#revisit the ao3

[rindomness]

you know what idk if any tone shift is gonna get me quite like the first 30 or so minutes of promare. masterfully done

[binarybitex]

old cardboard castles art master post!! 📢

here's david standing in the doorway from this specific snippet. he's feeling......... guilty. scared, maybe.

some promos i did. i might redraw the first one in my current style, i like that its a polaroid to fit with david's picture taking knack.

when i first started releasing chapters, i did these scene mockups in the style of the actual show. the purple sketchy one is an unfinished redraw from 2023 :]

a max turnaround, trying to stay true to the shows style ofc. max and his walmart leather jacket lmaooo

this one is literally based off ONE fucking line in the entire thing. i just thought it was cutie patootie

and lastly, the cover for the print edition i did for christmas 2021. i loved how these turned out, but it's a shame they didn't print out this well!! oh well, it was a lovely learning experience.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Coming Home

i. Shasta heard a story once—he could not remember where—in which two brothers lived on an island covered in gray soot. Everything on the island was colorless except the brothers, and every day they looked at each other to remind themselves what color looked like. Shasta didn’t remember how the story ended.

ii. “Home” was not a thing for which he had context. Neither was “Brother.” “Father” meant only cruelty and neglect. And yet, Shasta was home now. His brother pulled him into mischief by his elbow and his father asked after his studies at supper. It reminded him, now, of that story from long ago. He was trying to see the world in color, having known only gray soot all his life.

iii. Had he ever seen a violet like the alpine glow off the mountains at dusk?

iv. Shasta went out walking sometimes, trying to understand it. The grass withered and turned brown, and the frost came swiftly behind. It crunched underfoot the way sand did not.

iv. “Father,” Shasta would say, “What color do you say the ice is?” “What color do you think it is, my son,” the king would reply.

v. The ice was many colors. White snow on the ground. Blue where frozen lakes reflected the sky. Faintly green where it hung in icicles from his window. Gold when sunlight passed through it.

vi. Long ago, Shasta had been born the Crown Prince Cor. He’d been born to all of this, to home and father and brother, even if he’d never known of it till now. These were Cor’s tall green trees. These were his violet mountains. This was his family, and his colorless wind that nipped the nose whenever he stepped outside.

vii. And yet sometimes, even years on, Shasta would wake expecting to hear the sea.

viii. He asked Aravis once if she knew the story of the two brothers on the island. She nodded, “Of course. It is from a literary epic in which a bride cleverly tells her husband a story each night in order to postpone her own murder. But how,” here she raised an eyebrow, “did you hear of it?”

ix. Cor (Shasta) shrugged wordlessly, a little embarrassed. He made Aravis give him the name of the story, then turned and scurried off to find the court librarian. “Can you find a book for me?” he asked.

x. He was learning to read, you know. It was difficult. What a strange world, in which the illiterate sons of fishermen must learn to become kings.

xi. One day, during one of his walks as spring was arriving and all the ice was beginning to melt, Shasta (Cor) stood at the edge of a cliff and saw a rainbow arch across to the other side as though it were a bridge. It felt, obscurely, like a promise. 

xii. Cor was clumsy-footed and uncertain, but Aslan kept him back from the ledge. He'd build a bridge for Shasta to cross into his verdant, mountainous home. The Great Lion stood fast at every cliff, to make certain that Cor would not fall. 

xiii. Aravis found him in the library, struggling over the thick tome which contained the story of the two brothers and their colorless island. The language was more archaic than he was used to, and some of the letters were drawn with flourishes that got in the way of reading.

xiv. But then, Aravis sat down beside him and said, “Would you mind if I read aloud? I did so love that story as a girl.” She did not seem to be making fun of him, so Shasta handed her the book and settled in to listen.

xv. At the end of the story, the brothers escaped the island to a land where the sky was blue and grasses grew tall and green beyond the desert.  

[lordgrimwing]

The Big 5-0-0

(Or, Glorfindel has a gift for his husband)

[for Glorfindel Week, hosted by @glorfindelweek, Day 7]

“Five hundred years!” Exclaimed the shocked tavern keeper.

Glorfindel shrugged as he helped the Man lift the roasted lamb from the cooking fire that also heated the dining room. “Five hundred years is not so long for elves.”

The Man scoffed, taking up a towel in one hand and pushing the steaming carcass from the spit. She wagged a finger at him. “For an Elf with a thousand years ahead of him, maybe, but any marriage that endures longer than kingdoms ought to be celebrated to the fullest.”

A thousand more years felt like pitifully little time to Glorfindel. He certainly would take every opportunity to celebrate every memory if he knew his time in Arda was so limited. How Men, who were lucky if they lived within a stone’s throw of one hundred, went their whole lives without bursting into song and dance in celebration of existence, he’d never understand. 

“I saw that horse you rode here on, so don’t bother saying you don’t have the means to throw a proper party.”

Asfaloth, being an Elvish steed, demanded a certain level of finary when he went out. The bells, however, were entirely Glorfindel’s idea.

“Erestor detests parties, and he says adorning a horse in gems and bells will get me killed—again!” 

She snorted at the jest, passing Glorfindel a platter for the meat he was stripping from the bones, unbothered by the heat that would burn her hands. “And in five hundred years, have you learned only what he dislikes and nothing of what he likes?”

He smiled softly. He knew much of what his beloved liked.

“Should I call all those men back in and ask them to recount tales of wives whose husbands didn’t bring them an anniversary gift?” The tavern keeper threatened. 

She’d cleared the dining room of local patrons until the meal was ready. The gleaming Elf-lord had garnered more raucous attention than she liked when it was her building, table, and chairs at risk, and it hadn’t felt right to ask him to wait in his room until everyone was distracted by good food. The other Men went willingly enough, though Glorfindel could still clearly hear them milling about outside.

“That won’t be necessary, good lady,” he said. “Duty brought me this way, but I made time to find something he will treasure.” He patted the purse tied to his belt.

She shot the purse a dubious look, doubtlessly skeptical that anything that fit in a small bag could adequately encompass the magnitude of a couple’s 500th wedding anniversary. 

“Well,” she settled on. “Don’t say no one warned you if he kicks you out on your ear.”

--

When Glorfindel finally arrived in Imladris, Erestor met him in the narrow pass leading down into the valley, too impatient to wait longer.

“My brightest night star!” Glorfindel said, alighting from Asfaloth’s saddle to sweep the loremaster into his arms. He planted a kiss on his forehead, thrilled by the absence of an audience to their reunion: Erestor disliked people kissing in public almost as much as he disliked parties. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Erestor huffed but did not pull away. Reaching up, he pulled Glorfindel’s head down to return the kiss, leaving his husband blushing with excitement. 

“You took your time, Dandelion,” the black-haired Elf accused when they separated. “Elrond expected you back a fortnight ago.”

“I admit to tarrying longer than needed for the task he gave me,” Glorfindel said, leading the dusty stallion as the lovers continued down the path hand-in-hand. “But I promise it was not without reason.”

“It had better be a good reason, and not just that you had to climb some mountain to return one of Manwë’s foolish birds to its nest.”

Erestor was with him on that particular occasion, about fifty years before they married, though he had no interest in scaling the last cliffs to return the unfledged eagle to her home. Glorfindel insisted on it, knowing the young bird couldn’t survive the fast-approaching thunderstorm alone in the open and was too wild to keep in with them until the weather cleared. Trusting his skill and light step, Glorfindel climbed alone, the bird wrapped in a cloth to keep her wings and talons contained and secured in a sack over his shoulder, only her head poking out. The task wouldn’t have been challenging if not for the storm. He made it back to the sheltered test just fine, reassuring the flustered eagle parents with a song as he freed their lost eaglet. On the way down, however, his hands split on the rain-soaked stones and fell—only a few feet down to the next ledge, true, but it was enough to leave his heart pounding and senses ringing with the echos of dragon-thunder and flash of balrog-whips overlaying the storm. 

