#history is an ever repeating cycle

[leveragehunters]

I was going through my great grandfather's memoirs (born 3 March 1880) and came across this part, which feels eerily similar to our current times:

Our biggest handicap was the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. With men off sick we were lucky to have 50 staff. Some would come back and more would go off. I was off two weeks myself. There were many deaths in the city.   The war was over and the men were returning from France. We were working a fifty hour week. With the men returning, the trend was to repress wages and frown on a reduction of working hours. My responsibility had been increased so as I was next to the superintendent. This was fine, except my wages were the same as the day I started. They said, "You are doing a good job, but with the men returning that is all we can pay you." There was general upset. The returned men were dissatisfied with the wages offered, not only with our company and the warehouse business, but with what was being offered in general.

He then goes on to explain how they met with the Trade and Labour Council to form a union and present their demands (which were union recognition, basic wage of $180.00 a month, an eight hour day in a year's time, and a two year contract), but it all went to hell because of spies reporting back to the bosses and scabs who refused to honour the strike.

After the second day they flooded back like sheep. At Ashdown the travellers and buyers worked the warehouse without interruption of service. The strike was a washout. I was out of a job!

The night before the strike was scheduled to start the bosses even resorted to the closest they had to social media 105 years ago.

The Evening paper carried an advertisement, by all companies concerned, advising that all employees absent from work for three days, would be discharged.

(The memoirs are 180 typed pages, so I may post more bits as they catch my eye)

#Canadian history #strike #solidarity #history is an ever repeating cycle #personal #memoirs #Great grandpa was an awesome dude #absolute badass #unrelated but his grandfather - so my great great great grandfather? #was a WEAVER in the New England States woolen mills before they moved to Canada in the 'early part of the nineteenth century'

[knight-princess]

Lili’s story is so tragic if you think about it too much. She was a previous Airk, a girl who was kidnapped and indoctrinated. A troubled girl sure, a girl who felt trapped and dissatisfied, things the Order of the Wyrm likely fed on the way she in turn tries to use Airk’s insecurities and grudges against him. But unlike Airk, who’s loved ones found and saved him, hers never found her. They wandered the Shattered Sea until they went mad, but they never reached the edge, never found the Immemorial City. She was lost. The girl who dreamed of freedom forever trapped, playing out someone else’s grand scheme, continuing the cycle she herself was a victim of

#as ever: my personal interpretation #the tragedy is fascinating #the sense of history repeating #the gang breaking the cycle #trying to at least #sorry Graydon #willow 2022 #the crone willow #lili of cashmere

[icewindandboringhorror]

............ ultimate somng

#i'll go a few months without hearing this and then for some reason I do again and I go insane #especially the very opening first section ....hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #I like the orchestral version too but the piano one just has a different vibe in some ways #again I'm not really a big music person (in terms of listening to/being a fan of stuff. I like to make music and experiment with instruments #but like I've never been in a band fandom or or been to concert or cared about anything in a pop culture type way) I just have like #a list of some hyper specific songs with specific tones that I listen to like 400x in a row until I get tired of them and then #choose to listen to somehting else 400x in a row until I enetually circle back to one of the ones I already listened to 400x in a row #I rarely ever put music on in the backgroudn while doing things or treat it as an activity it's more of like.. a fixation or something #I go through 'music phases' where I just feel like listening to music as an ativity for a little while and then dont again for a few months #and when I do it's like the same songs 400x in a row again but gyhbhj #or sometimes cycles through a few songs or something but all on repeat #NONE of which are ever like related to each other in any way but are jus what my brain wants to hear 4998898 times for some reason #my most recent music phase rotation was - 'moses fantasy' by paganini. 'luxury' azaleia banks. the fucking charles darwin natural selection #song from horrible histories. rock the casbah??? (idk why for a few days i just wanted to hear it ghhj). the succession opening theme. #'Ludacrismas' even though it's the middle of summer. and 'I just wanna dance with you' - starpoint..lol.. ALSO for a period of #like 2 days I was mentally preoccupied with that meme edited version of that genghis khan song that instead makes it say 'mingus kingus #' or 'i get a little bit dingus bingus' or whatever hbjhbhj.. If you don't know some of those go look them up. then put them all #in a youtube playlist and put it on repeat 6000x. this will give you a tiny snapshot into one aspect of my current mental landscape. #Really want to do a kazoo cover of Moses Fantasy. literally imagine how annoying that would sound on a loud abrasive kazoo #and ALSO how probably annoying parts of it would be to try to do ghhbjb.. the super high pitched violin but desperately squeaked #through the raspy cadence of a dollar store kazoo.... this is my design #okay im listening to it again HGHBHJ the fast parts.... just *frantic squabbling into a kazoo that's not even accurate* #ANYWAY.. I don't talk about music often because like most things I am also not capable of consuming music in a Normal Way and am defintely #not a cool trendsetter or someone with GoodOpinions to share. one of my favorite songs is something I heard in a commercial when I was #7 years old and nothing has ever topped it so.. ghbjhb.. .I am dictated not by popular media or trends but by an obscure series of algorithm #s performed by tiny squirrels that live in my brain who randomly pick and choose songs to suddenly resurfance into my conscious #'Remember that thing you heard a snippet of in school music class when you were 6? find it NOW on youtube. listen 500 times. now' #'then also literally don't listen to music again for 3 entire months until the next 4 day period where you listen to one thing on repeat' #ANYWAY ANYWAY.. obsessed with this ravel song again. also still in the grips of the charles darwin one unfortunately ghbhjbhj #brain is just a mix of *dreamlike ethereal piano* NA TU RAAAL SE LEC TIOOONNN *twinkling piano again* hGGMM... yeaaAA

[v-iv-rusty]

why do dark souls end credits songs reach directly into my chest and pull my heart out

#misc.txt #the ending osts for ds1 and ds2 both make me feel some kind of way #and it's like they're not even 100% sad. theyre so achingly bittersweet. that's what gets me. #did you make the right choice? do you fully understand? will you ever? #and especially if you choose the ending that continues the cycle #your story is over and history repeats as it has done and will continue to do. over and over again but your story ends here #it feels cathartic in a way. but still sad. it feels almost representative of death which is fitting I think considering both #ds1+ds2's ending. you aren't 'dying' but you are burning forever to continue the cycle or being sealed in a throne room as it starts again #the snake eats its own tail once again etc. etc. for better or for worse #from the perspective of the player character - you DON'T know if it was for better or for worse. you just continued forward #like you've always done #bc at least in the case of a blind playthrough I feel like continuing the cycle is the most likely ending you're going to get #in ds1 I linked the flame because I didn't know you could just leave. I got that ending because I just didn't know what else to do #and yes I did that because I didn't. like. read enough wikis or whatever but thematically. in-universe #if you don't find kaathe you (most likely) continue the cycle because what else is there to do? what else is there to do. #and if you don't do aldia's quest it's the same #what else is there to do but light the flame and take the throne and hope it's better this time. even though it won't be #*hold the end credits theme in my hands* it's not that deep but what if it was

[marxism-leninism-meowism]

i am conflicted over the way we say people have "lost their humanity" or "are not human" when they commit horrible acts, such as genocide.

because what is humanity if not this dynamic range of intelligence that allows us to commit both unspeakable evil and selfless good? have animals ever committed genocide? if these people are animals then they would perhaps be aggressive—but that would not explain their intentional manslaughter done not out of necessity, but out of hatred.

an animal may kill to eat. an animal may kill to protect themselves when another animal attempts to kill and eat them. an animal may commit individual acts of violence. but you would not see a pride of lions hunting gazelles to extermination. you would not see bears rounding up thousands of wolves and killing them because they are a "threat" to their sources of food.

genocide is an inherently human act. we need to stop pretending like it isn't because that is exactly how the cycle repeats itself. we think only inherently evil and inhuman people would commit genocide, or urge one on, but it could be your next door neighbor that brought you cookies as a housewarming gift. it could be the mayor campaigning for free housing for the unhoused. it could be anyone. that's the point. we're all human. separating yourself from the ones you deem evil only serves to perpetuate this endless repetition of history.

my point is not that humans are inherently bad, either. humans can be good. humans can be evil. humans can be anywhere in between that dichotomy or lie outside of it entirely. we are intelligent, sentient beings. what we do with this intelligence, this sentience? it's up to us.

to commit genocide is a choice that humans make. they are not monsters. they are just human. and to be frank, i think the reason people often avoid this concept is because that is far more terrifying than writing off all people that commit heinous acts as inhuman monsters.

