so easy to say and I'm not saying you should not feel this way at all, what I'm trying to say is that even if Byler didn't end up being canon (not saying it won't), you can still love this community and eagerly wait for fix it fics and fan art to appear instead of immediately giving up or wanting to leave the fandom. Wanting Byler to be canon is one part of the fandom, but I also think it's so much more than that and it's healthy to acknowledge that and try to still hold love for Stranger Things even if it isn't what you hope for.

Just to put a personal thing here at the end, some followers might have noticed that I've not been posting as much recently. Truthfully, it's because Byler wasn't fun for me anymore. I was stressed out because on one hand I felt super doubtful and never really moved past Volume 2's release and the Mike love confession but on the other, I didn't want to make any of my followers feel scared or doubtful. But I've posted less frequently and re-watched the show and I'm trying to healthily express my honest feelings for the ship, most of which are nice (some of which are critical), and it's been really nice. I expected to kind of be eaten alive for it but everyone's been so nice and I've received a bunch of asks of people who also felt as though they couldn't express this opinion. And it's honestly decreasing my fears for Byler because now I feel more excited than stressed that it won't happen.

Feel free to skip this, but I didn't really know where else to say this; I've gained a lot of followers recently but didn't want to post about it. It feels weird; I have the most followers I've ever had on anything and the Byler tag has hundreds of thousands of followers too, but I just feel so weird about it, y'know? Everything is so quiet at the moment and I'm excited for stuff to ramp up again, but it feels odd gaining followers but with nothing to post about. However this week, I feel as though getting these doubts off my chest has really helped me feel happy. Now I'm excited about Byler potentially being canon instead of just worrying that it might not be happening.

Thanks for the ask and thanks to everyone for being a really supportive loving community. Getting Tumblr was great and I'm glad that this anon and others can find love out of Byler beyond it just being canon in the show.

[florashifting]

[SCREAM 1: FROGGYS VERSION] PT 1

Platonic!Sidney Prescott x oc!adopted! Sister

read prologue here

THIS IS BASED OFF OF SCREAM IN MY DESIRED REALITY SO ARE MY OTHER SCREAM FICS.

WARNINGS: Canon typical violence, light cursing, mentions of death and violence, description of injuries.

Word count: 2196

Proofread? Not really.

A/n: I kinda like this one, it only took me a few hours to write.

DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITE OR PLATFORM OR ACCOUNT.

---

Luci was sick. She claimed she was having stomach problems the night before and when she woke up in the morning, so Sidney had decided to let her stay home for the day after. 

-

Luci sat on the couch and set her glass of orange juice down on the coffee table. She bent slightly forward to grab the TV remote that was placed on the other side of the coffee table. After grabbing the remote she sat back and curled up into the corner of the couch that was farthest from the TV. She looked down at the remote in her hand and started flicking through TV channels until she reached the local news and placed the remote back down on the table.

She knew she wasn’t allowed to watch the news without supervision from an older person like Sidney, Billy, Stu, Tatum, or her dad. But she couldn’t help but feel something was different this morning, something was wrong.

-

As she stared at the news reporter, Gale Weathers, on the TV screen, she couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. Two Woodsboro High students. Butchered. The police said they had no leads in this case to possibly help them figure out who did it, that was enough to make Luci’s head swirl into the abyss of overthinking. ‘Oh no. Oh shit. Oh. Crap. Is Sidney ok? Could the killer be on campus with her? Should I try and call her or the school?’ Luci thought to herself in a panic. ‘No it's fine, it's fine. Sidney’s fine. Dads fine. Everyone’s fine.’

‘Everyone but those dead kids.’

 Luci tried to calm herself with deep breaths and positive thoughts, although it barely worked.

 Luci swiftly grabbed the remote with the intention to turn on something more lighthearted and less anxiety-inducing. She continued switching through channels until she landed on a cartoon, Looney Tunes. Luci placed the remote on the coffee table once again and got herself into a comfortable position.

-

After a while of watching cartoons and after finishing her glass of orange juice, Luci had fallen asleep in her spot on the couch, she had only woken up when she heard the lock on the front door turning. She jumped up from her spot on the couch so she could get a view of the front door. Her nerves were on edge so she just wanted to make sure it was her sister and not some psychotic killer. Luckily her suspicions were wrong and it was only Sidney who walked through the door.

“Hi, Sid.” Luci said as she walked up to her older sister with a smile.

“Hey, Lou.” Sidney responded while giving her younger sister a quick hug. “How ‘re you feeling?” Sidney asked, concerned with her sister's health.

“Same as this morning. Extremely nauseous.” The younger girl said nonchalantly. “Did anything happen at school today?” She asked Sidney even though she was certain that the campus was swarmed with press and news reporters.

“Yeah, there were News vans everywhere be-” “Because two of your classmates were murdered.” Luci interrupted Sidney.

“How’d you know that? Were you watching the news again? Dad said you’re not supposed to watch that stuff without supervision!” Sidney exclaimed.

“I know but he’s not here so I thought I would just sneak a peek. But I didn’t really hear much anyways! I changed the channel after hearing about it.” ‘It’ referring to the murders of the two high-school students. 

“It’s fine, just try not to do it again without asking.” Sidney said as she walked past her younger sister while gently ruffling her hair. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me. Oh and by the way, Tatum’s gonna be coming over tonight.” Luci’s ears perked up at the mention of Tatum. Luci liked Tatum, she was like a second sister to the younger girl, she was always so nice and caring, and she looked after Luci when Sidney wasn’t around. She even used to babysit Luci along with Stu.

“Should I clean my room or something?” Luci asked, almost in a joking manner. She never understood why parents wanted you to clean your room when guests were coming over. But that's beside the point and irrelevant.

Sidney responded with a small chuckle as she continued to make her way towards the living room.

-

Luci closed the door to her bedroom. It was about 4:30 pm, the sun would be setting in a few hours. Luci strode over to her bookshelf and grabbed a random fantasy book off of it. It was a book that she hadn’t had the time to read yet so she decided now was the best time to start. She plopped onto her bed and put her legs under the covers and leaned on the headboard. She opened her book and began reading.

To Luci’s surprise the book was well written and extremely engaging, she was already halfway through it. She had just gotten to the part where the main character and the villain were having a stress inducing stand-off. If it wasn’t for the sudden growling sound her stomach had made she would’ve found out who won the battle. Luci slid a bookmark in between the pages of her book and closed it. She had placed the book on her bedside table and gotten up from her bed. Just as she was about to open her bedroom door to go downstairs and pester Sidney about dinner, she heard something hit her window.

She walked over to her bedroom window and looked out of it, she could barely see anything considering how dark it was outside. She had decided to chalk up that noise she heard as nothing important and turned around. 

But she wished she didn’t

When she turned, she was met with the mask that belonged to the ‘Father Death’ costume that could be found at halloween shops. She would have laughed at how comical it looked if the intruder didn’t push a Buck 120 hunting knife inside of her stomach.

Before she could even open her mouth to scream the intruder had covered her mouth with their gloved hand.

The knife was pulled out but it was quickly driven back into her stomach and dragged about an inch or two above the entry point.

Luci couldn’t do anything but release muffled screams into the intruder's hand as they stabbed the knife into her one more time.

The ‘Ghost face’ pulled the knife out of her before roughly pushing her onto the floor of her bedroom and leaving her there to die.

Luci tried to scream for help but it was as if all the energy had been drained from her body. She tried to apply pressure to her wound, although it didn’t do much to help the immense bleeding from her stomach. The red liquid was pouring out of her stomach at a dangerously fast rate. 

Luci tried to gather all of her strength and crawl to the landline phone that sat atop her bedside table, but to no avail.

All she could do was turn to lie on her back and hope that her new position on the floor would somehow slow down the bleeding, but she was proved wrong as the thick red fluid continued pouring out of her stomach.

-

Luci had laid on the floor of her bedroom for what had felt like hours even though it had only been about 15 minutes. Tears had started to well up in her eyes as the thought of death kept repeating in her mind. Was this it? Was her life going to end? After only 10 lousy years of living? What would happen to her sister and her dad? 

She couldn’t even sob, as she was too weak to move any part of her body, all she could do was let the tears fall onto her wooden bedroom floor as she bled to death. Or at least she thought she would bleed to death until her sister barged into her room in a panic and a daze.

“Luci!”

Sidney screamed her younger sister’s name as she swiftly but carefully picked her up and off of the floor. 

“You’re gonna be fine Lou we just gotta get-”

Sidney was cut off by her own screams as the person in the Father Death costume lunged toward her with the same red stained knife that they had used on Luci.

Sidney quickly ducked and the intruder flung themselves down the stairs and was knocked unconscious. 

Sidney ran into her own room and placed Luci on her bed. She ran to the bedroom door and closed it and blocked it off by opening the closet door.

Just as soon as Sidney opened the closet door the intruder slammed into the door and tried to get in while swinging their knife through the crack of the door.

Sidney ran to her computer to contact 911, and just as she finished messaging them she realized the intruder was gone.

Her staring at the door was interrupted by the sound of Billy climbing through her bedroom window.