Erestor threatened to knock him out and tie him up the next time such madness came over him when he eventually made it back to safety, dripping wet and jumping at every clash of thunder that came too close. Glorfindel agreed to let him.

“Oh, no, you will find this delay was entirely to your liking,” he promised.

“A lofty claim, indeed,” Erestor said. “I will require proof.”

“When we are both safely home and done with our duties, I will show you.”

--

Glorfindel was sitting, comfortable and cozy, in bed with his embroidery when something hard bounced off his head and landed on the covers next to him.

“I cannot believe you!” 

Erestor’s sitting in an armchair by the window, using the last rays of the setting sun to inspect his gift—Or he had been. Currently, he was standing, slate tablet in one hand, the other still extended from slinging the little dog figurine from the side table at the golden-haired fool sitting in bed. His face was scrunched up, mouth pinched like he’d bitten into a lemon (except he usually had too much self-control to ever react to the unassuming citrus, but the comparison was good enough). 

“Where did you find this? How did you find this?” He brandished the old slate aggressively, for a moment looking as though he might throw it too.

Glorfindel set aside his project. “Is it not to your liking?” 

Perhaps he’d misjudged entirely and he would end up out on his ear just like the tavern keeper warned.

“Not to my liking? Not to my liking?” Erestor lifted the tablet high, gesturing to the small drawings on it with his other hand. “Sunflower, The elf who made these stories died four thousand years ago. How did you come by this?”

He sounded more shocked than angry, and Glorfindel relaxed. “Through much patience and the exchanging of many letters with various collectors of first age relics. I made a detour to collect that on the way back. That’s what delayed my return.”

“Did it not cost a small fortune? I spied no gems missing from your horse’s daft accoutrements.” 

A grin broke across Glorfindel’s face. “I dare say it is worth as much to you.”

Softness spread across his husband’s face and he touched the old slate now with tender, almost reverent fingers as he caressed the time-warn drawings. His eyes clouded with old memories of the past rarely recalled from the careful places he stored them in. “I laughed over this depiction of Lords Celegorm and Curufin when it was only days old! I helped Vekkawë hide his collection in our mattresses when Captain Crímainya came to destroy the ‘defaming misinformation’. I thought I’d never see one again after the Valar sank Beleriand.”

Eyes clearing, he brought the tablet, with its child-like depiction of long-gone beloved lords, to his chest and said, “This is a great treasure. No fortune can take it from me.”

Glorfindel laughed. “I’m glad the Dwarf I bought it from did not know the true value, then, for I am not sure I could have gotten it honestly for that price and would not have departed without it.”

Erestor snorted, muttering “Six pounds of that hideous tack you insist on dressing your horse in would have covered it, no doubt” as he turned away for a moment of privacy to wipe his eyes clear before he accidentally shed tears over the small remnant of his past.

“Asfaloth cannot be parted from his gems when he is afield.” 

Glorfindel opened his arms, and Erestor—after setting the tablet carefully on the side table like it was as fragile as a hollow dove egg and not slab or stone almost as old as the world itself that had survived devastations and travesties unnumbered—fell into his embrace. 

They spent the rest of the night in bed, though neither got much sleep.

[cosmosbuilder]

i figured out how to get both a background image and a gradient to work at the same time so here are some pastel bichrome skins!

as always, the code is a mishmash of tealtiam's teal skin with stars and ao3commentoftheday's peachy keen site skin as well as including shortening long tag fields by Xparrot on ao3

you can find the code for them here along with my monochrome ones!

[axemetaphor]

rest assured that even when I'm not thinking about him I am still thinking about him

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Nine does a little Amy character analysis and she accidentally sets him up for a small existential crisis

[1,866 words]

———

Nine believed he had a pretty good read on people.

A very useful skill to fall back on when in a situation where fighting either isn't, or would be the worse option. 

How to say the right thing or turn to the right person who was carefully picked out as the possible highest threat, how to omit information or end the conversation entirely and so on and so forth, but all those skills very pretty much useless when faced with someone who wants to talk, just for the sake of talk. 

It pulled the rug from beneath him when he first met Sonic, and now Amy is kicking him in the shins.

Well, the thing is Amy does want information, but telling her how much sugar he liked in his tea wasn't exactly something confidential or potentially life threatening if she got it out of him. There wasn't any threat at place, except maybe getting poisoned (but that was baseless paranoia, hopefully), or a mind game to win. She was just talking into the wind or humming a song he didn't know. 

He felt like a fish out of water in the small dining area of Tails' workshop just now, so he kept his own talking to a minimum in favor of just observing. 

The answer was two and a half spoon of sugar by the way.

With a chipper smile, Amy carefully placed a tray with five mugs — one that was more like a vase with a giant ear — and handpicked that was than placed in front of him. A polite thank you and you're welcome later, Nine grabbed the still warm mug with both of his hands and let thermodynamics do its thing.

After a while, he took a careful sip and let the tea's full warmth wash over him. It had just a slight off taste from what he was used to, but that might be just the artificial soap-like aftertaste missing. By the time he was done taste testing, the hedgehog has turned back around in the kitchen cutting up a strange bread-shaped thing into thick slices.

Still keeping quiet, Nine nodded along to the whatever the hedgehog was talking about. Something about their little friend group rarely getting to have breakfast together for one reason or another so this morning was a special occasion and she was determined to get everyone behind the table.

It was a sweet sentiment, Nine inferred anyway. Taking everything into account, Amy appeared as innocent and cheerful as Nine could imagine a person being, though holding a giant kitchen knife added to her underlying threatening aura that took him off guard the first time he was met with it.

Sonic's friends were... confusing. 

For all the strength she harbored, the Blunt force weapon always stashed close to her somewhere and how quick to snap she was when something didn't go her way (or Sonic was being deliberately annoying, as he was greeted with right the first day here) — the way she carried herself was light, words sweet and kindness brimming from every wrinkle to the smile on her face. And none of it was necessary or faked.

At least not in a way Nine could tell.

He tried remembering anything and everything about her shaterverse counterparts, even the first nonsencial ramblings Sonic went on back when they first met just to attempt to dig deeper. Unfortunately, most details were lost on him. Back then it was hardly of concern to him, so he didn't bother keeping the info, but now he wishes more than ever that he did, if only to satisfy his never ending need for more information.

Amy's counterparts were competent fighters alright. All three of them got along almost instantly and they constantly bit a bullet for the other. It could've been just the pressure of trying to stay alive on the battlefield but that didn't feel like a correct assessment. They were also the ones that took Sonic the first half of the way back home so their power and efforts were hardly something to scoff at. 

Nine guessed it was convenient to keep a friendly facade, since as aforementioned knowing how to talk to people was always an advantag, if only for the connections that would prove useful in the future. And this world was hardly such a dystopian landscape where brute force was needed every day just to stay alive, so perhaps having the option for both fronts was just the optimal way to function. 

But Amy or anyone else didn't need to just survive to the next day, did they.

They had everything they could ask for, and more. So the most likely option out of all of this was that Nine was just going at this from a completely wrong angle.

By the time he abandoned his lackluster train of thought, there was already a full tray of some sort of sweet pastry placed in front of him. Approximately 18 pieces, five of them were covered by jam and the rest by a noticeable layer of butter.

Nine squinted at the food, trying to identify just what could it be from looks alone but came up dry with that too. The subtle sweet aroma from them was unbelivably tantalizing, and there was a lot of them, so one slice wouldn't be missed much would it?

He hesitated to reach for it when Amy's low voice suddenly registered in his ears again.

"...Wonder if it's something that shaken him up before he got here. Maybe he's just like that, it's fine Amy you could always just ask."

Nine made a questioning hum to catch the hedgehog's attention, and she froze mid collecting all the crumbs on her cutting board.

"Oh, nothing!" She turned on her heel with palms open and close to her chest as if caught red-handed "You zoned out for a bit and I didn't know what you wanted on your sweet bread so I just defaulted to butter. Then again there's nothing difficult to either add or scrape the topping to get the one you want, so it's nothing really!" She explained frantically and Nine had trouble catching every word.