#bearsys speaks #just ruminating #genocide #politics #history #humanity

[astriiformes]

One thing this episode really lingered on is just how much The Owl House is a story about stories -- fandom, and stories told within stories, and breaking the mold to write your own, new one, and history as a narrative and parallels to the past, but also not being beholden to repeat them.

It's Luz stumbling into a magical world and deciding to stay because of the stories she loves. It's Eda telling her there are no chosen ones there, but stories turning out to having real power even when chosen ones don't. It's Luz and Amity having their first real bonding moment in a library, battling a book that came to life. It's Azura bringing them together. It's Luz learning about Philip Wittebane first through the false, polished, carefully curated story he wrote about himself in his diary. It's Eda telling Luz and King the story of how she met Raine before they're ever able to meet them. It's the repeating cycle of grimwalkers, constructed to play roles in a story they were never privy to. It's Caleb only ever being shown through glimpses and snatches of the narrative that swallowed him up, but being present all the same. It's Gus and Hunter stumbling upon Camila's old favorite series and connecting to it the same way she did (and then some). It's the constant meta jokes about various books the characters love mirroring the show. It's the kids on a haunted hayride being told about the Wittebane brothers like they're a ghost story, except they know they were real -- and who the real monster was.

It's meeting your girlfriend because of fandom. It's the book series your dad gifted to you just before he died that brought you much-needed comfort at the time, and so much more in the future. It's looking deep inside and saying "Stories help me be the person I want to be" and "You want me to repeat the way this happened in the past, but I refuse" and "Stories help us remember those who are gone."

It's Luz finally stepping back into the Demon Realm dressed as Azura, the character that lead her there in the first place, at the end of the beginning of the end of the show's own story.

It's about how stories can save your life.

#a theme that consistently fucks me up in the best way #the owl house #toh spoilers #f: us weirdos have to stick together

[skywerse]

RIPTIDE THEORY!!!!!!

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS IN GENERAL

Have you ever wondered why Chip, Jay, and Gillion—a wannabe pirate, a soldier in training, and the champion of the Undersea, respectively—form such a fucking random assortment of people? The only thread connecting them seems to be their association with the Black Rose members.

Their meeting feels like destiny, doesn't it?

What if I told you it's not destiny at all, but rather the aftermath of Captain Rose's failed deal with Niklaus?

Join me on my yapping as I put together a theory that I wrote in my notes app at 4 in the morning!

Firstly, let's look at everything in a grand scale of things.

I believe that the world of Mana, at its core, is fuelled by desire that got corrupted by the darkness that slithered its way from the abyss into this world. For millennia or centuries, these same desires have driven its cycles, repeating history in one way or another, compelling many generations to follow suit to ensure the safety of their world. Keeping the darkness at bay. 

What if I told you that the prophecy isn't solely about Gillion? Instead, it’s about thousands of other chosen ones over centuries, all destined for the same purpose: to protect, to fight, and to avenge the darkness.

The descendants of Aster, children of the sun, were also born to always follow the same mission— to seal away the darkness.

Regarding the descendants of elemental casters, it's VERY speculative since we don't know enough about them. However, I believe they were destined to control the darkness, to take hold of it.

And for as long as this entity, this darkness, had such an effect on Mana, they joined forces to seal it away and safeguard their world.

But what if those cycles of history get suddenly shattered? Perhaps due to an unfulfilled deal, or maybe a deal never meant to be fulfilled… What if one of the descendants of the sun, blessed by Aster, who was meant to seal the darkness away, inadvertently unleashed it? Causing a disturbance in the universe, so violent and so unpredictable that it changes everything?

This disruption could make those united against the darkness to turn on each other, inadvertently allowing the darkness to thrive.

Rather than sealing the darkness, the descendants of the sun are harnessing it for destruction.

Instead of engaging in battle, the Tritons have retreated to the ocean's deepest depths, selecting a sacrificial lamb who would single-handedly play the role of a protector and bear the burden of this fight alone.

While the knowledge about the casters is limited, judging by this pattern, they likely grew weaker, most likely losing their ability to control the darkness altogether. It's probable that it became concealed. 

(May explain why Chip's powers manifested very late—they were hidden away.)

Now, consider this. Jay Ferin, a child of the sun and descendant of those olympians, blessed by Aster; Gillion Tidestrider, a descendant of the Tritons or the Leviathans, blessed by Lunadeyis' light; and Chip, likely a descendant of the elemental casters mentioned in the prophecy, capable of grasping the darkness…

They stand as the ideal heroes of the story, maybe one of the only ones with the original, uncorrupted desire still burning within them, the ones to single-handedly save the world.

It makes a good story, doesn't it?

The sun, the moon, the elements.

Descendants of the three main bloodlines.

The unborn kings?

Now, let’s move to Niklaus for a moment.

Didn’t he say that he likes a good story? 

But first, I'd like to believe that in the grand scheme of things, Niklaus is merely a vessel, born in the abyss, for this entity, this darkness that threatens the world. He is bound to be the one to further its corrupting influence. And maybe with all this power in his hands, many centuries ago, he even self-proclaimed himself as a prince.

Didn't Niklaus once describe himself as a storyteller? What if this storyteller is fated to witness a tale that endlessly repeats itself? Such repetition can grow tedious and mundane. So eventually, a simple desire emerges—to instigate change, to sow chaos, and perhaps to find an opportunity to break free from the chains binding him to this world.

A vessel for darkness, born in the abyss,

Bound to spread corruption,

A nameless prince:

Niklaus.

And then we have the guarding giant, still clinging to his original desire,

Holding the darkness at bay for as long as he can:

Arlin.

Does it make more sense now?

Now let’s take a look at things on a much smaller scale.

Have you ever wondered why Chip, Jay, and Gillion—a wannabe pirate, a soldier, and the champion of the Undersea, respectively—form such a fucking random assortment of people? The only thread connecting them seems to be their association with the Black Rose members. And their meeting feels like destiny, doesn't it? What if I told you it's not destiny at all, but rather the aftermath of Captain Rose's failed deal with Niklaus?

(Was the deal intentionally unfulfillable? Was it by accident? I dont fucking know!)

We know that whatever deal Captain Rose struck with Niklaus aimed to leave behind a legacy that would change the world. However, Rose failed to uphold his end of the deal, leading to his corruption and transformation into a goopy yucky—essentially, his deal backfired.