“Billy!”

“The door’s locked, I heard screaming. You alright?”

She exclaimed as she turned towards him and ran into his arms.

“Oh my god! Sid what happened?!” He exclaimed as he looked around the room and the figure of Sidney’s younger sister bleeding on her white sheets came into view.

“The killers here- He’s in the house! H-he’s in the house!”

“He’s gone. He’s gone.” Billy whispered into her ear as he held her.

Sidney stayed sobbing in his arms until she heard a small thud. She looked down and saw a cellular phone on the ground. She slowly turned to look at Billy with terror in her eyes as she started to connect the dots.

“What?” He queried 

She pushed herself away from him.

“Sid, what?” he inquired again.

Sidney looked towards her younger sister who was still breathing, thank God. She wanted to run over and grab her sister and run but she knew that wouldn’t work, not with Billy around, especially if what she was thinking right now was true. So she did the only thing she could do. She ran. She ignored Billy’s calls for her as she ran down the stairs and to the front door. 

When she opened the door she was met with the same terrifying mask the intruder wore when she was attacked. She screamed at the top of her lungs, but only for her own screams to be interrupted by the sounds of deputy Dewey’s startled screams.

“Sid?” He asked, confused.

“My sister! My- My sisters hurt! She's been stabbed! Billy’s the killer- It’s Billy Loomis!”

Sidney hurriedly explained through tears as she pointed towards the stairs that led to the second floor.

“Where are they?” Dewey asked with a stern tone.

“Upstairs! They’re in my room!”

-

Billy was slammed down on the front of his car as his hands were held behind his back while he pleaded with the officers to let him go.

Luci was carried outside on a stretcher and put into an ambulance. Sidney was following close behind her sister and got into the ambulance with her.

“You’re gonna be ok. Everythings gonna be ok.” She tried to comfort her sister as she sat next to her stretcher. “We’re gonna get to the hospital and you’re gonna get fixed up and everything will be fine.” She told her sister, although it seemed more like she was comforting herself mostly because her little sister was barely conscious.

Sidney had been briefly questioned by the police and had talked to Tatum already. Now all she could do was wait until the ambulance arrived at the hospital.

-

Sidney was sat in the waiting room with Tatum and Dewey sitting on both sides of her. Dewey was almost asleep while Tatum was reading a magazine. Sidney’s leg was anxiously bouncing up and down while she waited for news from the doctor about how Luci’s surgery went. She almost considered going into that room herself just to see Luci. She was anxious to know whether or not her sister was gonna make it. She just needed to see Luci. 

Just as she was about to go ask around about Luci, a nurse came out of the operating room. 

“Your sister is in stable condition. She’s gonna be ok.”

Sidney let out the biggest sigh of relief as Tatum shook Dewey awake.

“Can we go see her?” Sidney asked.

“I’m afraid not. Visiting hours are over, and she’s not awake.”

Just then the relief Sidney had just felt had disappeared, anxiety and a small amount of anger replaced it. 

“You can come visit her tomorrow. She’ll most likely be awake by then, if not, we’ll give you a call.” The nurse informed Sidney.

“Do you have a parent you can call? Or a place to stay?” The nurse asked.

“My dad’s outta town, and I’ll be staying at my friend's house tonight.” Sidney said as she stood up and grabbed her jacket. “C’mon Tate, let's go.” Dewey said as he walked toward the exit of the hospital.

-

[beginningobserver]

Hey, Kimeramon Guy here again. So, I'm going to be honest, I've been putting off actually watching 02 due to executive dysfunction since forever, and thus I never went out of my way to spoil myself on The Beginning like I've done a lot of other media. So I'm working off a... limited palette here, but I really do want you to get to enjoy yourself talking about this AU.

So, what I've gleaned (and correct me if I'm wrong) from secondhand stuff is that Ukkomon's main motivation is to keep Rui happy, to the point of brainwashing his parents until they literally burn out and get turned into meat puppets. And something involving a replacement eye.

All this to say, does Rui ever figure this out in √02 (since you said he doesn't when he normally would)? Does Ken discover it first, somehow?

Ooh... Uh... Sorry for the spoilers orz -- I used some elements from the movie, so the ones *with* movie spoilers have the "02tb spoilers" tag... Just in case💧

I'm sorry to hear you struggle to (re)watch 02 due to that, I feel you here (yeah... sometimes it hits me too, orz).

Also, thank you for trying to help me elaborate and explore more about this AU 😭💜 But you don't have to push yourself for that…!

I think The 02 Kids are smart enough to figure things out about what Ukkomon did, but Rui here had his beef with Ukko changed (see read more for details) and solved differently... Maybe you do not want him to know the truth, right? :')

Like I said, there are a few changes from the movie, but...

[Spoilers ahead, albeit vaguely, so as not to spoil the fun for anyone who hasn't seen it yet]

... Yes, the 02 kids come to the conclusion that Ukkomon did all those things to keep Rui alive and happy, and after Rui told them his story, and they all sided with Ukkomon, though they didn't neglect Rui's feelings (the only person who was just a little insensitive was Hikari, but I think everyone who watched the movie took that line too seriously when she possibly meant that Ukkomon was pathetic for doing a lot of wrong things to keep Rui happy and safe/satisfied). Later, at the end of the movie, when Rui gets to talk to Ukkomon again, the mon himself confesses that Rui needed him and that he wanted to make Rui happy to the point that he thought everything good was better for Rui. Ukkomon was aware that he did bad things and doesn't try to defend himself. The Audio Drama 3 (released as a bonus in the JP theaters and now in the JP Deluxe Blu-Ray box set) also points out Rui's share of guilt, so they both think it was their fault in the end.

To be fair, the part about the parents' death is pretty unclear to me. But the same drama CD kind of confirms it, yeah, Ukkomon's power might have killed them. But in the movie, Rui's dad is on his deathbed, and Rui's mom is always distressed, so I wouldn't rule out that they suddenly die and Ukkomon just starts to meat-puppet their bodies so that Rui doesn't get orphaned or sad/desperate…

Since in the movie Rui learns what Ukkomon did, and it's the scene that a lot of people played up while trying to describe it and warn people about the "blood", "eye injury" and "body horror" parts -- it's nothing what people meant. All of those are tamed and on the level of "well, there should be some blood here if you got hurt like that", and I think this movie is even more tamed than Ghost Game -- which was for children ages 12-13. And even I had to skip certain episodes because they were TOO MUCH for me. But 02TB was fair game for me? I can watch it again...at least the RAW I have 💧

The scenes in question happened in connection with a canon 02 event (to be exact, a movie that takes place a year after the 02 events, Diablomon Strikes Back/Diaboromon's Revenge), so he's around the age of the 02 kids -- the AU would sound weird because the events of the TV series take place in 2002, while DSB in March 2003. I debated how to use the exact same scene/context in the AU, but had no success, so yeah, I changed it completely 💦.

√02 Rui does not witness Ukkomon puppeting the corpses, and when Ukkomon confesses in the AU version, Rui does not believe it at all. If canon Rui (adult Rui) had met AU kid Rui, he would have been disappointed that his other self is kind of naive?

[mneiai]

Reading/re-reading a bunch of Dragon Age books and thought I'd give my quick thoughts for the ones I've gone through the last few days:

Asunder - 6/10. Always shocked Gaider wrote it, it does not feel like someone who knows the lore or games well, except insofar that a lot of the fight scenes are "this is how I envision it would play out in the game" as opposed to ones meant to be read. I can't remember if the printed version was this bad, but either there some horrific typos in the digital version or, again, it does not feel like someone that knows the lore wrote it ("Rite of Annulment" what the fuck). Creates some weird conflicts with established lore for no good reason. Last half better than the first half and Cole, Rhys, and Evangeline are genuinely likable once it gets going, at least.

Tevinter Nights - 3/10 to 10/10. Weirdly find the Talons story incredibly engaging and the characters very interesting (though that could be my OCD-based sympathy lol) and wish it were a book of its own and not just a short story that had to rush over a lot. In fact, I'd say most of the Crows-related stories are good, as well as the ones actually set in Tevinter. The Grey Wardens ones vary in quality and the Nevarra ones read like someone took passages from the World of Thedas and told a writer they had to come up with an excuse to infodump with poor mysteries shoved in. Most of the rest were just blah.

Magekiller - 2/10. This is so bad. The intro feels like some 12 year old writing about their OC and the addition of the relationship between Marius and that one DAI NPC that never goes anywhere again makes the protags honestly look way more at fault for some of the shit that goes down in DAI than Cole ever could. And this is true about all the comics, but the art is Not Great and relies very heavily on lazy shortcuts normally found in lower quality comics. Also a lot of lowkey ableism considering how Marius comes across. Never had strong feelings about Charter before, but now I dislike her.

Alistair comics - 5/10. The collection doesn't seem to have a good name to call all these lol Anyway, some interesting parts, getting to see one of my fav Tevinter characters and the way she's handled is always nice, but the whole thing is very C-quality-DLC-plot-thrown-out-during-development. Just all over the place. Hated the Isabella stuff, what even was that? We're not even going to get into the multiple international innocents that should have happened, but the whole thing was honestly ridiculous. Mae carries this shit.