Either way he understood, but this wasnt a problem in the slightest since he couldt have a prefference for something he never had.

It came clear the main problem was she was apparently talking to him and he didn't even register that. Pretty embarrassing blunder all things considered.

"Sorry for not responding. I was just thinking about uh, unrelated things."

Amy nodded with a shy blush creepingbup her cheeks and swiped the crumbs into the basin. "Ah I get it, Tails is the same. He gets lost in that big head of his all the time and then I barely understand what he says when he gets out of it." She chuckled fondly and finally sat down.

Nine placed the mug down to the table with way more force than needed, but the hedgehog on the opposite end didn't seem to notice. The feeling suddenly squeezing his chest was far away from fondness.

"He gets so lost in it, in fact, that he forgets to eat or sleep most of the time. So there's a high chance he might end up waking after noon again and I made all those extra slices for nothing." She grumbled and smeared a piece of the bread with honey before taking an annoyed bite. "Of course I could go wake him up but, the last thing you want to deal with is cranky tired Tails."

Nine did everything in his limited power to stay just as neutral as he was until now. So he took another sip of the tea and avoided looking at her or listen beyond the surface level to what she was saying.

"You surprised me though! I'm usually the first one awake for a long time when staying over. Sonic usually follows but he's out the door before you know it." 

It was fine, it wasn't a character observation, just a surface level behavior comparison with a limited frame of reference. Like it would be with any other person.

After a while of silently staring into his half-empty mug, it must've gotten weird as Amy's ears wilted a bit.

"Oh um, you don't want any?" She motioned towards the tray in front of him sadly.

"I do, just... I'll finish my drink first."

Somewhat of a save. Rember Nine, just act like a normal person would, it's not that hard.

"Ah, all alright then! Although... it's usually better when you combine the tea with the food as you go, but you do you!"

Well alright, apparently it is. Whatever. 

Nine took a few defeated sips while retreating back into his head.

He can't keep it up if just the mere mention of Tails' name anywhere near him sends him into a spiral, but what can be done about it.

Exposure therapy perhaps but, that made him interanly grimace. Say that it's bothering him and set that boundary and make it clear? Perhaps. Plausible. The issue is that he literally lives in the guy's house, so most likely not as effective as he'd like. He fought with himself to not audibly groan while he finally placed down an empty mug.

This time it was a sudden gust of wind dragged him out of his head while Amy almost jumped from her chair.

"Mornin' fellas!" 

The next thing Nine saw was the grinning face of none other than Sonic the hedgehog right next to him, and that grin was utterly infectious, melting most of his worries away. As is normal.

"Morning Sonic." Nine mumbled while Amy sprung to her feet with an outstretched hand reaching for the other hedgehog. 

"Sonic wait before you go-!" 

"Going where? I'm sitting right here." 

He nonchalantly motioned to himself sitting lazily on a chair next to Nine, and Amy's hand dropped.

"Ah alright then. Well! Breakfast!" She didn't give up completely though and ended up pointing at the table instead.

Sonic made a noise of affirmation that was probably something along the lines of 'don't have to tell me twice' and snatched a jam-covered slice closest to him.

With a mouthful he addressed Nine with a gentle nudge to his elbow "You're up early bud, hopefully slept better than yesterday." 

"Why does everyone commemorate me on waking up, come on." He groaned, though there was some humor to it. He rather not remember yesterday's debacle, but rhe sunshine attitudes of everyone around has already rubbed off on him unfortunately.

"Hey sorry on that, I'm used to living with a Big Brain that has a freestyle sleeping schedule that never meets the sun." 

Sonic wasn't even done eating the first slice before he took another one and Nine clenched his jaw.

"Right! Also though now it actually feels a bit mean since I mentioned the same thing." Amy chimed in, it was obvious they were on the same wavelength of who the conversation was about and Nine decided to keep it in just for a while longer. 

He needs to eat something first, so he can think and act reliably later. 

He'll figure something out eventually, he always does.

[palmofafreezinghand]

guilt

Esme and Carlisle fight about discuss his motivations to change Rosalie.

twilight advent calendar day seven: Choose one Twilight couple (or an AU ship) and tell us about an argument they've had. How did they resolve it in the end? (prompts here) content warnings: references to sexual assault & domestic abuse.

June 1933. 

Esme sat on the back porch step, keenly aware her freshly styled hair was frizzing in the evening rain but lacking all motivation to go back inside. She would have been thrilled about the project at any other point in her life, a mansion that desperately needed life breathed back into it. She should have been content for years exploring the rooms upon rooms of things to do, planning her restoration, and studying the hundreds of years of history haunting the halls. Yet, the hastiness of the move, and the chaos brought by their new unexpected discontented roommate, meant she loathed what her husband believed was a gift. 

The back porch was as far as she could go, the vast wilderness she once spent days hiding in was strictly forbidden. The newest housemate refused to be left alone with anyone but Esme and was too new to their way of life to be left alone completely. Esme should have taken it as a compliment and not the death sentence she had come to regard it as. 

She heard the back door creak open — a reminder she still needed to oil that hinge — before she detected her husband, her inhuman senses overpowered by her inhuman imagination. 

“Hello,” he said, heavy footsteps walking across the porch, she could hear the oak creak under his boot. The porch would need to be replaced, or removed, which was fine it was a horrific addition, not the only one she had faced in recent months. 

“You are home early,” she observed. 

“I am an hour later than usual,” he responded, taking a seat next to her, the porch groaned, probably termites. 

She blinked, it was awfully dark was it not? “Oh, I must have been in my own mind, I did not realize it was so late.” She moved to stand — begrudgingly preparing herself to mediate whatever conflict had arisen in her mere hours alone — but his hand around her arm stopped her. 

“Please don't rush off, I feel I have barely been able to look at you without someone threatening to harm me these past few months,” her husband said in a manner he must have believed to be charming. 

She sighed, their home had been… tense, to put it politely. Although it was largely due to his own’s action. He was correct, they had not had a meaningful conversation since April. They had briefly run into each other in hallways, or spent mornings playing chess in the living room but always with an audience, and the understanding they could not speak freely. That moment, although lacking the privacy they typically preferred, was the closest they had gotten to a moment alone in months. 

“Edward is simply worried, perhaps a tad mad, but mostly worried,” Esme explained. “You know how he gets.” 

“He is not the one I am frightened of," Carlisle laughed, his hand landing on her thigh. "I am afraid she will bite my head off every time I touch you."

She attempted to laugh along but even she thought it sounded wrong.

Frightened. She chewed the word, turning the tone he had used over in her mind, it had flowed so naturally. As if the scared teenager currently listening to every word they said from the second story did not have every right to be terrified. 

“She is scared, it is not her fault,” Esme said, wrapping her arm around him.

“She could tone it down a notch,” her husband scoffed, “even Edward was not this aggressive .” 

“Edward had the flu,” Esme said before she could think better of it. She knew better than to talk back, especially weaponizing what was a traumatic experience of her son’s. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart. I did not mean it dismissively, I know that was horrific, I was trying to provide him perspective,’ Esme thought to the boy who was undoubtedly eavesdropping. She could hear the muffled first ten seconds of her favorite composition and knew she was forgiven. 

“You reacted far better,” Carlisle countered. “You have been through similar," he said quietly enough it would be barely heard by those in the house.

“I had wished for death. I recognized you. I did not have my life ripped away,” Esme said. Why was he refusing to understand? 

“Edward had his life ripped away, as did I.” 

“Not at the hands of someone you loved.” 

“I understand that, love, but—” 

“Do you?” 

Carlisle recoiled at her tone, but followed it by a tight lipped smile. “Are you alright? This is uncharacteristic for you,” he said in his familiar “doctor” tone, comforting, patronizing, a tone that meant to convey ‘I am an authority.’ 

“I apologize,” Esme said, squeezing his forearm lovingly, “I have had a long day.” 

The words burned as she heard herself say them. How many unnecessary apologies was she destined to give when a husband of hers disagreed with her conduct? No, the two were nothing alike. 