You might wonder, in what way it backfired? What better way to leave a lasting legacy than to trigger an event so impactful that it halts the endless cycle of history, disrupting the very mechanism that powers this world? To plunge the world into chaos, only to mend it once more, by bringing together the remaining group of individuals to retrace the steps of their ancestors—different people bound by the same desires as those that came before them.

Yes, the same desires.

The last thing Arlin, Drey, and Finn heard after releasing the entity from the egg was,

"What do you desire?"

What did Arlin James desire most?

I'd have two guesses.

Firstly, while discussing their desires on the staircase, Arlin expresses his desire to find the rest of the crew. Later, after Drey kills Rose, Arlin's words are: "There's still others that need our help [...] Adventure's not over."

Secondly, Arlin clearly wanted the best for Chip. He wanted to be there for this scrawny kid with no family or home, offering him something solid to hold onto.

Why do I bring this up? Because Arlin's desires have been passed down to Chip.

Firstly, hasn't Chip been chasing this his entire life? To locate the members of the Black Rose Pirates, to reassemble the crew, and to relive the old days.

Secondly, the dynamic between Chip and Ollie mirrors this relationship. While Ollie might be more like a brother to Chip and vice versa, it's evident to me that Chip cared for Ollie much like Arlin would for him. Just as Arlin gave Chip a coin, Chip passed that same coin on to Ollie.

What did Drey Ferin desire the most?

I believe he yearned to prove himself—not just to be another Ferin, but to establish his independence, to carve out a name for himself. Maybe he harboured hopes of achieving something significant, something that would make his father proud upon his return home.

Why do I bring this up? Because Drey's desires influenced Jay.

Jay Ferin ventures out with a mission: to uncover her sister's killer and exact justice upon the pirates that are responsible. And in doing so, she hoped to earn her father's pride. Maybe she also sought a sense of freedom and independence, desiring not to be entirely under the navy's influence.

What did Finn Tidestrider desire the most?

GAY SEX /J

Finn yearned to leave the Undersea, to broaden his research, and to witness the wonders of the world above first-hand. He aimed to dispel the notion that the surface was as intimidating as the Undersea made it out to be.

Why do I bring this up? Because Finn's desires influenced Gillion.

Who wouldn't, after years of rigorous training to become a champion—enduring beatings, breaking under relentless training, and being moulded into someone you're not—wish for it to cease, to break free and see the world for oneself? Upon witnessing the Elders negotiating with a human, perhaps it was that sight that pushed him over the edge. Maybe it was an impulsive decision, or perhaps it was his destiny all along. And once on the surface, Gillion's curiosity becomes evident. He wants to learn, experience, and judge for himself. Perhaps he also wishes to someday show his people that the surface isn't as menacing as they've been led to believe.

Niklaus was aware of all of this; he knows far more than he ever lets on. That's why, even before arriving in the town on Loffinlot, he was already trailing Chip, Jay and Gillion—the supposed heroes destined to save the world, or maybe aid him in fulfilling his own desire for freedom.

Closing thoughts? 

This might be a load of bullshit!

I'm going to take a nap!

#featuring many variations of that one condifiction image to make your experience reading this bit more sillier #source: i made it the fuck up #jrwi riptide #just roll with it #jrwi #jrwi theory #gillion tidestrider #jrwi chip #jay ferin #niklaus hendrix

[itlovesinthewoods]

Immortal Desires: Omg there are vampires 🧛‍♂️ in the small town me and my mom just moved to 😱 and also a bunch of murders happening 🩸🔪 That's suspicious... that's weird 🤔 Also also I can't choose 😰 between the sweetheart good guy/girl type 😇 and the devil-may-care bad guy/girl type 😈 So the obvious solution is for me to date them both 😇🤝🙂🤝😈 (and them each other)

BloodBound: No matter how much we try to distance ourselves from our humanity, it still remains an inescapable part of us. Darkness lies within us all, due to our very nature, and no matter how much we try to bury it, dispose of it, it festers in our hearts, threatening to consume us. History is bound to repeat itself and humanity is prone to cruelty and self-destruction. Is love and peace truly more powerful than hatred and violence? Or are they an illusion of respite in the face of a never-ending cycle? Are we forever doomed to hurt and be hurt? Can this cycle ever be broken?

#anyway i love both of them so fucking much<333 #bloodbound #immortal desires #playchoices #pixelberry #choices

[vhagarlovebot]

thinking about braiding prince aemond’s hair. you’re one of the few people allowed to touch his hair, if not the only one.

aemond targaryen doesn’t like to look vulnerable and weak. having grown up in such a harsh environment, it’s the only way he knows how to act in order to protect himself. but you know the hidden part of him, that part no one else’s knows.

you know the soft and sweet aemond. the one who every morning leaves a flower in front of your chamber. the aemond who always seeks you in the crowd, relaxing only when he makes sure you’re safe. the aemond who rest his hands on your back to guide you and keep you from falling, or simply because he wants to feel you close.

but your favorite aemond is the one who, after a long and exhausting day, willingly sits in front of you for your hands to find its way to his hair. with his back to your chest he starts talking about what he did, where did he fly with vaghar and what he learned during his history lessons, or whatever he’s reading and learning that day. he’d also ask about your day while you braid his long and silver hair, humming occasionally and speaking when necessary. and when you’re finished, he’d kiss the back of your hand and blind you with the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. “sleep well, my sweet lady.” he’d say before closing the door. and when you’re finally alone, a sigh leaves your lips while you fall into your bed, going over the time spent together until you fall asleep. the next morning you’d find a flower when leaving your chambers, his way of saying ‘thank you’. and then when you run into him, the braids are no longer adorning his hair, just a few waves as a reminder.

later that day he’d visit you again. and the cycle would repeat day after day. and prince aemond targaryen would never admit it out loud, but he loves seeing his hair with a different braid each day. sitting with you while you both talk and you brush his hair makes him feel loved, it brings him comfort and softens his heart.

#📮 ⌇ my works ​˖⋆࿐ #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #prince aemond x reader #aemond fic #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic

[breelandwalker]

Red Flag Checklist

Okay witches, let's have a round table.

When you're reading or contemplating the purchase of a book on modern witchcraft or paganism, what are some red and green flags that you look for?

I'll start.

Red Flags:

Disreputable Author - If the author is either a known source of bad information or bad behavior, or one of those "house names" that certain companies use, that's a no for me.

"New Age White Witch" Syndrome - If a text has a more-than-incidental or very deliberate focus on culturally appropriative practices ("Use this exotic voodoo doll ritual to hex your ex"), outdated terminology ("black magic," that G slur we don't use, etc), antisemitic bullshit (Lilith is not a pagan goddess), or anti-science rhetoric ("Essential oils are better than pills!") And yes this means the ever-expanding list of racist dogwhistles too.

Poor Understanding or Misrepresentation of History - If someone's repeating Murrayisms or insisting things are ancient that definitely aren't (POTATO GODDESS), that says to me that either the author didn't bother to do their research or they don't know what they're talking about.

Insistence on One Correct Way - If I encounter anything resembling "this is the only TRUE way," the book's going out the window. The more so if the author is citing their personal opinions or UPGs as fact.

Insistence on Gendering Everything - If a book insists on assigning a binary gender to everything (outside of citing a historical context), or is boomboxing ~*SACRED WOMYN'S WOMB MAGYCK*~ throughout, or even if it's just overly preoccupied with fertility and childbearing as part of the "natural" life cycle, I'm immediately putting it down. (This is more of a personal one, in a way? But it's a red flag for TERFy things too.)

Lack of Sources - If there's no bibliography, no works cited, no recommended reading, or just a really flimsy list that's rife with internet links or problematic titles, that's not a good sign.