Knight Errant - 8/10. Vaea and Ser Aaron are a trope, but it's a good one for comics and well-done in this, they're very cute. Varric feels way more natural here than in the Alistair ones, not sure what's going on with Sebastian but I think that has more to do with how wishywashy he has to be for Bioware canon than anything else. Literally nothing will make me care about the Magekiller romance, though, and it's honestly weird that's the conceit for the job.

Wraiths of Tevinter - 6/10. I think this was slightly better because it had to establish some of the characters, but it wasn't great (and what the hell did they do to my poor Fenris?!). The original stuff was better than when it started mixing into the overarching comics plotline, and the fact that 50% of these DA works fall back on "Qunari Ex Machina" got very old by this point. I cared absolutely zero amount about any of the villains and the Magekiller characters felt incredibly out of place in an already large cast. If it weren't for the endearing Knight Errant team and the mabari, I'd probably mark it down lower. Also lol why am I supposed to care about a slave owner Venatori apologist just because she had a bad childhood? Literally every one of the characters had a bad childhood. Fenris and Marius were literally slaves!

Also actually sitting down and reading the World of Thedas volumes instead of just looking stuff up in them and they're...fine. I still wish they were more encyclopedia like and I'm still confused at some of the assumptions people make based on things clearly not actually said in them, but that's fandom for you.

[jo-harrington]

Ok oh my god BLUEY, I don't know what I was expecting and what I was gearing my heart up for...but it wasn't that and I've read and re-read enough of your stuff that I should have known better at least. lol

I expected...a fight, I expected poisonous words from Chrissy, I expected Eddie unable to fight for reader (which I guess we got, in a way), I expected reader being torn apart and backing down and leaving without a fight for the potential relationship (which we also got sort of) but it wasn't and I'm crying but I'm so in love with what you wrote omg.

Because...because that's the whole point right: it's everyone being a little selfish and it's R and Eddie wanting to give too much to others than wanting to take for themselves. But they're also selfish in a way that they're choosing what's easy and not what they actually want, and what's right for them.

R has finally had it, she's growing and learning how to fight for her own needs and Eddie...not really knowing how to do that. R broke up with Steve, she went to Eddie to tell him and while she really didn't give him a choice to chase after her, he doesn't actually do that either. It's the coward Eddie who is running, but isn't even running; the running is standing still. He continues to give and give--giving into R's wishes without a fight, giving into staying with Chrissy even though it's not the right fit either and he isn't happy--and not really knowing how to take.

That little spark of hope that he has that you show us, if reader was the one wanting to be selfish in that moment, I'm sure he would have jumped, because she's taking and so would he. But she's also still...giving and it takes those months of being alone and being able to prioritize herself that she's like...no, it would be nice to have Eddie but he needs to do what I did, he needs to take too and not just let others give to him. I can't be the only one courageous enough to fight and suffer for what I want. Because in the end, letting Eddie have her too would have been giving, and she can't do that anymore. Even if it feels like taking, taking what she wants. BUT WHAT SHE WANTS IS ALL OF HIM AND AN EDDIE WHO CAN FIGHT FOR WHAT HE WANTS. R was so strong. AND I FUCKING LOVE THAT SO SO MUCH.

You mentioned it in a reply to an ask, how if we saw things from Chrissy's eyes things would be different and isn't that the way? When we see the point of view of the takers, it's not courageous or painful to go after something we want. It's the people who don't give us what we want that become the villain. It's the people who take for themselves, instead of constantly nurturing us, that hurt the most. So yes, I'm sure Eddie trying to take up space in this life Chrissy has built for herself, (and don't get me wrong I love canon Chrissy, but the Chrissy you wrote...like, it honestly brings up some personal pain for relationships and friendships I have had in the past) is problematic. She is going to take what she can from him to nourish her own tree, and if he tries even the slightest to take, those vines she has get tighter and strangle, and then what even is the fight? You just gotta give up at that point. 5 years of overgrowth and sucking all of the nutrients out of the soil.

Eddie might have helped plant a seed for R, but R is the new crop that is restoring the nutrients in Eddie's field.

I can't wait to see how this resolves, I know you're gonna do such a great job at getting us our happy ending. I would even love a one shot of Eddie's POV maybe (idk idk) when the story is over. His feelings. And I am not one to ask anything of writers, I will take whatever I can get, but a tiny look into his brain about how his field was depleted and then restored...fuck I'll write it. (jk...but maybe in my diary)

This is a long ass response and I just want to say once again, how absolutely amazing of a writer you are. My response here is very visceral and probably a stream of consciousness rather than an actual analysis, but I think I speak for a lot of us when I say that this is the response we all feel after we get done with a heavy chapter like this. I felt it when Sara Campbell broke things off with Eddie in I Was Gonna Die Young and then again at the end of that one as well before you fixed it. (Which if anyone other than Bluey is reading this, go to her Ao3 immediately and read her other works omg.)

I could write ESSAYS about your Eddie stories, my friend. (I guess I have) And honestly I wouldn't be opposed to reading any original works as well. I love you, I love you, I love you. Congratulations on this magnificent chapter. I can't wait for the next one. (Please don't let us suffer for very long). <3

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/no comfort (there will be a happy ending!)

first | chapter ten : overcome (10k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #29-#33. Eddie's two songs aren't mentioned by name, but the others are. #34 is a good add-on at the end if you want to cry harder.

@e0509 @bexreadstoomuch @mimsthebannished

Do you ever wonder what it’s like 

Losing what you cannot be without? 

I’ll keep running

Overcome — Skott

You’re staring down at the kaleidoscope of color that makes up your salad. The green of crisp cucumbers, delicate arugula, and soft, fragrant mint. The deep purple of olives. The burnt gold of rich chickpeas and toasty pine nuts. The pale cream of fluffy quinoa and the bright white of tart feta. Your gaze lingers longest on the oven-roasted tomatoes scattered like gashes of red amongst the roughage. 

It's a Mediterranean salad your sister kindly prepared for your first lunch at work post-breakup, and it looks delicious— vibrant and fresh, promising a palate of savory flavors that will dance on your tongue. Yet since you sat down in the staff lounge to break for a late lunch, not one bite of salad has made it past your lips. Your elbow is planted on the table, fork listlessly poking around in the glass container as you slump, leaning your chin heavily in your hand. Your mind is far from the allure of color. It's distracted, just as it has been since the moment you woke.

You’re thinking about Eddie.

Now that your relationship with Steve is over and you’ve had the weekend to process it, your relationship with Eddie— whatever it is, whatever it could be— has been all you can think about. Longing, fear, hope, and guilt mix into a tempest while you chart patient records and call names into the waiting room. By your two-thirty lunch break, the storm has accumulated into a vague feeling of nausea that overwhelms your hunger. Your thoughts are relentless, swirling around in a looping pattern that seems never to resolve.

You dwell on Eddie’s gentle brown eyes, the softness of his kisses, and the rough pads of his fingers wiping your tears. You think about his manic smiles and his playfulness, his unapologetic dramatics and his frenetic energy. You remember the smoke words that still swirl around in behind your ribs even now. ‘I want you, y/n. I don’t want to hurt you; I really care about you. Anything for you.’ Wings flutter, your flowers bloom, and red fruit yearns to spill from your tongue. 

But then the guilt resurges, sticky and insistent, mixing with the freezing bite of fear. You know you care for Eddie deeply, but how can you expect to compete with Chrissy? Saccharine-sweet Chrissy, with her powdery-soft skin, bright blue eyes, lithe arms, and delicate waist? How can you compare to high school sweethearts, to five years of history, to plans for engagement and talks of children? Five years versus five months. That’s all you’ve known him for. How could you expect Eddie to throw all of that away? You’ve told one another that you care. But when the allure of desiring what he can’t have is gone— now that you’re well and truly split from Steve— when it comes down to it, would Eddie balk at the reality of what that means?

And even if he doesn’t balk, you can’t stop hearing Steve’s words echo in your head. 

‘I just feel bad for Chris.’

Despair slinks back, drool dripping from its maw to hiss as it contacts the tender growth of your green, singeing the leaves with bitter poison. Yet light and smoky charcoal— Eddie’s black and white— chase it away, nourishing the damaged leaves until all are new again, and the cycle repeats.

It circles over and over until you’re left with a final thought: Wanting Eddie to be with me… asking him to… it—

“Y/n?”

You startle, wide eyes darting to the doorway where Denise leans half-inside, stethoscope swaying. “Yeah?”

“Dr. Nichols is looking for you.”

You nod quickly, snapping the lid back on your uneaten salad. “Thanks, Denise. I’ll be right out.” You shoot her a quick smile, and she smiles back before leaving you with only the refrigerator's hum to accompany the swirling of your thoughts. 

You know the loop can’t last forever; it must resolve somehow. And as you remember the hurt in Eddie’s eyes when he’d asked whether you were too busy to listen to his song, you also know you can’t leave him waiting. You need to talk to him.