He smiled forgivingly, nodding in understanding. His hand, large and cold, wrapped around the back of her head, fingers through her hair. She flinched, he frowned and withdrew. 

“I apologize,” Esme said, like one of Edison’s eerie dolls fated to echo the same sentiment until their wax record wore out. 

“Does she know about?” He asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, gesturing with his hand rather than say the name they danced around as if it was a curse.  

“Charles?” Esme asked, speaking at her regular volume, he winced but nodded. “You can say his name. He is not the Prince of Denmark.” 

“Macbeth was attempting to be the King of Scotland. Hamlet is the Prince of Denmark,” Carlisle corrected her attempt at levity. 

“Yes, I have told her about Charles. Not every detail but many.” 

“Do you think reliving that has caused this?” He asked delicately, once again gesturing, this time to her, referencing her previous tone. Heaven forbid she speak frankly to him. 

“It did not seem fair that I knew every detail about the worst night of her life, under no account of her own, and she knew nothing of mine.” 

“You did not have to share anything with her. That is your story to tell how, and when you choose.” 

“Carlisle, I know far too well how dreadful it is to be alone reliving that pain, feeling completely out of control of your life.” 

“You felt alone back then?” 

“Of course.” 

His only response was a hmmph. She had hinted at this compliant many times over the years but had never said it in so few words.

Esme took the silence as an opportunity to continue speaking about the topic they had silently agreed to dance around. “I have been thinking about Ch- him a lot lately.” She noticed the way his nails dug into his palm, his glare at a puddle forming in the backyard, and yet she persisted, albeit less confidently. “I think… perhaps, I buried a lot of my memories in an attempt to move through it, and to not upset you two, but now it is all bubbling back up.” 

“You do not have to discuss anything you do not wish to. No matter how much she pries.” 

“She does not pry. I share willingly, I am thinking about him anyways, I figure I might vocalize some of it.” 

“I apologize. She should not be forcing you to think of that thing.” 

Esme considered her next move carefully. Very rarely did she challenge him blatantly, and never in front of others, but this seemed far more important than anything they had ever disagreed about previously and privacy seemed extinct.

“You brought home a young woman bloody and nude, who had been…” she swallowed the venom that felt like bile rising in her throat at her next word, “raped and beaten by her fiancé and his friends. You decided she should be frozen in that moment for the rest of eternity, and you do not believe I am going to naturally think about my husband and his?” 

“His friends?” Carlisle stammered, one hand in a fist, the other gripping his knee. 

“Do not act as if I have had complete permission to share freely about what went on in that house. You have torn a hole in your pants in your anger.” 

He glanced down at his knee where his nails had shredded the slacks. “Do you expect me to enjoy hearing about him? To revel in...picturing what he did?” 

“No,” she said definitively placing her hand softly on his torn pant knee, “but I lived it and sometimes I can not ignore that it happened.” 

“His friends?” He asked again, quietly. 

“We do not have to discuss it,” she said softly, squeezing his knee comfortingly. 

“No, you want to. Please, tell me every gory detail,” he practically spat. 

“Carlisle.” 

“I apologize my tone was inappropriate” he said, in only a slightly softer tone. 

The couple fell into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by raindrops on brick. 

“Why did you change her?” Esme asked minutes later. 

“We have been over this before. She was far too young to die, I knew she was beyond the realm of medicine.” 

“You see young people die all the time. You see young beautiful women die often, I am not jealous enough to suggest that was the motivator. Why not any of them?” 

“This was different.” 

“Why?” He did not respond, she pressed further. “Why this young woman who had been through such familiar horrors? Why did you feel compelled to save her? Why not a woman like her forty years ago? Why now?"  

Her husband did not respond, but he met her eyes briefly, his mouth turning into a frown, and he abruptly looked away. It was confirmation enough. 

“That is what I was afraid of,” Esme muttered. It felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. She had suspected this was at least partly his motivation from the moment she pieced together what had happened to the girl. His needless guilt had been a topic of discussion on a number of occasions, had made him act irrationally more than once, but this… was too far. 

They fell back into silence, her hand on his knee drawing mindless shapes but it felt more like a rehearsed gesture than a sign of affection.

He moved one arm as if to wrap it around her shoulders but pulled it back to his body before ever touching her. 

“You could not save me,” Esme said quietly. It was truth they had never acknowledged but both knew. “You believe you could not save me because you left, correct?” 

“It is the truth.” 

“But I was not a victim," Esme said plainly.

“Es-” 

“No,” she said, moving the hand on his knee to his jaw, pulling his face to look at her. She shifted on the stair to face him directly. “Listen to me, please. I married him. I stayed with him for years. I chose not to knock him over the head with a frying pan and feed him to my father’s pigs. I chose to stay in our home when he was gone for a year. I chose him. A thousand times over.” 

“I do not understand what you are trying to say.” 

“Even if you were there, even if you had known what he did, you could not have done anything.” The hand on his face moved to his upper arm. 

“But I cou—” 

“No. If you had given me a choice, I would not have chosen you. I believed that was the life I was supposed to live. I would have chosen him, every single time. Do you understand me?” 

“Do you… love him?” Carlisle asked, frowning as if the words burned. 

“Don't be foolish, you know I do not," she scoffed, “I never did. But I was not brave, I would not have chosen to escape even if for some reason you were there and offered. The only reason I left was because I had too. You did not fail to save me.” 

“You do not know that. If I coul—” 

“Carlisle, no. What happened in my life, is no one’s fault but Charles’ and mine. You are not to blame.” 

“But if I had—” 

“This is not about you!” Esme exclaimed harshly.

He gulped.

"What I went through had nothing to do with you. What happened to her had nothing to do with you. The only way you are involved is because you changed someone because you felt guilty over what you could not prevent me from going through?” She finally asked. 

He looked away from her, eyes focused on their feet. 

“I do not believe I thought of it that rationally in the moment,” he said slowly, “But logically, yes, that was probably a motivating factor.” 

“Do you understand the position that puts me in?” 

“I do now, yes.” 

“Do you understand the position she is in?” 

“I never intended -” 

“I know,” she said earnestly, leaning forward so she could look him in the eye. “You never intend. I do not say this to hurt you, love. I do not say this to make you feel guilty, but I need you to understand the consequences this has had, for all of us.” 

He bit his bottom lip, a jerky little nod. “I do,” he muttered. He turned, she thought to avert her gaze, but instead his head dropped on her shoulder. 

She wrapped her arms around him as she felt his frame shake, “I do,” he trembled, no louder than a breeze. 

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 18: Hackneyed

thancred attempts to confess his feelings. it does not go as planned. thancred x wol, pre-relationship. asexual wol. set during arr. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: general 1868 words ao3 link

There is a plan in mind, he’s not ashamed of that.

He has thought about it for weeks. Months, if he’s honest. Pulling and tugging on the threads of what if and when, imagined scenarios chasing themselves around his mind in varying shades of… well. Romantic, he would call it. He has never fully thought of himself as a romantic in earnest before, though some of his past lovers would have called him such. But there is a certain panache to the word, a sense, an atmosphere, that he finds compelling. Especially where Aureia is concerned.

It still surprises him that he is falling for her, his friend. Perhaps the closest friend he has ever allowed himself to have. She has witnessed him at his worst and at his best—the small triumphs, the overwhelming losses, pain and grief and joy. He has made a complete fool of himself in front of her more than once, sometimes in small trivial ways, other times less so. The time he spouted improvised poetry at a dancer in the Quicksand. How hard he tried to impress Yugiri Mistwalker when the shinobi joined their cause.

His butchering of the situation with Ifrit. His possession by an Ascian. Other moments he would rather not say.

He did not want to admit it at first. It would be easier for both of them if he did not feel the way he did. He knows better than anyone that romantic entanglements are best kept at arm’s length, far away from the goings on of the Scions. They are a weak spot. An exploit. A risk. He kept his distance from her after the Praetorium for this very reason, resisting the ache growing in his heart with every passing day by falling back on hold habits. Drinking more in the hopes of ignoring it. Distracting himself with a rather impressive list of paramours.