Green Flags:

Inclusive Language - If the author refers to the reader or an unidentified person as "they" or "them," that's a good sign. Double points if it's in a context that you'd normally expect to see gendered elsewhere. There's always room for gendered language when it's appropriate, but to me, it's refreshing when an author doesn't assume the reader identifies as female.

Health and Safety Warnings - If there are notes for safe handling or harvesting of potentially harmful herbs, or warnings about health hazards (i.e. keep this away from persons who are pregnant or nursing), or reminders to be careful with fire and glass and the like, this is a good sign. To me, it means the author has a practical mindset and is at least keeping real-world limitations in mind.

Lots of Sources...and GOOD Sources - If the book has a nice fat bibliography, especially if there are mundane sources as well as magical ones, and if those sources are solid? A+. Double points if there's an index or footnotes and citations throughout the text.

Lack of "Guru" Mindset - If the author encourages the reader to take what they've learned and continue to do research on their own, that's a good sign. Encouragement of critical thinking is excellent, and also the admission that there is more than one way of Doing The Magical Thing. (Hi Lee)

Good Formatting - A book should be visually appealing, but it should also be easy to read and formatted properly, in a way that makes sense. I like to see clean margins, good spacing, and clear text. Page decorations and pictures and fancy title fonts are fine, so long as they don't make the book difficult to decipher.

(Okay, your turn!)

#witchcraft #witchblr #witchy books #book recs #For clarity: this is partly for an upcoming episode of HexPos #I have a list already.....I'm just hoping for some additional suggestions

[holly-fixation]

In Advent Children, there's this weird line from Rufus Shinra (in the English version) that's just a completely out there threat, even in context.

"The Lifestream courses through our world… ever flowing between the edge of life and death. If that cycle is the very truth of life, then history, too, will inevitably repeat itself. Go on, bring your Jenovas and your Sephiroths. Cause trouble till your heart’s content. We’ll do as life mandates, we promise. We won’t let you win and we’ll stop you."

I am almost 100% sure that Remake and its trilogy are a continuation of this cycle. It just fits too well.

#ffvii #final fantasy vii #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #ff7r #ff7 remake #final fantasy vii remake #ff7ac #ff7 advent children #advent children

[blueywrites]

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!)

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.

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.  

#blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic

[muiitoloko]

Omg I love all your stories about Alan and his characters!! Especially Love Actually’s Harry stories caught my heart. I was wondering is ”Why?” going to get a sequel? Maybe showing Y/N and Harry happy again, perhaps with a long awaited child?

Thank you so much for your posts!! They brighten my days! ✨❤️

Title: Promise

Summary: The promises were fulfilled.

Pairing: Harry (love actually) × Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut and happy ending.

Author's Notes: I'm thrilled that you enjoy my stories featuring Alan Rickman's characters, especially the ones about Harry in Love Actually! Honestly, when I was writing this fanfic with Harry, I actually toyed with the idea of giving them a bittersweet ending because, well, a bit of heartache can add depth, right? But I totally get that readers often prefer the warm fuzzies, so I decided to give Harry and the reader the happy ending everyone expects. Thanks for brightening my day with your kind words! ✨❤️

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, you watched Harry's dedication to rebuilding your relationship with a mixture of awe and gratitude. He was relentless in his efforts to make things right, showering you with affection and attention in ways you hadn't experienced in years. Gone were the days of meaningless gestures and last-minute gifts; instead, Harry took the time to truly connect with you, to make you feel loved and cherished in every possible way.

You found yourself falling back in love with him, rediscovering the joy and excitement of being with him that had been missing for so long. It was like going back to the early days of your relationship, when you were both young and carefree, lost in the dizzying throes of love.

But amidst the whirlwind of emotions and newfound happiness, there was still one topic that loomed large between you: children. It was a subject that had always been delicate, fraught with the pain of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams. You both wanted children desperately, had tried for years to conceive, only to be met with heartbreak and despair each time.

And now, knowing that Harry had harbored resentment towards you for your inability to conceive made the fear in your heart grow stronger. What if he came to hate you for it again? What if history repeated itself, and you found yourselves back in the same cycle of hurt and betrayal?

It was a conversation you knew you needed to have, no matter how difficult or painful it might be. And so, on that day when Harry came to your apartment to spend the day with you, you gathered your courage and broached the subject that had been weighing heavily on your mind.

"Harry," you began, your voice steady despite the nervous fluttering in your chest. "Can we talk about something?"

Harry looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. "Of course, love," he replied, his voice warm with affection. "What's on your mind?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation ahead. "It's about... children," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I know it's a sensitive topic for both of us, but I think we need to address it."

Harry's expression softened even further, his eyes filled with understanding as he reached out to take your hand in his. "I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb stroking soothing circles on the back of your hand. "It's something we've both wanted for so long, and it breaks my heart that we haven't been able to make it happen."

Tears welled in your eyes at his words, the pain of your shared disappointment washing over you like a tidal wave. "I'm scared, Harry," you admitted, your voice trembling with emotion. "Scared that you'll come to hate me again, like you did before."

Harry's grip on your hand tightened, his eyes filled with an intensity that took your breath away. "I wouldn't hate you, not anymore," he declared, his voice steady and resolute. "I was foolish to ever feel resentful toward you. It wasn't your fault; it never was. It was me, unable to resolve my own feelings, letting them fester and grow into something ugly. But I'm different now; I've matured, and I see things clearly. The answer is no, I will never hate you."

The weight of his words lifted a burden from your heart, filling you with a sense of relief and gratitude. "But what if we never have children, Harry?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you struggled to contain your tears. "Can you live with that? Can we... can we be enough for each other?"

Harry's gaze never wavered as he met your eyes, his expression filled with unwavering determination. "We already are, love," he replied, his voice steady and sure. "You and me, together against the world. That's all I've ever wanted, all I'll ever need."

And in that moment, as you looked into Harry's eyes, you knew that he meant every word. Despite the pain and disappointment that had plagued your relationship, despite the uncertainty of what the future might hold, you knew that as long as you had each other, you could weather any storm that life threw your way.

With tears of gratitude streaming down your cheeks, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to Harry's, sealing your love and commitment to each other in a tender kiss. And as you held each other in a tight embrace, lost in the warmth of your shared love, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together, hand in hand, heart to heart.

In the days that followed, the weight of the unresolved issue of children lifted from your shoulders, and you and Harry found yourselves moving forward with renewed hope and determination. There were moments of doubt and insecurity, of course, memories of Harry's betrayal still lingering in the back of your mind. But Harry's unwavering commitment to rebuilding your relationship, coupled with his newfound openness and trust, helped ease your fears and reassure you of his love.

One significant gesture that spoke volumes about Harry's sincerity was his willingness to share his cell phone with you. Previously, he had kept it close, always vigilant about keeping it nearby and not letting you touch it. But now, he handed you the freedom to access his cell phone, giving you the password without hesitation. Likewise, you reciprocated, allowing Harry free access to your phone.

This newfound transparency and trust brought a sense of relief and security to your relationship. Over time, as Harry's calmness in letting you use his cell phone became evident, you found that the insecurities tormenting your mind began to dissipate. You no longer felt the need to constantly check Harry's phone for signs of infidelity; you came to trust him completely and fell even more in love with the new version of Harry.