So you find yourself seated at Penny’s kitchen island later that evening, facing an empty wine glass placed carefully beside the black screen of your phone. The wine bottle stares at you, and you stare back until you give in, pouring another half-glass of deep red liquid with slightly shaky fingers. The two in your stomach are already spreading warm from your belly to fuzz in your head, taking the edge off your nerves as you direct your stare down at your inactive phone. 

The loop has been resolved, your decision has been made, and now, you’re just mentally preparing to ask Eddie if you can see him. The sooner, the better, you think, though the squirmy, tight nervousness has kept you from actually going through with it.

Finally, your nerves are numbed enough by the fuzz of the wine for you to make your move. You down your final half-glass of wine, dry and tart as it clings to your tongue and the roof of your mouth; the glass clinks definitively against the marble countertop, and you fix determined eyes on your phone. Before the courage can leave you, you swipe it open and find your text message chain with Eddie.

The last message is still Eddie’s song, and you try to ignore the pang it conjures as you type quickly and hit send before you can overthink it. 

‘Can I see you?’

Straight to the point, no preamble. A little bald, truthfully, but it’s the best you can do. 

Your fingers tap against the edge of the countertop as your eyes dart compulsively. They flick to the empty wineglass and the drop of burgundy clinging to its lip, then back to your phone, to the plants on the sill above the kitchen sink, then back to your phone. Back and forth as if you’re desperate to escape but can’t pull your eyes away from those four words for too long.

And then one more dart, from the shine of the stainless steel fridge to the screen, and Eddie’s reply is suddenly there.

‘Now?’

Your heart skips and thuds as you surge with nerves. You’d thought the sooner, the better, but you weren’t ready for that soon. You type with fingers unsteady from adrenaline. ‘Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow?’

His answer comes quickly. ‘I have a show tomorrow night. Come. We can do something after.’

You suck in a tremulous breath, stomach sinking even as you flutter with anticipation. Going out alone isn’t something you like to do; you tend to feel even more self-conscious without the buffer of a friend or partner to shelter behind. And considering the private conversation you’re planning to have with Eddie, inviting a friend only to ditch them as soon as the show is over seems selfish and inconsiderate. You chew on your thumbnail, debating for a tense moment. In the end, you think of the first time you met Eddie, how his brown eyes had crinkled with his wide, genuine smile when you told him you liked his music. 

You know you can’t deny him.

‘Same place as last time?’ you ask.

‘Yes,’ he answers. 

The loop has been resolved, but you’re slowly spinning as your fingers tap your final reply. ‘I’ll be there.’

–

The crumbling brick facade and fissures in the asphalt are the same as the first time you’d visited this bar, but the dry, brittle skeletons of weeds are now plush with green flesh and butter-yellow heads. When in February, the winter wind had cut through your puffy coat, your arms are now bare, skin dewy in the June heat that ushers you from your car to the front door. There are no frozen puddles for Steve to guide you around; you aren’t dressed in skin-tight white. Instead, your blue dress swishes against your thighs, and your sandals take you straight up to the front door. 

You’d showered and changed after work before going out for the night, wanting to both feel fresh and use the ritual of preparing to help the time pass quicker. You opted for something light, a comfortable dusty blue summer dress with short sleeves that will hopefully keep you cool in the sticky humidity you anticipate will fill the bar during the show. Fumbling for your driver’s license in your crossbody bag, you approach one of the bouncers. He eyes you shrewdly as you finally wrench it from your wallet and pass it over. You stand with your hands clasped sheepishly until he gives it back to you, his face now impassive. Timid steps carry you inside.

You freeze at the threshold of the main room. It’s brighter inside this time; the lights have not yet dimmed for the performance, and rock music plays through tinny speakers, hushed slightly under the light buzz of conversation. It’s also much less crowded tonight since it's a Tuesday, though you are surprised by the disproportionate number of girls in the place. Generally, you’d expect to see more men than women on a Tuesday night in a seedy establishment like this. You spot the chalkboard sign beside the bar: ‘Tuesdays are for the Ladies! $6 well drinks and $3 shots.’ You suppose only ladies in college or young enough to be reckless with their Wednesday morning workdays would be willing to stay out late for cheap drinks, which explains the girlish squeals and tiny skirts lingering near the bar. They’re all clustered in little groups, pairs at the very least; a quick glance and you can already tell you’re the only girl here alone. 

You inhale slowly through your nose, fighting against roiling nerves as your eyes scan the room for another reason. Luckily, not many tables are currently occupied, and you cut a direct path to the center of the room, hopping easily onto the stool and pulling your small purse into your lap. You take out your phone to check the time: it’s a quarter to eight, so you only have about fifteen minutes to wait before Eddie’s band comes out. 

A peal of laughter has your eyes darting toward the bar, where many of the young women are still loitering, though some have wandered toward the front of the stage to wait for the show to begin. You turn pointedly from the bar, settling your elbows against the bartop as your knee begins to jolt. Though you know a drink would help to calm your nerves, you don’t want to be anything but sober for this conversation. It’s too important. So you weather your nerves, distracting yourself with your muted Tiktok feed until the lights suddenly dim, drawing your eyes to the stage. 

Your breath quickens as the darkened forms of four masculine bodies trail out amid grinding ambient sounds, illuminated from behind by piercing red light. Feminine chatter crests like a wave as a crush of silky heads crowd together around the base of the stage. Though your view remains hazy, obscured by the harsh red backlighting, three bodies slowly materialize, gaining shape in the haze. And then, the final form takes center stage. It’s a familiar silhouette you would recognize anywhere.

A crowd of heads tips up to watch as the grinding ambient sounds fade, voices hushing until the entire room seems silent, as if put under a spell. After a lingering moment of tense quiet, two snappy drum hits cut through the air, and the front lights finally flash on as Eddie strums the first notes of the opening song. 

He’s a study in black and white with a gash of red, and just like the first time, the sight of him consumes you entirely. 

His legs are splayed wide, clad in tight dark jeans slung low on narrow hips. His long dark curls kiss his strong shoulders, wild and beautiful as they frame his pale quartz face. A white tank, near thread-bare and ripped, barely conceals his torso, which is branded with a tapestry of dark ink that smatters across his chest and travels down his arms like body armor. His deft pale fingers are adorned with those chunky silver rings, fingers that strum his sleek blood-red guitar with intent ease as he gazes out at the crowd. From this distance, you can see Eddie’s face clearly: sharp jaw, full lips, soft nose. Dark eyes that, despite the enthusiastic feminine squeals and reaching fingers of the women at his feet, scan restlessly until they skim yours, only to return and catch, holding fast once he realizes it’s you. You see the instantaneous shift— the way the dark umber of Eddie’s eyes lightens to honey and a corner of his lips tugs up in a crooked smile. He presses them against the mic to croon the song’s opening words: “Hey you.”

Your moth wings flutter at the intimacy of knowing that despite the multitude of women at his feet, Eddie Munson is singing to you.

As you watch Eddie perform for you, he watches you watch him. When his fingers shift on the frets, you feel those calloused pads rasp along the doughy flesh of your thighs. When his plush lips kiss the mic, you feel them brush warm along the shell of your ear. When those curls dampen with sweat, you feel them drag and tickle your soft stomach as he travels down, down, down your body. And when Eddie sings— when he drawls and croons and shouts til grit roughens and breaks the timbre— you inhale every ounce of smoke he exhales until it settles deep within you, heady and more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be. 

Yet despite the charisma of Eddie’s performance, underneath it all, the writhing nerves never leave you, like you can’t allow yourself to forget the conversation that looms ever larger with each passing song.

After an extended set of seven consecutive songs, Eddie’s white shirt has gone near translucent from exertion and the humidity you’d predicted would accumulate in the room. That pale chest inked with armor is heaving, but his brown eyes are bright, lips split in a manic smile as he addresses the crowd with a hoarsened voice. “How’re we doing tonight?” He doesn’t shout; instead, he smolders, that amplified murmur almost a purr as the crowd shrieks their enthusiasm. You can feel how much they love him, and it doesn’t make you jealous; instead, beneath your nerves, you feel pleased for Eddie, warm with the knowledge that others appreciate him just as much as you do. 

He continues, “We’re Corroded Coffin—” 

A surge of more shrieking, and Eddie chuckles, husky and full, as his eyes flash to yours. He sees your broad smile, the pleasure in your flushed cheeks, and his smirk softens. “That’s Gareth on the drums—” Eddie gestures behind him, and it almost feels like he’s introducing you as Gareth tosses his brown hair and lifts his sticks before beating out a short, frenetic fill. “Jeff is on rhythm guitar—” The dark of his skin is broken by a flash of white teeth as he salutes before strumming a short chord, bending the strings so they whammy. “Brian’s on bass—” The larger guy with the bristly hair walks a baseline with thick, capable fingers. “And I’m Eddie.” Another round of cheers and clapping, and he grins again when you clap enthusiastically like one of his groupies. 