He has a sneaking suspicion Urianger has taken note and this will come back to bite him in the arse.

It took Moenbryda walloping him over the head—metaphorically, of course—with a disarming comment to make him realize how foolish he was being.

“You know what your problem is, Thancred? You’re too busy looking ten feet ahead for one problem or another to notice the blessing that is right in front of you.”

He never thanked her for that. It’s too late now.

Perhaps that’s why he has come to his decision. Moenbryda’s death sits heavy in their hearts, forcing them all to stare the fleetingness of life in the face. She seized hers with joy and fearlessness, hanging on to nothing. It’s time he did the same.

And so he has to do it right.

Aureia lets out a whoop as she springs up the rest of the stairs, racing him to the top. She reaches the battlements first, face flushed, hair a mess, ruby eyes sparkling, and spins around to face him as he follows suit. “Look at that,” she says, raising her hands in triumph. “I win.”

He chuckles, panting lightly, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. “Was it a race?” he replies, leaning casually against the battlements. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She rolls her eyes and continues down the path, trailing her fingers across the coarse stonework. Mor Dhona stretches out before them, bright as the stars above. Lanterns float through the square, warming the aetheryte’s cool brilliance with their golden glow, illuminating the flowing crowds below. Further up the hill, the market bustles with activity, late night vendors selling trinkets and baubles, and people stumbling from Rowena’s café with drinks in hand. Adventurers loiter on the steps to the Seventh Heaven, carousing loudly. A group of dancers giggle with glee, moving merrily in rhythm to a drum as a trio of bards fill the plaza with their music.

All in all, it is a good night for festivities. Bright, clear, and only a hint of gloam.

Aureia hums to herself, folding her arms and leaning out over the parapet. She may be quiet in a crowd and shy away from the centre of attention, but she loves being around people. Immersing herself in the rhythms of a city, captivated by the pulse of life and the vibrancy of it all. It’s one of the things he finds endlessly fascinating about her, this paradox of extroversion and introversion.

“I wonder where Gerolt went,” she says after a moment, squinting as she scans the plaza. Her hair trails in the breeze and falls about her face. She pushes it back idly, twisting it around her finger, and knots it at the top of her head. Shorter pieces fall away, brushing across the nape of her neck. “He all but paled and ran for the hills when he saw Rowena earlier.”

“Perhaps he did run for the literal hills. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And here I thought you had no thoughts on the illustrious lady of the House of Splendours.”

He chokes. “No,” he says, a little strangled. “I don’t. Did you have to put it quite like that?”

“What? House of Splendours or illustrious lady?” She glances at him and grins. “If it’s the former, take it up with Rowena, she’s the one who named it.”

He catches her eye, regarding her in silence. His gaze lingers on her face, her hair, the way the silver studs in her upper ear catch the lanternlight. She hasn’t changed much since he met her. There is perhaps a touch of severity around her jaw and creases in the corners of her eyes, but she is still as vibrant as the spells she once cast. It seems so long ago that she stumbled into his life, and yet he has known many others for longer.

Much can happen over the course of two years.

“What?” Aureia says, eyes wide.

He says nothing, smiling quietly. If he could tell her now that she is beautiful, he would. He can’t remember when he first had that thought. Perhaps he’s always thought it.

Music wafts over them, slow and gentle.

Thancred pushes off the wall and gives her a mock little bow, extending his hand. “Would you have this dance, milady?” he says.

She pauses, a little laugh humming on her lips. “What are you doing?”

“Inviting you to dance.”

“Interesting.” She takes a step towards him, her chin raised archly. “You know I don’t dance.”

He straightens and steps into her. “I think you will tonight.”

“Do you remember what happened the last time you asked me to dance?”

“I’ve never asked you to.” His hand brushes his arm. She doesn’t move away. “I seem to remember that the dance I supposedly asked you to join me in was a sparring match where you routing me so thoroughly I don’t think my ego has recovered.”

She gazes at him, her eyes alight with joy. “Your poor ego.”

“Terribly bruised, you see.”

“If that’s so, why risk it again? I’ll only thrash you a second time.”

He chuckles and leans in, his lips a hair’s breath from her ear. “Because I am not asking you to spar, Aureia darling,” he says. The word slips out unexpectedly. He has never called her darling before. Too soon? Too late? He doesn’t care. Even a small deviation cannot ruin this night. “Dance with me.”

She hesitates, frozen for the briefest of moments. In the space between breaths, he wonders if she will pull away—it’s a delicate thing, this line they walk, and she has as much to lose as he does. But sometimes the risk is worth it. He can only hope she can see it, too.

Aureia slips her hand into his. “Fine,” she says at last. “One dance.”

“Only one?”

“Just one.”

He sweeps her into his arms and they dance.

The music washes over them and they move as one, fumbling their steps and knocking against each other. At last they find a compromise, gently swaying together as they turn on the spot, his hand on her waist, her head against his shoulder. Together they watch the plaza below, sparkling with light and life.

How is it that the simplest things are always the most difficult to say?

“Aur?” he murmurs.

She raises her head. “Yes?”

Her hair has untwisted from its knot, now falling loosely about her shoulders. Twelve above, she is gorgeous. If he is about to admit what he wants to—what he needs to—then there is no better time to do so than now.

Thancred presses a hand to her cheek and leans in close.

She inhales sharply and turns her head.

He pauses. “I…”

Aureia lets go of his hands and pulls away, staring determinedly at the plaza below, her jaw clenched. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Thancred, but I think you have a very, very wrong idea about me,” she says.

He frowns, too taken aback to feel the hurt he knows will come later. “I—Aureia. Are you… upset?”

“Hells, yes!” She rounds on him, red eyes blazing. “I am mad at you. I am so very, very mad at you—”

“I thought—”

“You thought what? You’ve barely spoken to me since Moenbryda’s death. I thought this was going to be a time for us to talk, not…” She makes a face. “You are trying to seduce me, aren’t you.”

He sighs, passing a hand across his face. “Assuredly not, no.”

“Then what is this? Bringing me up here on a pretty night, asking me to dance, staging this scene like some hackneyed plot you pulled out of a bard’s—ugh.” She rolls her eyes and storms across the battlements. “I’m not interested in all this. I thought you would have at least caught on to that by now.”

He follows her, keeping a careful distance as they tromp down the stairs. “On to what? My apologies, but I do not follow—”

“You’re going to make me come out and say it, aren’t you?” She hits the bottom landing and turns around, arms folded protectively across her chest. “I don’t… want that. Any of that. I never have. I never will.”

“Any of what?” To his surprise, the sting of rejection has not come yet. Perhaps because he doesn’t quite understand what she is rejecting him from. “Aureia, if I have done something so terribly offensive to you, please tell me. I will listen.”

“You’re not the first to have told me that, and yet I’ve yet to meet someone who understands.” She gives him a flat look, her mouth twisting as if she is trying to hold back tears. He has never seen her quite so furious yet vulnerable. “Tell me honestly, would you be happy being with me if I said I never wanted to sleep with you?”

He blinks. Of all the questions she could have asked, this is one he has never thought of.

She spreads her hands and drops them to her sides, as if his silence has proved a point he didn’t know he was making. “And there’s your answer,” she says and vanishes into the night.

[holywoodelevator]

The most criminal thing to me is that I don't see enough JonTim fanfics were they get into an argument or like Tim confronts Jon but then they end up angrily making out LIKE THAT TROPE LITERALLY BELONGS TO THEM!!!!