But that day, as you stood there in disbelief, staring at the positive pregnancy test in your trembling hands that you received after visiting the doctor, a whirlwind of emotions swept over you. For years, you and Harry had tried to conceive, only to be met with disappointment time and again. And now, in the most unexpected moment, when you had finally made peace with the issue of having children, you were pregnant.

The shock of the news left you feeling numb at first, unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what it meant. A baby—there was a baby growing inside you, a precious little life that was a testament to your love for each other. It was as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you, testing your resolve just when you thought you had found peace.

But as the initial shock wore off, a sense of overwhelming happiness washed over you. A baby! You were going to have a baby, something you had dreamed of for so long. Despite the uncertainties and fears that lingered in the back of your mind, the prospect of becoming parents filled you with a sense of joy and excitement that you had never experienced before.

You debated whether to call Harry and share the news immediately, but something inside you urged caution. Maybe it was the fear of jinxing it, or perhaps the desire to surprise him with the news in a special way. Whatever the reason, you decided to keep the news to yourself for now, planning to reveal it to Harry when the time was right.

So, you spent the rest of the day lost in thought, the pregnancy test clutched tightly in your hand as you contemplated the future. You imagined what it would be like to hold your baby in your arms, to see Harry's face light up with joy at the news. Despite the doubts and uncertainties that nagged at you, there was a sense of peace and contentment in knowing that you were finally going to have the family you had always longed for.

As the evening approached, you found yourself bustling around the kitchen, preparing dinner for you and Harry. It had become somewhat of a routine for him to come over after work, almost as if he unofficially lived with you. You smiled to yourself as you set the table, knowing that Harry would be arriving soon.

Sure enough, as the clock ticked closer to the time he usually arrived, you heard the familiar sound of the door unlocking. Your heart skipped a beat as you hurried to open it, anticipation coursing through your veins.

"Hey, love," Harry greeted you with a warm smile as he stepped inside, shrugging off his coat. "How was your day?"

You returned his smile, feeling a rush of happiness at the sight of him. "It was good," you replied, your voice tinged with excitement. "How about yours?"

Harry's brow furrowed slightly as he studied your expression, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "You seem... unusually happy," he remarked, his voice filled with amusement. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

You chuckled nervously, hoping he wouldn't notice the nervous fluttering in your chest. "Oh, just had a good day at work, that's all," you lied, your smile faltering slightly under his scrutiny.

To your relief, Harry seemed to accept your explanation without further question, his smile widening as he reached out to pull you into a tight hug. "Well, I'm glad to hear it," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

You melted into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours as you savored the moment. Despite the lingering doubts and uncertainties in your mind, being with Harry always made everything feel right in the world.

After a moment, you reluctantly pulled away, a sheepish smile playing on your lips. "Come on, dinner's almost ready," you said, taking his hand and leading him towards the kitchen.

As you entered the cozy kitchen, the scent of home-cooked food filled the air, making Harry's stomach growl in anticipation. He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he took in the scene before him.

"Well, well, well, looks like someone beat me to dinner tonight," he teased, giving you a playful nudge with his elbow. He then carelessly took his cell phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table, almost throwing it.

You laughed, feeling a sense of warmth spread through you at his lighthearted banter. "I figured it was my turn to cook," you replied, shooting him a mischievous grin. "Besides, I wanted to surprise you."

Harry's smile softened, his gaze filled with affection as he pulled you into another hug. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

You smiled, feeling a rush of happiness at his words. "Only for you," you whispered, leaning into his embrace as you savored the moment.

As you sat down to enjoy your meal together, the atmosphere was filled with warmth and love. Despite the uncertainties and challenges that lay ahead, you knew that as long as you had each other, you could weather any storm that life threw your way. And as you looked into Harry's eyes, you felt a sense of peace wash over you like a gentle wave, knowing that together, you could overcome anything.

After a nice dinner filled with laughter and easy conversation, you and Harry retreated to the kitchen to tackle the aftermath of the meal. As you washed the dishes, Harry stood beside you, drying them with practiced efficiency.

The sound of water running and the clink of dishes filled the air as you worked side by side, the comfortable silence between you a testament to the ease of your relationship. It was moments like these that reminded you of why you had fallen in love with Harry in the first place, his unwavering support and dedication a constant source of comfort and reassurance.

As you reached for another plate, you felt Harry's arms wrap around you from behind, his body pressing against yours as he nuzzled your neck with soft kisses.

"I missed you today," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Can't get enough of you, darling."

You melted against him, the warmth of his embrace enveloping you like a cozy blanket. Setting the dry plate aside, you turned to face Harry, your arms winding around his neck as you gazed up at him with adoration.

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you leaned in to capture his lips in a tender kiss.

The kiss quickly deepened, passion flaring between you as you lost yourselves in each other's embrace. Harry's hands roamed eagerly over your body, his touch igniting a fire within you that burned hot and fierce.

With a needy moan, you pressed yourself closer to him, your bodies melding together in a tangle of limbs and desire. The feel of Harry's lips trailing hot kisses along your neck sent shivers of pleasure coursing through you, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity.

"You drive me wild, you know that?" Harry murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire as he trailed his lips lower, his hands sliding down to grip your hips.

You gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch as you felt the familiar ache of desire building deep within you. "Only for you," you breathed, your voice laced with need as you pulled him closer, craving the feel of him against you.

With a hungry growl, Harry lifted you onto the countertop, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as he claimed your lips in a heated kiss. The world fell away around you as you lost yourselves in the passion and intensity of the moment, the need for each other consuming you completely.

Clothes were shed in a frenzy of desire, the air thick with the heady scent of arousal as you gave yourselves over to the pleasure that pulsed between you. The countertop was hard against your back, but you hardly noticed as Harry buried himself deep inside you, filling you completely with each powerful thrust.

With each movement, you felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. "Harry," you cried out, your voice a breathless whisper as you surrendered completely to the ecstasy that consumed you.

Harry's response to your plea was a low, guttural groan. You knew you had awakened something primal within him. With fierce determination, he lifted you effortlessly, still buried deep inside you, as he carried you to the bedroom. His queen deserved a bed, deserved everything, and Harry was determined to give you just that.

With a gentle yet firm hand, Harry laid you down on the soft mattress, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between you. He wasted no time in rejoining you, his body hovering over yours as he claimed your lips in a hungry kiss.

"You're mine," Harry growled against your lips, his baritone voice sending shivers of desire down your spine. "All mine."

You melted into his embrace, lost in the intensity of his touch as he ravaged your lips with a ferocity that left you breathless. His hands roamed eagerly over your body, igniting a fire within you that burned hot and fierce.

With a low moan of pleasure, you wrapped your legs around Harry's waist, pulling him closer as he thrust himself inside you with a primal urgency. The sensation of him filling you completely sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, the need for him overwhelming in its intensity.

"Harder, Harry," you gasped, your voice a desperate plea as you surrendered completely to the ecstasy that consumed you. "Please, I need you."

Harry's response was a low, guttural groan of approval as he complied with your request, his movements becoming more urgent and frantic. With each powerful thrust, he drove you both closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo.

But Harry wasn't satisfied yet, not when he knew he could give you so much more. With a determined focus, he shifted his position, grabbing one of your legs and placing it over his shoulder to get a better angle. The change in position allowed him to hit your g-spot with precision, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Oh god, Harry," you cried out, your voice filled with ecstasy as he drove you to the brink of oblivion. "Right there, don't stop!"

Harry's response was a low, primal growl as he intensified his efforts, his movements becoming more frenzied and desperate. With each thrust, he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust, you tumbled over the edge into ecstasy, your body convulsing with pleasure as waves of bliss washed over you. Harry followed soon after, his own release tearing through him with explosive force as he spilled himself inside you, claiming you as his own in a blaze of passion and desire.