Eddie’s grin fades, and he pulls off the mic; he says something inaudible to Jeff, who nods, communicating to the others. Before you can wonder about it, Eddie murmurs again into the mic, smoke voice low and close to intimate. “Wrote this one this weekend. Came together pretty quick.” And then he looks at you, and the expression on his face makes your throat go thick. “This is for someone sweet.”

Immediately you can tell that the mood of this song is very different from the ones that came before. Delicate and atmospheric, pensive, but not quite melancholic. You watch Eddie’s pale fingers pick the strings, knuckles ruddy above chunky silver rings as the notes ring out in the silence of the bar. And you feel it: the quiver of your roots, the stretch of your green as it strives for him. A deep, poignant yearning that mixes with a somber sort of weight as he starts to sing.

“Floating on the water, ever-changing. Picture hours out from that in tune with all our dreams.”

Eddie’s voice is always beautiful, and you told him that. But there’s something different about the smoke that flows from him now. As it rakes down your spine, its touch is gentle. As it enters your mouth, its taste is sweeter. You think it must be written all over your face, how it’s making you feel— how your white flowers open their faces even as a deep ache blooms behind your sternum, pricking at your eyes. Yet you don’t look away. You can’t look away because Eddie is singing to you. 

But he isn’t just singing to you. He’s singing about you.

“The ocean takes me into watch your shaking. Watch you weigh your powers, tempt with hours of pleasure.” The intensity of your feeling increases as Eddie presses close to the mic, eyes scrunching closed as his voice goes higher, almost a caress. “Take me one more time; take me one more wave; take me for one last ride; I’m out of my head—” 

He gasps a ragged breath, and your heart squeezes as the passion leaks through in that one word. “—tonight!”

The music intensifies, and the girls clumped around the stage are swaying, reaching their dainty fingers towards Eddie’s feet, hopping in their high heels to the beat. Because despite never having heard this song before, they love it. And, of course, they love it; the song is good. But you think even if the song wasn’t good, even if it was nothing more than clumsy notes spilling from trembling fingers and a cracked smoke voice, you would feel exactly as you do now.

Hearing how Eddie has interpreted and translated moments of your time together— holding each other in the ocean, trembling beneath him as you orgasmed for the first time, driving you home in his van, the only time you’d been alone together since the first night you’d met— is nearly overwhelming. It’s breathtaking; it caresses your green and pierces you at the same time. 

Eddie sings about you, and as a watery smile blooms on your face, you watch him answer it with a gentle spread of heartbreaking pink.

–

When the show finally ends, the crowd at the front of the stage disperses. You remain seated on your barstool, your purse cradled in your lap, only stirring when you feel the vibration of your phone.

‘Come backstage. Use the unmarked door near the bathrooms.’

You suck in a shaky breath, trying to calm the immediate pounding of your heart. Here goes.

You venture in that direction, hugging your arms close as you skirt around bodies, following Eddie’s instruction. You duck into a narrow hallway and tentatively push open the door beyond the bathrooms, eyes darting down the darkened corridor until they catch on black and white at the end of the hall.

Eddie’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, the toe of one black boot planted against the concrete. Behind him, the door is open, and the warmth of the summer air rushes in with the chirping of crickets, soothing against your cheeks and neck as it blows back your hair. He’s cast in the glow of a floodlight just outside, which illuminates the darkness of his curls with warm light. As you approach him, fingers worrying the hem of your dress at your side, his features sharpen, growing clearer until you can see him fully.

He still looks incredibly overheated— the white of his ripped tank sticks like tissue to his abdomen and chest, and his curls are damp with sweat, corkscrewed at his hairline and hanging limp at the ends where they trail against the charcoal ink on his shoulders. You can see the visible rise and fall of his chest as he drops his arms, still panting from his exertions on stage. But his brown eyes are bright, and his pink lips are split in a manic grin. And as you get closer, you notice the wet spot on the front of his shirt, like he’d sloppily guzzled a water bottle and rushed right outside to see you. 

Your heart lurches as you realize he probably did just that.

The poignancy of your yearning swiftly overtakes you. As you reach the threshold, Eddie steps forward, brown eyes warm. “Hey—”

You fall into him, arms crushing around his back, squishing your face to his sweaty chest. Eddie staggers slightly with an audible ‘oof,’ clearly not expecting the suddenness of your hug, but his arms circle you unhesitantly, holding you as you press yourself to him. You relish the warmth of his body despite its dampness; the tattoo of his steady heartbeat under your cheek; his scent in your nose, musky from exertion above notes of smoke and delicate apple. He chuckles as you cling to him, warm and husky. You sigh as his breath fans against the top of your head, and his chest vibrates under your cheek with his laughter. You hold on until you feel his chuckles subside, until the moment has lingered too long for the hug just to be a hug hello, but you can’t wrench yourself away. Eddie quiets, arms simultaneously softening and holding you tighter, and one palm settles heavily on the back of your head. It’s a comforting weight, giving you the strength to shudder a breath against his chest and finally pull away.

Eddie seems to have picked up on your nerves, and his brow is furrowed slightly even as you smile at him. “You were incredible,” you say sincerely, and a corner of his lips quirks. His fingers run lightly along the length of your hair, brushing it back from your face. 

“Thanks,” he says, though the warmth is dampened by the question clearly pressing behind his teeth. You scrape your teeth against your bottom lip, taking one tiny step back. Nerves wriggle up from the pit of your stomach to squirm in your chest, and you fight against the urge to fidget under Eddie’s stare.

“Can we sit in your van?” you ask, voice small as you look up at him. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.” Eddie's reply is immediate despite the concern creasing his face, and he ushers you forward with a warm palm on your back, kicking aside the brick that was propping the door open. It thumps closed behind you.

The slight breeze is gone now, and the air is warm and stagnant, thick with humidity as if a summer storm is soon to come. Eddie’s boots crunch on gravel as he silently leads you to his van, parked alongside crumbling brick, waiting to be loaded after the show. He opens the passenger door for you, and you take his proffered hand, relishing the rasp of his callouses against your soft palm as he helps you up.

When Eddie clicks the door shut, the muffled silence— the sudden cut in the rhythmic chirping of the outdoors— leaves you feeling almost bereft. The chirping returns as he opens his door, stretching his lanky legs under the steering wheel as he settles into the driver’s seat. Sharply, he pulls the door closed, plunging you into silence again.

Words don’t come easy to you; you often don’t know what to say. And though you’d practiced it, these words are no different. It takes you a moment to struggle against the nerves and fear because you really don’t know how Eddie is going to react to this. It feels even harder than breaking up with Steve. Your fingers are trembling, and you clench them tightly in your lap as you push yourself to meet his eye. 

Eddie still looks concerned, but his expression is open and accepting; his white is on display, and it helps you part your lips. Your voice is quiet but perfectly audible in the hush of the van. “On Saturday morning, I—” 

Your words choke in your throat as your nerves spike. You push through, though you can’t stop your voice from wavering. “I ended things with Steve.”

Eddie’s shock is clear. His eyebrows jerk violently; his brown eyes widen as his face goes slack. Your eyes dart between his, anxiousness leaping into your throat to curdle there. You almost don’t want to examine his reaction, but you can’t help yourself. You watch Eddie attempt to school his features: brows resetting, adam’s apple bobbing in a thick swallow. The silence is becoming oppressive, and you almost feel the need to break it yourself, to fill it with babbling or tell him exactly what happened, every sordid detail. Anything to disrupt the overwhelming silence.

Finally, Eddie’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; they part, and he just asks one question. “Are you okay?”

His voice is such sweet relief from the tension that you release a sigh, but it’s the question itself— the fact that Eddie’s first thought is to ask you if you’re all right— that has your eyes stinging. There’s a sudden lump in your throat not borne of nerves, but it doesn’t stop you from speaking. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, eyes darting around the cabin as you attempt to explain. “Something was always missing, I think, in our relationship. I just didn’t know any better. Steve was really my first boyfriend. I’d dated guys casually before him, but nothing was ever as serious as it was with Steve. And I thought things were good, and I guess they were for awhile. But….” Your eyes dart to Eddie almost shyly, darting away again from the intensity there. “These last few months changed how I saw the relationship, and I couldn’t pretend like everything was okay when it wasn’t.” 

The flow of words slows to a drip until you feel you’ve finally released them all. You fall quiet, watching your thumb run against your fingernail for a moment until you hazard a glance up at Eddie again. When you make contact, he nods, expression open and accepting again, and his dark curls sway around his face. You want to tuck them behind his ear, but this next part is important, and you don’t want to distract from it. You hold his gaze as you add, ��And you should know… I didn’t tell Steve about Friday. What we did. I couldn’t do that to him after Nancy; it would’ve hurt him so badly.”

Eddie nods again. “I get it,” he says. “I do.” And you think he does. His brown eyes flick away as he licks his lips again. “Was he… upset?” 

He sounds careful, almost hesitant. You wonder if Eddie wants to ask whether he came up in the conversation, but you suspect, from the look on his face, that he already knows he did. You think of the dullness of Steve’s hazel eyes, the briny mud. You think of his mirthless chuckle, of the words he’d spit at you. ‘‘Cause then it means you can have Eddie. And you can convince yourself you don't have to feel bad about what you've done.’