[helianskies]

helia's hetaberia 2024 masterlist !

cravings : engspa : teen ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

nightcap : nedport : m ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

perfume : romespa : m ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

life : portspa : teen ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

ripple : platonic : teen ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

fortuna : engspa : explicit ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

habit : nedspa : mature ⊹ ࣪ ˖ [ tumblr / ao3 ]

[japanifornication]

oh man oh man. im always fond of phoenix w a praise kink and just. overwhelmed by love. miles fucking into him while whispering sweet nothings until he’s shaking from his orgasm after orgasm. make this slut cry from being loved and fucked! that one fic you wrote, “late night” was RIGHT up my alley and i swear i go back to it often

rubbing at the bags he can feel setting in beneath his eyes, phoenix has never been more tired in his life. not when he stayed up all night studying to get through law school. not the time he didn't sleep for three days a week before the bar and had to be forced to rest by mia. not when she was murdered, not even when he spent a night in city jail accused of that very murder.

the clop of two pairs of sandals patter into the distance as he watches maya, holding onto pearl's hand like a lifeline, head for their train under the flickering lights of the station. as they board, any remaining energy phoenix had escapes him and he sags back against the wall he's been leaning against, arms crossing over his chest as a sigh slips out of him.

it's hard to watch them go when they've only just got maya back, but with morgan headed to prison, they have a lot of things to sort out back in kurain, like packing up belongings and figuring out where they'll stay when they're there for training.

"it's getting quite late, wright."

he'd almost been falling asleep where he stood and the voice startles him, making him stand up straight and snap to attention. for a few minutes, he'd almost forgotten edgeworth was there. it's easy to forget, when it's quiet—he was dead for an entire year, after all.

"yeah. sorry to keep you waiting. you didn't have to do this, you know." phoenix says it automatically, like it's an obligation, even though he's not quite sure he is sorry after what the prosecutor did.

"i'm aware," is all edgeworth says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and then just briefly gripping at his elbow.

it's almost funny. when phoenix first met the man again on the other side of the courtroom last year, he looked like hell barely warmed over. edgeworth was the one with dark circles around the eyes, a permanent scowl affixed to his face. now, he looks oddly tranquil, if just a bit fatigued, and phoenix is the one who feels like garbage. things can change a lot in a year.

he clears his throat. "well. i won't keep you here any longer. let's get back to the car." he lets edgeworth lead the way back to his car—new since phoenix last saw it during state v. skye—and climbs back into the passenger seat, rattling off his address. it's a wonder he can even remember it in his current state.

it only gets darker as they head back through the city and by the time they make it to phoenix's apartment it's well into the night, not a hint of sun left in the sky. the car idles in the parking lot. neither make a move to leave or encourage the other to do so.

"so are you back living here?" phoenix finally gathers the strength to say. he means is he back residing within l.a. but the way it comes out almost sounds like he's asking if edgeworth is really, truly back from the dead and not just a spirit. "in l.a. i mean, not here obviously," he clarifies, as though there were any confusion whether or not edgeworth lived with phoenix. haha, very funny.

there's a slight squeak of leather as the man's hand shifts on the steering wheel, uncomfortable but not angry. "ah, i've only been back for a few days. i'm in a hotel, currently, but yes, i intend to find a new apartment."

"gotcha," phoenix says with an absent nod, chewing the inside of his mouth. "hey, um. i'm sorry about what i said, about… about you staying dead."

"wright, don't," edgeworth scoffs. "it's too late to take back words we've regretted, if anyone knows that it's me. don't waste your breath."

an exasperated laugh bursts out of the defense attorney. "okay great, because i'm not actually sorry."

edgeworth huffs at that with a slight shake of his head.

"but… do you want to come in for a beer or something? because this has been the longest day of my life and i'm sure even underneath that perfectly logical, stoic exterior, you can agree it's been exhausting." phoenix raises an eyebrow.

"a beer? tch." edgeworth's lip curls in distaste at the idea.

"what, not a beer drinker? i don't keep much in the way of wine or anything but i might have some whiskey," he offers instead.

edgeworth tilts his head, considering the offer with a slow blink. "i'm not sure you can afford my tastes, wright, but i'm intrigued." he unbuckles his seatbelt, indicating he's taken phoenix up on it.

"great." phoenix climbs out of the car and leads the way into his apartment building. he lives on the second floor, and they take the stairs up. it's faster, and he's not going to ask the man to take an elevator. it might have been a year, but he hasn't forgotten everything.

"sorry about the mess," he apologizes as he unlocks his front door. the last few days have been so long—he's been sleeping in his office and almost forgot about how much of a disaster his apartment is. he haphazardly tries to clean up before edgeworth can take in too much of the surroundings, scooping up dishes to bring to the kitchen and stuffing trash in the bin and kicking dirty laundry out of the way.

edgeworth is busy removing his shoes at the door and he manages to get the place looking a little less gross by the time he's done, then stops to take off his own shoes and jacket. he heads into the kitchen to see what he's got as far as alcohol, searching through his cabinets until he finds the bottle of whiskey he promised.

"how do you take it?" he asks.

"neat," comes the reply, edgeworth having followed him into the kitchen. he waits as phoenix pours them each a glass, then takes the bottle himself to inspect it. his eyebrows go up. "perhaps you've come into some fortune in my absence."

staring down into his rocks glass, phoenix tries to give a smile. it comes off weak. "if only. i inherited mia's liquor collection. went through most of it between you choosing death and now, if i'm honest."

adjusting his glass on the counter, edgeworth frowns down into his own drink. "ah. i see. ms. fey had good tastes, then?"

"i think she was gifted a lot of it, i'm honestly not sure." he lifts his glass to his lips, taking a deep swig. it burns on the way down. "sometimes i wonder… if i even knew her that well. if i'm doing any of this right. if she'd be proud of me. after a case like today, i'm not so sure."

"you saved her sister," edgeworth points out, palming his own glass and drinking from it absently. "i imagine that would mean a fair amount to her."

"yeah, i guess so. but i almost pinned a murder on an innocent woman. just feel like i should have figured out it was engarde a lot sooner, you know?" phoenix stands up straight, the tension awkward, and downs the rest of his glass in one go so he can pour himself another.

"i can see your point, though i believe you’re being a bit harsh on yourself. anyone under those circumstances would have struggled. i certainly fared no better, and i wasn’t the one whose loved ones were being held hostage for the majority of that case.” the words are mumbled thoughtfully over the rim of his glass before he takes another drink.

“why are you being so nice to me?”

his question obviously catches edgeworth by surprise, and the man finishes his whiskey before answering. “after hearing you be so honest about what you thought of my absence… i suppose it feels like obligation.”

the thought of any more drinks is immediately abandoned, because in the next moment, phoenix is grabbing edgeworth by that stupid cravat and pulling him close and smashing his mouth against his.

there’s a noise of protest, an initial objection, from edgeworth that seems to be more out of shock than anything, and then edgeworth’s arms are around his waist, crushing him close; he’s kissing phoenix back and he tastes like the whiskey they’ve been drinking and mint—toothpaste? breathmints? something else?—and phoenix sighs almost angrily against his mouth, furious he could have had this so much sooner if not for everything that had happened.

except that then edgeworth stops kissing him, to ask “wright, should i be doing this? surely you’re not drunk after a drink and a half.”

“i’m sober. kiss me, you son of a bitch.”

“it’s a bit rude to speak so poorly of the dead, you know,” he huffs in jest.

“good thing you’re not really dead.” phoenix’s hands fist in his hair as he tugs him back in for another kiss, and it’s all tongue and teeth and desperation, wanton for more.

before either of them knows what has happened, they’re standing in phoenix’s bedroom next to his bed. neither of them is particularly good at kissing and it doesn’t matter, because they’re kissing like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do and it’s driving phoenix insane.

unfortunately, edgeworth seems reluctant to do anything more than that. phoenix keeps trying to move things along—attempting to kiss down his throat, to bite him, to grab at his ass or unbutton his waistcoat—and edgeworth keeps grabbing at his wrists, moving them back to more appropriate places, kissing him like he wants to savor it rather than do anything else.

“just fuck me already,” phoenix finally groans, drinking in the way edgeworth laughs in response. when was the last time he even heard him laugh? not just a condescending chuckle from the other side of the courtroom, but actually laugh like he does now? when they were nine?

his back hits the bed as edgeworth shoves him away roughly. “fine. i’ll give you what it is you’re so desperate for.” he watches as the prosecutor tugs open his nightstand to survey the contents, and apparently finds what he expected to, retrieving the box of condoms from within and setting it atop the surface. “but i’m not doing this without some sort of safe word in place. it’s clear you’re not in a state to be taken at your word.”