As you both collapsed against each other, spent and satisfied, you couldn't help but revel in the aftermath of your passion. Harry's hooked nose brushed against your cheek as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips, his glasses askew and his chest heaving with exertion.

"You're incredible," Harry murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you."

As you lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of your passionate embrace with Harry, tears welled up in your eyes. The intensity of your love-making had stirred something deep within you, a profound sense of connection and belonging that left you feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

Feeling loved in that moment, you knew you could no longer keep the news to yourself. As Harry nuzzled your neck with soft kisses, you felt his warmth enveloping you like a protective cocoon, and you knew it was time to share your joy with him.

But as you tried to compose yourself, Harry noticed your tears, his expression shifting from one of contentment to one of confusion and concern. His brows furrowed as he looked at you, a hint of desperation in his voice as he questioned what was wrong.

"Darling, what's the matter?" Harry asked, his baritone voice filled with worry. "Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head, trying to hold back your tears as you reached out to caress his cheek. "No, Harry, you didn't do anything wrong," you reassured him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I have something to tell you."

Harry's confusion deepened as he studied your face, his eyes searching yours for answers. But before he could say anything else, you interrupted him with a tender kiss, pouring all your love and affection into the gesture.

When you pulled away, Harry looked at you with a mixture of surprise and anticipation, his eyes wide with curiosity. "What is it, love?" he asked, his voice gentle and encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, you met Harry's gaze head-on, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'm pregnant, Harry," you confessed, your voice trembling with emotion. "I just went to the doctor today to do some tests, and... the doctor confirmed that I'm pregnant."

For a moment, there was silence as Harry processed your words, his expression frozen in disbelief. Pregnant? The word echoed in his mind, sending shockwaves of realization through him.

Slowly, Harry reached out to take your hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he squeezed yours tightly. "Are you... are you serious?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, tears of joy streaming down your cheeks as you met Harry's gaze with unwavering determination. "Yes, Harry, I'm serious," you replied, your voice filled with love and hope. "We're going to have a baby."

Still in a state of disbelief, Harry remained silent, his eyes locked with yours as he struggled to process the magnitude of what you had just told him. You started to feel nervous, the silence stretching between you as you waited for his response.

"Harry?" you called out tentatively, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "Are you okay?"

But Harry didn't respond. Instead, he pulled out of you and left the bedroom, leaving you sitting on the bed, confused and heartbroken. You wrapped the sheets around you, feeling a sense of sadness washing over you as you wondered if Harry was leaving, if he didn't like the news of the pregnancy.

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you contemplated the possibility of Harry walking away from you. But just as despair began to consume you, you were interrupted by the sound of Harry returning to the bedroom.

Your heart skipped a beat as Harry knelt in front of you, a velvet box in his hand. With trembling fingers, he opened the box, revealing a beautiful ring nestled inside. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what was happening.

"I've been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do this," Harry began, his voice filled with emotion. "The right moment. And I realize now that this is the rightest time I could find."

He looked up at you, his eyes shining with love and sincerity. "So, do you want to marry me again?" he asked, his voice filled with hope.

Tears of joy filled your eyes as you looked at Harry, feeling overwhelmed with love and gratitude. "Yes, Harry, yes!" you exclaimed, your voice choked with emotion. "I want to marry you again."

With a relieved smile, Harry slipped the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling slightly as he made a silent vow to cherish you for the rest of his life.

"I promise, love," Harry whispered, his voice filled with determination. "I'll do things the right way this time. I swear on my life."

And in that moment, as you looked into Harry's eyes, you knew that despite the challenges and uncertainties that lay ahead, you would face them together, hand in hand, heart to heart. With Harry by your side, you were ready to embrace whatever the future held, knowing that your love would carry you through any storm.

As you stood in the park, the warm breeze gently rustling the leaves of the old oak tree, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace wash over you. This tree held so many memories for you and Harry, memories of the promises you made to each other all those years ago, when you were just young and in love.

With a soft smile, you reached out and traced the initials carved into the rough bark of the tree, feeling the familiar grooves beneath your fingertips. "H + Y," you whispered, your voice filled with affection as you remembered the day you and Harry had carved your names into the tree, sealing your love and commitment to each other for eternity.

As you gazed at the initials, lost in the memories they evoked, you felt a small hand slip into yours, tugging gently at your fingers. Looking down, you saw your son Hadrian standing beside you, a determined expression on his face as he stared up at you with wide, innocent eyes.

"Mommy, help me write my name," Hadrian pleaded, his voice filled with excitement. "I want it to be next to yours and Daddy's."

Your heart swelled with love as you looked at your son, his resemblance to Harry strikingly evident in his bright eyes and unruly mop of brown hair. He was the light of your life, a constant source of joy and laughter that filled your days with happiness.

"Of course, sweetheart," you replied, bending down to his level and ruffling his hair affectionately. "Let's go write your name together."

Hadrian nodded eagerly, his small fingers grasping the stick tightly as he carefully began to trace the letters of his name onto the bark of the tree. You watched with pride as he concentrated intently, his tongue poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

"Good job, buddy," you praised him, unable to contain the smile that spread across your face. "You're doing great."

Hadrian beamed up at you, his eyes shining with pride as he finished writing his name. "Look, Mommy!" he exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the crooked letters carved into the tree. "I did it!"

You laughed at his excitement, feeling a swell of love and gratitude in your heart as you looked at your son. "Yes, you did, sweetheart," you replied, wrapping him in a tight hug. "I'm so proud of you."

As you held Hadrian in your arms, surrounded by the beauty of the park and the warmth of the afternoon sun, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Despite the obstacles and challenges you had faced along the way, here you were, together as a family, happy and fulfilled.

Looking over at Harry, who was standing a few feet away, watching the scene with a proud smile on his face, you felt a sense of contentment wash over you. He had been your rock, your partner in every sense of the word, and together, you had weathered every storm that life had thrown your way.

"Come on, Mommy," Hadrian said, tugging at your hand impatiently. "Daddy's waiting for us."

You chuckled at his eagerness, allowing him to lead you back to where Harry was standing. As you approached, Harry knelt down to scoop Hadrian up into his arms, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek.

"Did you write your name, buddy?" Harry asked, his voice filled with pride as he looked at Hadrian.

Hadrian nodded enthusiastically, his face beaming with excitement. "I did, Daddy!" he exclaimed, wriggling in Harry's arms to show off his handiwork.

Harry laughed, his eyes sparkling with joy as he looked at the crooked letters carved into the tree. "That's amazing, Hadrian," he said, pressing another kiss to his son's cheek. "I'm so proud of you."

You smiled at the sight of the two of them, a wave of love washing over you as you watched them together. This was what happiness looked like, you realized, not the absence of challenges, but the presence of love and family to face them together.

As Harry turned to you, his eyes filled with love and gratitude, you knew that the promise you and he had made all those years ago had been fulfilled. You were happy, truly happy, and nothing could ever change that.

With a smile, you reached out to take Harry's hand, feeling the warmth of his touch as he squeezed your fingers tightly. Together, you stood there in the park, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the love of your family, knowing that as long as you had each other, you could weather any storm that life threw your way.