You nod, and it comes out shaky and weak, just like the words do. “Yeah, he was upset.”

Eddie’s face creases further, and you think it could be guilt, that ooze you’re so familiar with. “Are you upset?”

You don’t have to wait for your answer to well up; you feel the words pooling on your tongue already. You marvel over how it should be awkward to talk about this with Eddie, but somehow it isn’t. “There is a part of me that’s sad it’s over. We were together for three years, you know? And sometimes it was really good. But after what he told me about Nancy and about—” You shake your head, interrupting yourself. “I don’t really wanna get into it, but… I don’t think Steve ever really healed after what happened. And it seeped into us. I think he did love me, and I loved him, but he was never able to be fully open and honest. And I don’t know if he ever would have gotten there with me.”

The familiar weight of sorrow coats your skin as you mourn what you’ve lost, but it isn’t as heavy as it had been on Saturday night. And you find that as you speak the words to Eddie, it makes you realize that the problem with your relationship with Steve was always as simple as that— that he wasn’t able to tend to you the way you tended to him. 

Eddie nods again. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet this entire time, though you suppose it isn’t out of place for the circumstances. And then he’s tilting toward you to reach over the armrest. 

Your breath catches as you realize his intent; you untangle your hands in your lap in time for him to take one. His hold is soft, skin warm and rough as he anchors you with it, offering silent support. His thumb rubs slowly over the back of your hand, and the feeling makes your wings stir. When he finally speaks, Eddie’s smoke voice is quiet, still hoarse from his performance. “I’m sorry, y/n.” 

You let out a shaky breath, feeling both comforted and nervous. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be okay.” You lean your head back against the headrest, allowing yourself a moment to indulge in Eddie’s touch before your nerves get the better of you. Gently, you pull your hand away, smiling to reassure him that you welcomed his comfort. Eddie answers the tilt of your lips with a little smile of his own. 

Your eyes wander as you sit quietly in the interior of Eddie’s van, which smells like stale cigarettes and soapy, artificial pine. There’s a new pack of Twizzlers in his cupholder, not yet opened. You stare at it as you gather your courage, breath trembling in your freezing chest. 

The conversation isn’t over yet.

“So—”

“Eddie, I—”

You snap your mouth shut as your voices overlap, and so does Eddie; your eyes catch, and he laughs. Though it’s a little awkward, the husky sound still hits you in that same spot inside, deep at the bottom of you. “You first,” he offers easily, brown eyes warm and glinting in the warm light of the van’s cabin. 

You’re nearly shivering with the freeze that spreads along your sternum, and your heart races desperately behind your frosted ribs as if trying to escape its cage. Because it’s finally here: the moment you’ve been fearing. Dreading. 

The conclusion of your loop.

“Eddie,” you say, “I need to be honest with you.” The impact of your words is immediate; the lingering smile slides from his lips. Despite yourself, you pause for a moment to memorize the way he looks before everything changes. 

Eddie Munson is beautiful. His eyes are deep like warm honey, wide and framed by long, dark lashes. You remember how they crinkle when he smiles. His nose is soft, soft like the dark bangs that feather across his forehead. You remember how he buries it against your skin when his face finds the crook of your neck. His lips are pink, so plush and full. You remember how they feel trailing tenderly across your skin. His jaw is strong and sharp, and his neck is pale and corded. You remember how his throat rumbles against your lips when he hums contentedly. Eddie’s curls are wild and dark, and they skim the ink that darkens the pale quartz of his skin. You remember the black and white that has always drawn you in, the smoke of his voice that, from the first moment you heard it, called to something deep inside you.

Your eyes want to dart away, but you keep them on beautiful brown. “Part of why I broke up with Steve is because….” Your voice wobbles, but you steady it. “Because of how I feel about you.” 

Your words fill the space between you, and you watch that beautiful brown go wide. And when it transforms— when it starts to melt, to spread gentleness onto the tops of Eddie’s cheeks— you hurry yourself along. Choking out the next word. 

“But—”

The freeze of Eddie’s expression, the sudden arresting of his features, pierces you. But it doesn’t change what you realized. What you’ve decided.

You think of the loop: the poison of doubt dripping from despair’s maw, the hope of Eddie’s light and charcoal repairing its damage. But Eddie isn’t the only person that matters.

Chrissy matters, too. 

When you pictured the beloved face of your friend, the charmingly crooked teeth in her broad smile, the sound of her giggle and her sweet voice… it wasn’t the sourness of jealousy that resolved you. It wasn’t the fear that you can’t compete with five years and talks of girls and boys or the insecurity that you’ll never be as beautiful as she is. Instead, it was the injury you knew you would inflict, the haunting question you couldn’t dismiss. You’d finally realized the indisputable truth.

Wanting Eddie to be with me, asking him to… 

It isn’t right. 

It’s nothing but selfish. 

Selfish to want to take this man from your friend, a person who has never been anything but good to you. Selfish to break her heart for the sake of yours.

So you finish your sentence.

You look into Eddie Munson’s gentle eyes and whisper, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Eddie’s head jerks back; he recoils as if you’ve slapped him. His voice is no longer hoarse from the exertion of his performance. Now, it’s dry and cracked. “What? But—”

You rush to cover the cracks of his voice with your own. You know you can’t give Eddie a chance to say anything that might change your mind; this is already too hard. You picture bright blue eyes pierced with hurt. “What we did… it wasn’t right. Not to Steve, and not to Chrissy. We should never have betrayed them like that.”

Eddie’s mouth works soundlessly before he stammers, “I, I mean, I don’t… y/n, I don’t regret what we did. I’m—”

You cut him off again, pleading for him to understand. “I can’t get in between you and Chrissy, Eddie. You’ve been together for five years. You’re high school sweethearts!” Your chin begins to tremble. Earnestness becomes tinged with desperation as you admit your selfishness. Your shame. “She told me how— how you’re gonna propose to her soon. How excited she is to be your wife. How she wants a boy, and you want a girl. You’ve made plans for the future, and she was so excited, so happy.”

The impact of your betrayal hits you fully, and your lips press tight to contain a dismayed whimper. Horrible guilt oozes, crawling up, up, up to press against your teeth, to coat the back of your tongue until you feel ill with it.

Eddie looks pained. He looks nearly as ill as you feel. And you suppose it's finally hitting him, too— what the two of you have done. The realization only resolves you in your decision, and you let the ooze of your guilt leak from your lips, dribbling out to coat the center console that separates you. Your voice is thick with it. “She told me all of that, and then I still—” 

You choke on the viscous ooze, unable to voice it: that you knew how much your friend loves Eddie, and you fucked him behind her back anyway. Your eyes sting with tears more insistently than before. “I know— I know you think you want me, Eddie, but we can’t do this to Chrissy. I can’t—” 

You break off, shuddering a breath as you fight against your tears. You blink up at the ceiling, and as you wait for the tears to recede, your eyes are drawn to the warm light above. The one that glints off Eddie’s dark curls, haloing them in a bright glow. It burns into your retinas, darkening a rectangle in your vision, but you can’t tilt your chin back down. You can’t look away. Not until you feel the caress of smoke from Eddie’s quiet voice against your cheek. 

“Is this what you want?”

Almost by instinct, you breathe the question in; almost by instinct, your eyes seek beautiful brown. Your growth quivers, reaching, striving. Your ripe fruit trembles on the vine, begging you to let it fall from your lips.

You want to say, No, Eddie. I just want you. 

Instead, you say, “Yes. It’s what I want.” 

And then he’s nodding like he had before. Accepting your words; never pushing for too much. Tending to you always. "I understand," Eddie tells you, and the lack of resistance brings relief and pain.

After all, it’s what he said. 'Anything for you.'

Eddie splays his fingers, holding out his hand palm up to you. A silent offering. 

Lip wobbling, your eyes run over the callouses on Eddie’s fingertips, the glint of chunky silver on his fingers. His touch calls to you, and you give in. You allow yourself this last thing. 

You take Eddie’s hand.

You weave your fingers with his, slowly, slowly, relishing the rasp against your soft skin, the warmth of his broad palm. And then, when your eyes turn from your clasped hands to his face, Eddie squeezes your hand. And he doesn’t release his grip; he keeps your hand squeezed tight. And so do you; you squeeze Eddie’s hand, and you keep it squeezed until the pain of your grief and yearning burns like a deep ache in your chest. Until it’s so unbearable that you can’t stand it anymore.

Only then do you break the silence. “I should go,” you whisper.

Your hand slips from his, and Eddie loosens his grip. You wrench your eyes from beautiful, glossy brown, and Eddie blinks and looks away. You find the door handle, and when you push it open, the chirp of crickets floods the silence. Eddie’s voice doesn’t join them. You breathe the balmy summer air and it chases the scent of smoke and apples from your lungs. 

You shut the van door, and Eddie doesn’t stop you.

As you cross the cracked asphalt, leaving black and white behind, your leaves droop. The vines that hug your ribs sag as if shuddering a heavy sigh. Your blooms close their faces; your petals wilt, turning down toward the earth. Roots curl into themselves, seeking respite from peat now sapped of nutrients.