“stoplight system,” phoenix replies, without hesitation.

that earns him a raised eyebrow, and for a moment it seems like he might be rejected, but eventually, edgeworth shrugs a shoulder and nods. “i’m familiar. that’s acceptable, can i trust you to actually use it?”

“funny of you to be asking me about trust right now.”

“wright.” there’s an obvious warning tone in his voice. “yeah. yes, i will use it correctly. green means go, red means stop, don’t stop unless i actually say that.”

there’s a hunger underlining edgeworth’s voice when he next speaks that makes all of phoenix’s skin prickle with desire. “alright. get on with it, then. tell me what you want.”

“god, thank you,” phoenix breathes. he sits up and grabs edgeworth by his belt, yanking him forward so he can undo it. “just want you to hold me down, make me take it.”

edgeworth blows out a long breath, but phoenix doesn’t look up, single-minded in his task now as he moves to unbutton the man’s slacks. the zip comes undone with relative ease, but the prosecutor’s shirt is long and held down by stays, partially blocking access to what he wants. it’s dark, and he’s a little drunk, and undoing the smaller buttons here is a bit harder, so he fumbles around with them as he talks. “you know. give it to me hard, don’t hold back, no matter what i say.”

edgeworth sheds his jacket and waistcoat and works his cravat free, discarding them on the side of phoenix’s bed before loosening the buttons of his shirt sleeves to roll them up. like this, phoenix can see the light hair that peppers his arms, usually hidden by clothes or distance across the courtroom or the fact that he thought the man was dead for a year. “is that how you normally prefer it?”

opting not to answer that, phoenix finishes unbuttoning the bottom of edgeworth’s shirt, giving him access to his boxer-briefs beneath. his fingers hook into the waistband and stretch it away from his skin, freeing the arousal steadily growing within and shoving them down as far as he can with the stays still hooked around his thighs.

he leans forward, gently cupping edgeworth's cock in one hand as he trails his lips down the side of it. the skin is so soft under his touch, but he doesn't get even a second to enjoy it; immediately, there's a hand in his hair, forcing his head back and away. he grimaces, baring his incisors but flooding with heat at the simple movement.

"someone's a bit overeager," edgeworth admonishes.

"yeah, well, when you've spent a year fantasizing about something you're positive you'll never get…" he steals a glance up at edgeworth's face, his chest starting to heave even though they haven't even started yet.

the man clenches his jaw, like the reminder hurts, but he feigns it away with a roll of his eyes. it doesn't fool phoenix, but he doesn't call it out. again, phoenix is pushed back to the bed like it's effortless, and edgeworth moves back to the nightstand to retrieve a condom from the box.

phoenix takes the opportunity to undo his own belt and slacks, shimmying them down along with his boxers around his hips. his thighs and hair are already slick with moisture, his dick swollen and begging to be touched.

he doesn't want to bother with the effort of fully undressing, so instead he rolls over while edgeworth applies the condom, ending up bent over the edge of his bed, ready and waiting.

he hears edgeworth spit into his hand, stroke it along his length then feels that hand on him for a brief, thrilling second, but he's already sopping wet, so it's unnecessary.

phoenix scrambles up the bed a little further but before he can really get anywhere, there’s a strong hand on his hip as the body behind him thrusts forward against him. with that one, swift movement, edgeworth is inside him, and he cries out, writhing against the sheets and trying not to just melt into uselessness.

a hand comes down against his shoulder, holding him down just like he'd asked for, but edgeworth leans in close and the other snakes over his mouth, preventing him from further cries as each snap of his hips makes phoenix want to scream. "is this what you wanted?" the man breathes hot and low in his ear.

he can only nod desperately, tears catching in his lashes as that cock rams into his g-spot and makes him quiver.

edgeworth doesn't stop. each thrust comes unbelievably hard, a loud slap of skin echoing through the room, but there's a pause between each one, and phoenix is grateful for that because otherwise he doesn't know how he would breathe. beads of sweat are already forming on the back of his neck, rolling down under the collar of his shirt. he quiets down, just panting against edgeworth’s palm, tasting the salt of his flesh, pushing back into each stroke and closing his eyes to bask in the feeling of him, to know it’s edgeworth pinning him down and spearing him open.

he's slick and needy and hasn't been so close to satisfied in what feels like forever.

he rocks his hips forward instinctively, trying to get friction on his own dick against the bed, but failing. edgeworth huffs out a condescending laugh in his ear. "not enough still? what are you, wright, a dog? must you hump something just to get off?"

phoenix whines at the suggestion but nods again against edgeworth's hand.

"yes?" he sounds mildly surprised, but not put-off. "alright." he straightens for a minute, pulling phoenix up so he can slide a folded pillow between the man's legs—phoenix's head is spinning and he lets himself be maneuvered bonelessly—before pushing him back down into the position they'd been in.

"are you sure this is how you want it, though, wright?" he asks in his ear again as they return to that pace of steady slams. "I'm happy to fuck you as hard as you'd like, but i had something a little different in mind." he slows down further, the thrusts turning into a sensual grind, no longer ramming into him with each one.

a sob leaks out of phoenix and he ruts against the pillow, mumbling against edgeworth's hand. his mouth is freed so he can speak. "please," he gasps. "tell me you're here to stay. that you won't leave again."

an anguished sound chokes out of the prosecutor. "i am not going anywhere, phoenix," he says after a moment of hesitation. there’s an edge to his voice, hurt but on the verge of something almost tender, and phoenix easily needs more.

"just need to feel it. need you to show me you're not going anywhere," phoenix begs. “just prove it to me, fuck me like you mean it.”

"oh, darling, i'm not leaving you." the term of endearment seems to slip out of edgeworth like it’s an accident, but he doesn’t take it back, and it feels like it stabs right through phoenix’s back and pins him to the mattress as much as the man himself is doing physically. edgeworth's hands reposition themselves to the bed on each side of his shoulders for more leverage and his cock grinds deeper into phoenix, forcing a strangled moan out of him. "i'm here to stay, and i'll prove it to you just like this whenever you'd like. that's it, open up for me, i want to hear you."

phoenix doesn't try to hold back his sounds anymore, more moans and whimpers and sobs escaping him in escalating volume as edgeworth fucks him and as he humps against the pillow. edgeworth has picked up the pace again, strokes coming faster, and phoenix's brain is dissolving into a puddle.

"harder, please," he whines.

"i'll give you harder, darling, but i want you to come first. you're doing so well," edgeworth murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of his ear. "i know you can do it. it feels good, doesn't it? to grind on your pillow? be a good boy and come for me, phoenix."

a harsher sob is ripped from his chest. his hips roll against it more desperately even as edgeworth doesn't stop pounding into him. "i'm so close," he whispers shakily.

"i know," edgeworth reassures, lowering himself to further press into phoenix, more grinding into him again which just forces him more into the pillow. "does this help? if i drive you into it?"

"yes, yes, oh, miles…"

"come for me, phoenix, then i'll give you that hard, unrelenting fuck you want, to prove i'm not going anywhere. come on. come for me."

and phoenix does, rocking forward against the pillow one last time and causing his orgasm to explode through him. he clenches around miles and his cock twitches with each pulse and miles is still rolling his hips, forcing him into the pillow, and he can't come down, and he's fully crying.

"good boy," he hears from edgeworth, and the praise is music he never imagined he'd hear. "are you ready for more?"

he hasn't even stopped coming yet, he's not ready for more, but god does he want it anyway. "no," he offers unhelpfully.

"no? color, wright."

"green," phoenix spits, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to the bed where he was accidentally drooling against his comforter.

"good, so let me ask again. are you ready for more?"

having no intention of changing his answer, phoenix repeats himself. "no. it's too much."

he can almost hear the smirk in edgeworth's voice, and is glad they're both on the same page. "and you think i have any intention of stopping simply because it’s too much? how quaint. you can handle more."

another hard slam of his hips has phoenix shaking, pressing his face back into the softness of his comforter to muffle a yelp, but as quickly as it was given, it’s taken away as edgeworth pulls out.