#alan rickman #harry #love actually #harry x reader #alan rickman x reader #oc

[cocogum]

Eliatrope Goddess immediately gives off shady vibes and here’s why:

Eliatrope told Yugo, Adamaï, and Nora that there would be plenty of time for these three to talk together but that there are bigger things to address right now. So Adamaï asks her if she was the one responsible for the Inglorium’s destruction and this chick straight up tells him that this topic will have to be discussed later while then adding that he should trust her since she hates violence.

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

Even though the leaders of the World of Twelve were a bit harsh towards a freaking GODDESS (these ppl are saying this is the first time they’re in the presence of a deity and yet they had some balls of steel talking to her like that), Eliatrope did not see any issue with telling them that she’d be surveilling the world and infusing vigilantism.

That almost sounds like she doesn’t really understand what freedom truly is. Keeping people under a good watch to preserve peace is not freedom but rather just plain control.

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

Now that I’m mentioning controlling, didn’t the Eliatrope goddess already do that before? She had one entire planet for her children and just kept watch over them which is why they were able to live in perfect peace and harmony (while the minor problems were solved by Mina. And by “minor” I mean minor problems that aren’t severe ones like poverty, pollution, etc.). The eliatropes didn’t see anything wrong with what she was doing because that’s all they’ve ever known. The eliatropes were practically doing the same thing every day over and over again without being aware of it all. This incessant repeat is also supported by Qilby saying that everything was always the same cycle back in his home planet and he was just witnessing the same history repeating itself.

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

She was perfectly fine letting Adamaï go because she claimed that his mistrust towards this entire situation was perfectly normal for him since he’s someone who mistrusts things in general.

But like-

Adamaï is still her kid, and yet, she just lets him go just like that after being away from him for all these millennials.

But then again, he was the same person who pointed out the question: “Are you the one responsible for the destruction of the Inglorium?” And she wasn’t able to answer him properly. When someone asks you uncomfortable questions that you know the answer to, you usually try to make them leave, no?

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

For someone who’s nicknamed “the goddess of love”, she brought Qilby back and even told Yugo that she’s fine with keeping the traitor around since he at least goes on missions to help IF IT BENEFITS HIM IN SOME WAY.

What kind of “goddess of love” is fine with letting a child of hers continue this bad habit of helping others to benefit them???

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

Where is Balthazar? No seriously where is he??? If the Eliatrope goddess has the children of Emrub with her, then surely Balthazar has to be around in the area somewhere or maybe with the goddess surveilling the children but he isn’t.

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

She doesn’t know what the hell the Lokus is supposed to be or what it was even “guarding” her temple for but she did not tell anyone about this??? About the fact that she didn’t know? Did she tell Nora or Qilby?? Or even the other eliatropes???

Also, she apparently knows that its heart can help fend off the necromes and yet hasn’t told this to Nora and the others. Maybe she forgot to tell them but like- HOW DO YOU FORGET when you’ve been into contact with them??

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

When she wanted to leave the world with her children at the very moment she heard that the necromes were coming, she did not even once mention bringing Chibi and Grougaloragran with her despite being able to sense their wakfus.

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

She tried to cut off Yugo’s friends from him so she could leave with him and the other elite eliatropes. So when Yugo tells her he wants to stay and the other eliatropes side with him, she just leaves.

She left. SHE JUST LEFT THE WORLD AND LEFT HER KIDS BEHIND-

‼️ SHADY ASS BEHAVIOR ‼️

#I’ll obviously add more of her weird ass behavior later on when new episodes come out #this is literally my list for every shady shit she’s done or said #wakfu #wakfu eliatrope goddess #wakfu season 4 #ankama #krosmoz #wakfu s4 #wakfu yugo #wakfu qilby #wakfu nora #wakfu adamai #wakfu adamaï #yugo #qilby #nora #adamai #adamaï #wakfu season 4 episode 2 #wakfu s4 ep2 #wakfu season 4 episode 3 #wakfu s4 ep3 #wakfu season 4 episode 4 #wakfu s4 ep4 #wakfu spoilers #wakfu season 4 spoilers #wakfu s4 spoilers #wakfu analysis #wakfu analyses

[senseandaccountability]

So I'm just here to scream a little about this.

WHAT A QUEST THAT WAS OH MY GOD. I loved how much he had to say about everything, all the way, how much lore and history I got out of the mission and how FUCKING SAD and messed up this vampire family/army is.

I had tears in my eyes when we meet Sebastian and the Gur children OH FUCK, I cried over them. Over the fact that they were children, that he didn't even fucking remember them (which even he was a little taken aback by) and that they didn't want to be let out because they'd hurt their families I CANNOT WITH THE CHILDREN OKAY. And the delicious study in Astarion's range of uncaring, manipulative defenses that got deflated constantly because around every corner there's something new that reminds him of what he is trying SO VERY HARD at making the world and most of all himself forget. GODS do I love that we get to call him out on this, too, the very heart of his struggle. This isn't you - NO BUT IT SHOULD BE. Because the alternative is too much to endure.

And yet, this is the line for me. THE line:

The world doesn't need to know my shame.

The actual fight went to hell in a handbasket first, because I went for the cinematics and wanted to have a big convo with Cazador. Totally worth it for screencaps and angst, though, but it stole an hour from my life.

Then I remembered that I have a brain and ungrouped them, had Astarion hide so he wouldn't get dragged into the ritual while Elnys and Karlach blew shit up and Shadowheart (who I respecced as a healer for act 3) kept everyone alive. SO much easier, thank god. I will play with the save to see the different outcomes of the ritual at some point but it's safe to say the only option for me was to convince him to break the cycle. It's just so UNFATHOMABLY dark to me to imagine him ascending after all this, I don't think I'll ever be able to do it. The abuse of power he was subjected to is such a strong theme in all of his personal details, all of his actions that it just makes me sad for these pixels to think that a solution is to repeat the miserable, hopeless pattern. I love this outcome, I love that he says he isn't above enjoying stabbing Cazadore into a million pieces because he shouldn't be. I love that he isn't even regretting giving up the power, if you ask him afterwards because the source of his fear is finally gone. The spell is broken. He can be free. So much of Astarion's arc is about reconnecting with life, feeling things instead of hiding behind a mask while carrying out shit others told him to, and I adored that it's also what he says when they're done - this place reeks of death and I want to feel alive.

#lilith plays baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion

[sadnightforus]

NONE OF MY BUSINESS  (SMG)

ex!mingi x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: You used to be one of those people who finds it ridiculous that someone runs back to their ex after the breakup and sneaks around, unable to understand why people would go through the cycle of uncertainty that comes with the love making that means nothing after you both get dressed up. But now, you’re doing just that, with Mingi, and honestly, you’re getting tired of the blurry futures of your relationship with him that you keep it alive, although there’s an unspoken word that neither of you can let go because of the familiarity that comforts both of your hearts.

WORD COUNT: 1.8K

WARNINGS: cuss words (avoidable), implied fwb and mention of s*xual intercourse that doesn’t take place in the story. This one makes me dread life.

A/N: trying to get out of my slump. Love my gal tinashe.

reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated!

 You’re back in his bed again. And you begin to think that you are a masochist, somewhere along the way after you’ve met him. And running back to him, despite being on and off.

 It’s way past the time where most people are staying up now as the time reads 1 am, as the time shows on his night stand. 

 You’re fully clothed, but you never felt more naked than this moment in your life. You can’t ever recall how many times you felt so vulnerable and hopeless in positions like this.

 It’s really a shame that you always find yourself running back to him. It’s not your first time, or second time that you’ve repeated this grave mistake either. It's happened countless times already, as it has already been months already. 

 How long will you allow it to happen? 