Because the source of your light has gone, and in its place, a full moon rises.

–

You don’t see Eddie Munson again for four months.

By the time summer’s heat has cooled and fat yellow dandelion heads have puffed white and blown away, you’ve grown used to the moon. But it wasn’t always so. The loss of those two men who once were so important in your life stirred up your dirt, leaving spaces needing to be filled; the earth within you shifted, groaning as it adapted to its new normal. It had been difficult at first. Their absence, the disruption of your daily life, was felt keenly. No longer did you reach for your bedside table upon waking at one in the morning to see the screen lit with a song. No longer did you exchange soft giggles with a dear close friend. No longer did you know exactly what you’d be doing on Friday nights— week after week spent tangled pleasurably with expensive perfume, citrus and sea salt, and smoke and apples. No longer did you stretch against the cool sheets of a king-sized bed; instead, the cheery window in Penny’s old office cast thick stripes of morning sun across your twin comforter. But the change of scenery did help. You established a new routine; there wasn’t even any reason to venture into the city aside from the weekends you’d spend leaning into old friendships you renewed with vigorous attention. Gradually, you eased into your new normal, and soon, the absences were no longer keenly felt. By fall, your moth wings have settled, adapting to the deep twilight that bathes you in a cool glow. You’d spent the first twenty-four years of your life illuminated by the moon, and you’d been content. You would be so again.

Never mind that contentment means cold. It means frost on sluggish wings. It means dormant growth, leaves curled towards stems, and fruit desiccated on the vine. Never mind that, because at least the ache has been numbed until it can no longer be felt. There’s a kind of peace in the coldness of the full moon.

And you’d just grown content with living without the light when it returns suddenly and without warning one innocuous Friday evening in late October. 

The dusk casts deepening shadows over the couch in Penny’s living room, and the curtains stir in the crisp breeze where you’ve thrown open the windows. You’re seated at the kitchen island. A bouquet of flowers rests in a glass vase in its center, faded just slightly now, bought last week at the market on 28th Street. Paper plates form a ring around your cutting board, holding mounds of chopped carrots, red bell pepper, and onion that will be added to your stir fry. Your sharp knife raps rhythmically against worn wood, shearing broccoli into little crowns as your speaker cycles through your Liked songs on Spotify. Air So Sweet by dodie complements the peace of the moment— the smell of autumn leaves seeping into the deep mahogany of Penny’s kitchen cabinets, the rhythmic thumping of your knife, the words falling from your lips as you sing quietly under your breath, your voice high and delicate. “The air so sweet, I gulp and gasp for more—”

Three sharp raps cut through the peace, and your eyes snap to the locked front door. 

You balance your knife against the edge of the cutting board, sliding off the barstool with a fond if exasperated sigh as dodie eases into Before the Fall. You pull your loose flannel tighter around you, gliding in your socks and worn, stretchy leggings toward the front door. Penny has been a wonderful sister for these last four months of living together, but sometimes, she can be a difficult roommate. For one, she is very particular about the organization of the fridge, and she has a strict and somewhat complex schedule for laundry and dishwashing that you have struggled to get used to. Despite her meticulousness in other areas, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d left her house key behind and needed you to let her in. Not a shoe is out of place in the rack near the front door, and yet Penny can’t be bothered to hook the key back to the keyring after getting a copy made for you. 

You reach for the handle, huffing your tease through the wood. “Again, Pen? You know, I could just leave you out here. How much do you love me—?”

Your words die in your throat as the door swings open to black and white.

Eddie is standing stiffly at your door, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his tight black jeans, his wallet chain caught on his pale wrist. He’s wearing short sleeves despite the weather, the ink of his armor on full display, arms pimpled with gooseflesh in the autumn chill. You’re staring at the deep burgundy of his band tee, the first color you’ve ever seen him wear. His chest expands with a deep breath, and at the motion, your eyes flit to his almost by instinct.

Eddie’s dark curls frame his pale quartz face like a wild stormcloud. The softness of his nose, the plush pink of his lips, the brown of his eyes— they’re all exactly how you remember. A gust hits him in the back, and as his shoulders scrunch toward his ears, it carries the scent of smoke and apples. 

When you look at him, Eddie’s mouth stretches in a twitchy, crooked smile. One booted foot taps out a frenetic pattern against the brick of your front stoop. When you look at him, moth wings twitch, awakening. They stir powdery snow, which falls silently to frozen earth.

And then Eddie speaks, voice like smoke incarnate. “Hi.”

You tip your chin up, and the smoke passes through your parted lips, sinking into the frozen earth at the bottom of you. Four months, and that’s all it takes: one glimpse of light in brown eyes, one caress of smoke against your mouth. 

You thaw. You yearn.

You swallow down the surge of feeling inside you to hush a greeting back. “Hi.” 

As you stare at each other, Eddie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He seems hesitant, unsteady, shifting his weight as if he’s uncomfortable in his skin. Another gust of wind wracks his lanky form, and his sudden shiver draws you out of your daze. You nearly trip over your words to ask, “Do you wanna come in? Come in—”

You step back, and he ducks inside, long limbs jerky like a newborn colt. You close the door against the wind, pausing in the tiny foyer that connects branching rooms. The paper plate vegetable mounds peek from the hallway in front of you; the kitchen speaker is muted by distance, but you can tell that Before the Fall’s acoustic guitar has subsided into the lonely piano and haunting vocals of Overcome by Skott. It’s exactly as you left it, that room, but when you glance back, the man now inside is suddenly sucking in all the light, standing like a gash of black and white stained red in the foyer of your sister’s condominium. 

You don’t know what to do with him.

Your voice is a soft hum, almost sounding hesitant to draw his attention. “Um—” He’d been glancing around inside, but at the sound, Eddie’s brown eyes flick right to yours. “I was just making dinner—”

“Oh,” he says, face creasing ruefully, “shit, did I interrupt you?”

You rush to assure him, melting further as he winces. “No, no, it’s fine….” You edge toward the hallway to the kitchen, and thankfully, Eddie gets the hint without you needing to say more. He follows you, bootsteps heavy as you shuffle on your socks back into the kitchen. He’s behind you, but every sense is honed to his presence— the swish of his clothing as he walks, the hush of his breath. The hair on your arms stands on end as you gingerly pull your kitchen stool out, intending to sit back in your spot before second-guessing it immediately. You’re melting, you’re yearning, but nerves begin to squirm low; your fingers twist as you cast for something to say. 

What would Penny do?

You find yourself blurting, “Do you want a drink?” Your brows pinch at the sudden shrillness of your voice overtop the soft vocals from the speaker. ‘Some lights are a different kind, never burning out,’ she sings; your gaze darts to Eddie’s eyes and away again.

“No, I’m okay.” Eddie’s typical confidence seems dampened; his voice is stilted, and his posture is stiff. He hovers somewhere between your fridge and the island. His awkwardness— the thought that he feels just as tense as you— is the only thing that keeps your nerves from becoming overwhelming. 

Eddie speaks suddenly, and it nearly startles you. “How’s your car been?”

“...It’s fine,” you say, wondering if that’s why he’s here— to check in on your car, which broke down four months ago. Penny had picked it up for you; when you’d explained what you’d done, tears of shame pricking your eyes as you told your sister why you didn't want to go yourself, she hadn’t hesitated to act in your stead. Mercifully, though you know she hadn’t approved of how you’d betrayed your friend, she’d held her tongue. She could tell that any criticism of your selfishness from her would be nothing compared to your own. 

You keep following this precedent of asking questions. "How did you find me?" 

Eddie shrugs, a jagged little thing. Grinning now, casual— but his eyes say something different. "Just asked around." 

You nod slowly. "So, how are you?" you try, pulling your flannel sleeves over your hands. “How's…?" 

Her name sticks in your throat, conjuring imaginings of strawberry-blonde waves and soft smiles. Imaginings of dainty fingers painted red, a diamond glinting from her ring finger, brilliant as it shines in the light. Your eyes scan the rings beneath Eddie’s ruddy knuckles. All are the same, but then again, they would be. 

Men don’t wear engagement rings.

There'd been a time you and Chrissy had shared part of life together, and now you haven't talked to her in months. You wonder if she'd been confused about the distance between you, how one day you’d just never spoken to her again. But she'd never reached out to you, either. You assume she must know you’d broken up with Steve by now; it must be old news— 

"Y/n." 

It stalls your train of thought entirely. The way Eddie says your name— like a tortured sigh, like rain after a drought, like the whisper of eyelashes against your cheek— makes you instantly silent. Your heart skips in your chest as you register the look on his face.

Eddie’s jaw is twitching. The cords of his neck are stretched taut, dark brows knitted over honey-brown eyes. Not angry, but bothered. Maybe anguished. He licks his lips, and despite the moisture, his voice still comes out hoarse. "I've been trying to do what you said. I've tried for the last four months."