“roll over, wright. i want to see the moment you break,” he’s commanded, and phoenix doesn’t make any rush of moving to do so. edgeworth grabs his shoulder and pulls, rolling him over anyway. hands grab his slacks and yank, and phoenix kicks to at least help get them off, along with his boxers.

arms hook under his knees and in an instant edgeworth is back inside him, making phoenix’s back arch against the mattress. the pillow is still under him, but now it's providing support, and edgeworth is still hitting all the right spots, and he blearily opens his eyes to find the man looking down at him.

the way edgeworth looks at him is almost reverent, quicksilver eyes soft but dilated with pleasure, hair disheveled and hanging in his face, sweat beading on his forehead. it's different from how phoenix imagined it might be, when he thought he was dead. then, he hadn't known this edgeworth so desperately trying to redeem himself. he'd only known the angry, spiteful one, full of loathing for everyone and everything, especially himself and especially phoenix. he'd thought his eyes would be hardened, creased between the eyebrows, a permanent scowl fixed upon his face. he can see a slight divot between his eyebrows, but it looks more in concentration, and there's no scowl.

"miles," he breathes, just a whisper on his breath. he's struggling to even catch it with the force he's being fucked with, knocking the air out of his lungs, but he gulps down another breath and tries again. "m-miles. take off the condom."

a dry laugh huffs out of edgeworth and he hesitates. "are you delusional?"

"i promise it's safe. please…" he's crying again and he hates that he's crying again but he can't stop the tears from leaking down his cheeks. "please. i need you to prove you're not going anywhere. need you to fill me up and make me yours."

again, edgeworth blows out an affected breath, this time much more obviously struggling with the decision. "you're sure?"

"yes, i'm giving you the green light, please, god," he pleads.

"fuck, phoenix." in an instant, he pulls out again, looking down as he uses one hand to attempt to take off the condom. it takes a minute to get it off, but eventually he does, and it gets tossed in the trash beneath the nightstand before the man drives back into phoenix's hot cunt, filling him now with no barrier between them.

there's no way to prevent the flood of tears now, no longer just a trickle but practically a waterfall. he pushes edgeworth's arms away from under his knees to adjust, instead hooking his legs around the man's waist like he can draw him in deeper if he tries hard enough, like he can just pull edgeworth into his body and keep him there forever.

for edgeworth's part, at least, he grips a hand under phoenix's thigh and with a slight grunt helps shift them up onto the bed properly, and then they're chest-to-chest and the prosecutor is kissing down his jawline, tongue delving out to lick up the salt of his tears and god, phoenix is so overwhelmed.

"how long have you been dreaming about this, wright?" that deep, sultry voice mumbles right against his ear.

phoenix answers honestly, and he's not just crying from the overwhelming amount of pleasure anymore. now he's ugly crying, and it's embarrassing, and his hands find the front of edgeworth's shirt and twist in it, holding on to it like a lifeline. "a long time but—but i thought you were dead," he chokes out. he can feel alarm crackle through edgeworth like ice underfoot, but it's too late, they've already plunged through. "i th-thought you were fucking dead, that i'd missed my chance—"

his words are muffled by a kiss, one that's just as desperate and hungry as phoenix feels. he half-sobs, half-moans into it, clumsily attempting to reciprocate as best he can.

"i know. i'm so sorry, phoenix," edgeworth hisses against his mouth when they part for air. his movements have slowed, this thrusts languid but striking deep, and phoenix just encourages him, heels pressing against his ass with each inward stroke. "shh, you're alright. i'm not going anywhere." the words sound like a promise.

another pathetic mewl bleeds out of phoenix, energy sapped from him at the apology. his legs fall from around edgeworth's hips, coming to rest on the bed, because he can't hold them up anymore, and it just spreads him wider, lets the man fuck him deeper. he sniffles and presses his face into edgeworth's shoulder to hide his tear-strewn face.

"there you go, darling. relax. i'll give you what you need. you're being so good for me." edgeworth's breathing is labored and phoenix can feel sweat through the man's shirt.

his hands let go of the front to wrap around his back, crush him closer. it's too slow, too intimate, it's not what he asked for or wanted, but somehow it is what he needed.

the rhythm of edgeworth's thrusts start to falter and suddenly there's a hand on phoenix's jaw, turning his face towards his. "look at me."

phoenix does. the expression on edgeworth's face is so hard to read, but it seems almost close to adoration, or maybe obsession, and a shiver runs down phoenix's spine.

"i'm here, phoenix. because of you."

those six words are phoenix's undoing. his hands claw for purchase against edgeworth's back, fingertips catching in the folds of his shirt as his whole body tenses, pleasure slamming into him like a fucking freight train and forcing an orgasm out of him unlike any other. he feels edgeworth jolt against him and knows the man is coming too, leaving that tangible evidence that he's here, he's alive, he's alive he's alive he's alive, i'm alive.

for the first time since prosecutor miles edgeworth chose death, phoenix wright feels alive.

spent and exhausted, phoenix can't even complain when edgeworth collapses atop him. instead, he hugs him close, albeit weakly, eyes falling shut and just cradling the man against him, reluctant to let him pull out or leave just yet.

when they finally do part god knows how long later, no words are exchanged. edgeworth painstakingly withdraws from inside phoenix with a grimace, then helps him clean up in silence. he doesn't say anything as he removes the rest of his clothing, leaving phoenix to extract the implications from that action himself and disrobe as well, tossing the rest of his clothes to the floor.

they climb back into bed and phoenix finds himself hesitating to get closer until edgeworth draws him in himself, an arm sliding around him possessively.

before phoenix can drift off, he clears his throat and asks hoarsely, "should we… talk about what just happened?"

edgeworth dismisses it with a half-hearted shrug. "if you'd like. in the morning, perhaps?"

fear grips phoenix immediately and he swallows, looking up at the man. "will you still be here? in the morning?"

a long, tired sigh hisses out of edgeworth's chest. "i may have nightmares still, and may not be in bed when you awake. but yes. i will be here, in the morning."

"you promise?"

edgeworth searches his face for understanding. he doesn't seem the type to promise things, and perhaps that's why the response is delayed, but after a long moment, he nods slowly. "i promise."

phoenix buries his face against his chest, and in a few minutes, he's asleep.

[kang-yo-han]

Just rewatched episodes 15 and 16 of Beyond Evil (after doing that yesterday as well) and I’m so overwhelmed, but in a good way. This show is so fucking beautiful. It saved my life last year, and rewatching it (for the fourth time) has kept me going through some really dark days over the past couple of weeks. I knew I had to push through because at the end of each day, I got to watch BE. I’m just so grateful for this show. I love it so deeply.

[abovetherainandroses]

tagged by @27-royal-teas !! thank u!!

RULES: summarize your WIPs badly and let people vote on which they’d most like to read!

storm here answering! i have an EMBARRASSING number of wips so let’s just keep it to the bandom ones, okay?

taggingggg @buildarocketboys @floralegia @pyrchance ough i need more bandom fic writing friends or to start rpf’ing on main more

[silawastaken]

I was reading ur bsd fanfic and I was like wow this so reminds me of early sbi fanfic and then I scrolled up and saw ur username and was like. Ah. I Get it.

NO. STOP. STOP. OEJEHDJDJDHDHD

I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN NOR READ SBI FANFIC(<-filthy liar) I SWEAR NO NO NO 😭😭😭

PLEASE THE USERNAME IS GENUINELY A COINCIDENCE. YES, I WAS A DSMP FAN. YES, IT'S LOWKEY STILL AN INTEREST. BUT THAT DIES WITH ME OKAY??? SHUT IT.

please i thought i was safe

im changing my username because of you/j

[goatsghost]

I love how quickly and cleanly this was all resolved! Of course Damian would love Jay, he was the one to introduce Jon to The Truth in the first place, and Jon is his literal best friend, he’d be happy for him no matter what