 Do you desire connections (or intimacy) with no strings, no label but memories left lingering between two strangers with history attached? 

 You used to laugh at your friends who did this, until you experienced it yourself and you can only laugh bitterly at how you used to look at the very situation you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t find yourself in.

 You’re so stupid. 

 So naive to think that you wouldn’t give into a temptation. 

 Even if it feels good in the moment, when the adrenaline wears off, does the high still stay? You already know the answer. 

 You quickly get out of the same bed that has your scent sprayed all over his bed. The same bed you used to lay in after a long day of work, cuddling into his side as you laughed and watching something mundane that you both picked. 

 Those memories started to slowly fade, replacing itself with the cold, empty mistakes and the ever unnerving kisses that snuck behind all of your friends’ and his friends’ backs. Because to them, you both are nothing but just exes. 

 But why is it so addictive? 

 Why does every time he calls you up, you always run to him? 

 He has already finished cooking and there’s only one empty plate on the kitchen counter. 

 And it truly answers your every question whether that he feels the same as you do or not. 

 He has already made room for one instead of two, a thought you keep to yourself as you observe him transferring a freshly cooked meal from his pan onto the shiny plate. 

 He doesn’t seem that surprised to see your presence in the kitchen. Normally, after the session, you would’ve already left with the saying ‘I have work tomorrow’. But really, you knew that you didn’t want to sleep in his bed, knowing that you’d feel much worse if you found yourself waking up in his bed and you would instantly start regretting and resent your own failure to keep the promise of not being back at his place altogether. 

 However, to your surprise, the plate is now in front of you, you don’t know where he gets the spoon and fork. You look at him like he’s crazy. And maybe indeed he did. Since when did he really care for you, after each other declaring that you both have nothing to do with each other anymore?

“I don’t think I can accept that.” You immediately refuse the meal, although it looks appetizing. “Sorry, I really can’t.” Apologizing to him, you let the guilt sit on the tip of your tongue. 

“Why?” He quirks one of his eyebrows, something he does when he has a question. Whether it’s in his sarcastic nature or out of genuine curiosity, you don’t think you can tell anymore.

 How do you really become strangers?

“I think we should stop doing this.”  You gulp. “Whatever we do— we should just leave that be 9 months ago.” 

 He’s now silent, he’s looking at you, you don’t have a single idea of what he could possibly come up with if he chooses to speak. 

“It feels like you’re lying to me. To ourselves.” You are reminiscing about the starter point that led you here. “I tiptoed around my friends, I told them that I bumped into you twice by accident. Sneaking around like we’re teenagers when we’re all adults and our companies are 45 minutes drive away from each other.” You continue to spill more. “I’m at your back when you call, I apologize for letting my instinct lead back to you. Isn’t it funny, I swore I would never do this but I can make excuses for you. I don’t want to keep lying to ourselves like this anymore.”

 You look into his eyes and the emotions that possess behind the gaze almost make you stunt; there’s a hint of guilt and remorseful, most importantly, regret and the new realization that the abnormal thing you both have been stuck doing to each other eats you up just as much as it eats him alive. 

“Do you have anything to say?” You question,tone gentle and not demeaning, as you catch the look that he has something he wants to say, but seems afraid to utter it out. “Because it seems like you wanted to, but you’re holding back.” 

“Have you.. ever felt loved when you were with me?” 

“Huh?” You’re so caught off guard that it was the only word you can mumble out. 

“Because it seems like you’re just so cold.. I don’t know who you are.” 

 Maybe there’s a familiarity behind Song Mingi that you missed, but you deluded yourself into thinking that he has become a stranger. 

 Or does he? 

 It feels like you both are losing yourselves together with the way you no longer know how each other’s minds work anymore. 

“I could say the same to you.” You chuckle, humorlessly at that. “I feel like I don’t know you now.” You add the last word.

 It’s true, because you have no idea who the man in front of you is.

 He dyed his hair, changed his fashion style as soon as you both broke up. He was always private with his social media presence, but suddenly, he updated twice or thrice a week. You noticed that he wore a lot of items and accessories that you know he never owned them before.

 You then divert your eyes to line with his gaze and you accentuate your words slowly.

“You know.. I spent the best 5 years of my life with you. I don’t ever really regret it. You helped me learn a lot about myself. Your love felt like a cold breeze in the summertime. It cools down every problem I have in me.” You gently chew on your bottom lip, as you prepare to say more.

“Our bodies recognize each other, we don’t.” You take a deep breath. “But I know that we shouldn’t just… use the lingering feelings or what happened between us in the past to keep this going. Whatever we do, it’s empty. It’s great, but it’s empty.” 

 He nods, deep down agreeing to what you say.

 In all those years, you’re really the only person to touch his heart and see his vulnerability, but yet still accepting him for who he is. Call him selfish for trying to keep you around as long as he can, because you were his home, and even if the love has burned and lost already, he’ll forever find his way back to you because you're the only person who provides this safety and stability in his heart.

“Do you remember…” He speaks slowly. “When I said.. That you’re my home? Were my home, but that doesn’t make it any different. I’m sorry that I’m selfish and always wanted to keep you around. I slept around a lot, I know it sounds bad, but you’re the only person who made me feel safe.” He breathes, holding in the shakiness that spreads through his body. 

“I should’ve left it that bad, but I still feel lonely. I want to feel stable– secured– or whatever, and you’re the first person I called every time. You always said I’m maybe more codependent than I show and I only prove you right. So, I’m sorry.”

 In all the years you’ve known him, you came to learn that his tough persona is contradictory to how he is as a person, or partner in general. He looks tough, but he’s more emotionally sensitive than he leads on. Looks can be so deceiving when you get reminded again that the man in front of you has never been able to deal with the empty void in his heart that well.

 He was always anxious and looked for the affection to be reciprocated and he completely threw himself at you. Somewhere along the way, you lost yourself and he began to ask himself why and what leads to the story in this cruel way. 

“Don’t apologize for it.” You say softly. “I was wrong too, I should’ve just kept that casual and ended it a long time ago. We should’ve never tangled in each other’s business like this.”

 And you mean it. You’re the type to walk out as soon as you’re done with someone. But the open, underlying vulnerability that you both shared keeps you running in a circle to meet him once again.

He softly nods, the head movement is almost invisible if you didn’t witness it yourself.

“If we could bump into each other for real next time, I hope that it’s not this way.” You sigh, not loud enough to be loud but he can easily notice the rising of your chest and the airy sound that escapes from your nose.

 You glance over at the digital clock he has one installing on the wall near you, and it seems to be almost 2 am.

 That’s when you know you should get out of here, for once and for all.

“I think I should go.” You say, standing up and getting ready to approach the front door. His eyes follow your figure and you’re aware of it.

“Yeah.” He softly whimpers out. “I hope we see each other again, in a different way too.”

 And you know that you both are putting an end to this story. That the love story will be discontinued because there’s nothing left behind that.

“Oh and..” You turn around just as you’re getting closer to the door. “Goodbye, Song Mingi.” You say as you try to give him the most authentic smile you could muster.

“Goodbye, Y/N L/N.” A little smile, with an empty, void look in his eyes as he responds back to your comment. 

 You can tell it does hurt a lot for him, just as much as it does for you.

 Then you turn around once again, unlocking the door and swing it open as you command yourself to step out of his property. And it later slams shut.

 And the story is now finished.

 Just like how your business and love is no longer affiliated with him.

 Or neither do your feelings with his.

COPYRIGHTED BY SADNIGHTFORUS, 2024

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