Your breath catches, but the smoke sinks right through your flannel and into your chest, settling rich and heady behind your sternum. You’re standing beside the barstool, and you search for it with your fingers without moving your eyes from Eddie’s face. As he continues, your fingertips brush wood; you clutch tight to anchor yourself, each word cracking your ice to shards.

Eddie stares intently into your eyes as if his words don’t communicate enough. “I missed you. Every day, I missed you. And I tried to forget, to bury it, but I can’t….” He sounds so earnest that your brow crumples and your eyes sting. Eddie sees it and steps closer around the island, narrowing the gap between you. Honey brown holds you fast as he rasps, “Y/n, I can’t stop thinking about you. I care about you so much. So fucking much it hurts.”

Eddie looks down into your face, and he’s so close you can almost feel the tickle of his curls against your cheek, the brush of his plush lips against your forehead. You can almost taste the smoke and apples, the spice of his mouth. His hands outstretch, hovering near the softness of your flannel as if he wants to clutch at the curve of your waist. You nearly press forward to feel them, but you can’t. Not until there aren’t any diamonds in your mind’s eye.

Yet you can’t stop your ice from melting. And as it dissolves into water, roots absorb it greedily. Leaves perk, deepening to verdant green. The water surges through them, through stems and along vines, flooding into desiccated fruit. Red flesh plumps, growing sweet again. Waiting to be tended by calloused fingers. It bends, seeking him. And so do you; as if by instinct, you lean towards the light, swaying on your feet until you feel the heat from Eddie’s calloused fingers against your waist, urging him with your body, with your eyes, with your heart to touch you. 

But Eddie doesn't touch. Instead, he speaks. “That’s why I…” He swallows thickly, eyes flicking between yours imploringly. “I wanna break up with Chrissy.” 

I wanna break up with Chrissy.

I wanna break up with Chrissy.

I wanna break up with Chrissy. 

The words echo in your head, and you blink. Your confusion is clear; your questions are simple, like a child’s would be, asked in a small voice. “You want to? Why haven’t you, then?” 

“I—” Eddie scratches the back of his hair, all frustration and sharp edges. All flashing eyes that dart from yours. “She’s— she’s just got a lot going on right now, with her mom, and… next week is finals for her classes, and I’ve just… I’ve been working overtime—” 

Your heart shrinks from every word until it’s cowering behind your ribs. Eddie pulls roughly at the neck of his shirt as if it’s too tight for him, and you see the truth behind the tar of guilt oozing beneath his collar. Eddie does want you, but not enough to forsake five years. Not enough to crush plans made for boy or girl. Not enough to rend his flesh, to wrench the claws from his back by force. Claws that will never retract on their own.

You force a weak smile to cover the wobble of your bottom lip. A smile of understanding. Quietly, you say, “You don’t need to explain, Eddie.” You nod, bobbing your head as if you’re agreeing to something he’d said. “Thanks for coming over to talk.” 

Eddie must see the conclusion written all over your face; his contorts with distress, with urgency. He’s pleading with his eyes for you to understand. “No, y/n, I—” 

Each word makes you shrink further. You try to force your voice to raise, to be firm, but it comes out wobbly anyway. “You should go, Eddie,” you tell him, eyes darting from that pleading expression. From the light in brown eyes. Because if you look too long, you’re afraid your moths will disregard the danger, flutter up, and chase it forever. 

Eddie’s hands are still hovering near your waist, extended as if in entreaty; he dips them, and your breath catches as he boldly grasps your hands, squeezing tight. “Please, I really do.” His voice is a husky whisper, the timbre thick with yearning. “I wanna be with you.” 

A flick of wings; a flutter, and then another. You look into Eddie's eyes and tell him the truth, even though your chin wobbles. “You can’t have us both,” you whisper, and he looks even more pained. 

“No, I know,” he says, squeezing your hands so tight it’s almost painful. “I know. I don't…” He breaks off, voice trembling. “Can I please just… can I just hold you right now?” 

It's so tender, the sound of his voice. It’s so poignant, his request. It’s so hard to resist the promise of Eddie’s warm body against yours, his arms holding you close, his heart thumping against your breast, his plush lips skimming your brow, his hand cradling your head as you dig your nose into his neck, breathing him in. And you could let him hold you; you could pretend, for a moment, that there is no Chrissy Cunningham.

You could pretend, but you don’t. It’s hard to resist Eddie, but you do. 

“No, Eddie,” you whisper, pulling your hands from his. He lets you go, but reluctantly; when your hands drop to your sides, and you step back, his fingers outstretch as if by impulse. “I can’t,” you choke. “Not if—” not if I can't have you. But you can’t say that; you would crumble under the weight of those words. “We can’t,” you say instead, entreating him to understand. 

You look up into Eddie Munson’s face, and every fiber of your being yearns for him. Your green quivers, reaching. Your wings flutter, seeking. The fruit of your soul is on your tongue. 

You want to say, Please, Eddie. Touch me. Hold me.

You want to say, Please, Eddie. Love me.

Love me.

But you don't.

"Go home, Eddie," you say, and you try to be strong, but you can't help it; you never can when it comes to him. All the water within you— in your leaves and stems, in your flowers and fruit— rushes up to flood your eyes. It spills over, and with a tiny whimper, you start to cry. 

Eddie’s instant distress is hard to endure. His broken voice begs, “No, no—” He closes the gap you’d widened easily, and you sniffle, inhaling smoke and apples as, in his haste, he misjudges the distance and brushes against you. Calloused fingers reach for you; they wipe your face tenderly, trembling thumbs swiping tears that fall and fall and fall with no reprieve.

And you shouldn’t, but goddamn you, you let him. 

“Please don’t cry,” Eddie whispers, sounding utterly distraught.

But you can’t obey because everything inside you is crying out. The smoke is leaking from your pores— you're surprised Eddie can't see it clinging to you. It's condensing into fat drops of charcoal tears, running tracks down your face. Because you want him so desperately, but not like this. 

It's not enough— to be with Eddie, but know he isn't yours. 

You back away, and Eddie’s hands fall from your face. Three big steps, a gulf of distance between you. Words are hard for you, and there are none you can say right now.

Eddie’s face is creased. Those beautiful brown eyes are big and glassy, and there’s misery in the corners of his lips. 

You’ve never seen him like this, but then again, he’s never seen you like this, either. He's never sounded like this— smoke voice thick and tight as if he’s barely keeping himself at bay. “Don’t cry, sweet girl.” 

The sound of Eddie’s name for you fractures you further. You shake your head as if trying to shake the name free from your ears. Your tears still flow silently; your body trembles as you try to keep from losing control. You feel it pushing up your throat— a desperate cry. Despair. Not a hound, but a snarling wolf, growing fat off the verdancy of your green, now reawakened in the presence of beloved light.

As you shake, breath hitching, tears dripping from your chin, Eddie must finally realize the futility of it all. Abruptly, he fists his fingers in his hair. “Fuck,” he yelps, frustrated, helpless. Afraid. 

He stalks away and back again, pacing restlessly as you hug yourself, trying to press the despair back in. No words to say. Just thick drops of charcoal tears. 

And then, you hear a tortured sigh, like the way he’d said your name. You glance up, and Eddie’s smoke voice whisps from his plush lips, tight and thick and high, lingering in the gulf between you. “Fuck, I’m— y/n, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Your face screws up, breath hitching and catching. Words finally come; you push them out. Firm, loud, and clear. “Just leave, Eddie. I can’t see you anymore. Just go—!”

As soon as you say the words, you feel it. The growl, the gnashing of teeth. You grit your jaw against it, nostrils flaring as you avert your eyes to your socks. You listen, and you wait.

Slowly, so slowly, Eddie’s heavy, slumping footsteps retreat down the hall. You’re fighting, nearly whimpering with your effort. The doorknob jiggles, and you suck in a desperate breath. The door creaks, and then softly, so softly, it closes.

Finally, you're alone, and finally, you release it. The wolf howls; its cry explodes from you in a ragged sob. And once you start, you can’t stop. Not until Penny tries the door handle and finds it unlocked, eyes widening as she hears the anguished sounds echoing down the hall. She finds the vase of flowers, the plates of carrots and bell peppers and onions, the mound of broccoli, and the sharp knife. She finds you collapsed on the kitchen floor, red-faced and howling in a puddle of your charcoal tears.

Eddie’s visit was cruel, but it was cruelty unintended. Eddie could never be cruel to you, and you know that. And you know something else. Something you didn't want to acknowledge, something you'd been trying desperately to numb in the cold of twilight, though seeing him tonight confirms it.

Eddie Munson planted the seed in that dark place at the bottom of you, the one you didn’t know existed. He tended it with his gentle touches and his quiet words. And now, your growth is firmly rooted. It has grown tall, weaving around your sternum, vining through your ribs, sprouting through your center. And it’s not just at the center of you. It is the center of you. The fruit of your soul, budded and ready to thrive; the source of your love, one and the same. Under the full moon, it had gone dormant, but it could not be uprooted. 

And perhaps, in time, your green will cleave from the one who’d cared for it. But it’s clear to you now. 

It will take much longer than four months for your love for Eddie Munson to wither.