#AND IT CALLS THE FUCKING EMERGENCY SERVICES BECAUSE IT WAS SO LOUD

[hairtusk]

i love disabled access spaces where it's blindingly obvious NO disabled people were consulted in the design

#i live in the UK and have a radar key (special key you get from the doctor that allows you to open any disabled bathroom in a public space) #and the disabled bathroom at my local train station has been closed for months for refurbishment #(which has lead to many panic scenarios for me as someone with bladder issues but i digress) #it's finally reopened and it had a new feature #this voice narrates from the speaker that 'if you fall and can't read the panic cord ... #...simply SCREAM and the emergency services will be called from the intercom near the bathroom door.' #cool feature. whatever. #until i go to dry my hands with the air-blowing hand dryer... #AND IT CALLS THE FUCKING EMERGENCY SERVICES BECAUSE IT WAS SO LOUD #and i had to politely explain to the poor operator on the end of the intercom that i'm fine and was just trying to dry my hands #which means the ambulance will be called EVERY TIME SOMEONE DRIES THEIR HANDS. #WHO DESIGNED THIS. BECAUSE IT WASN'T A DISABLED PERSON. #this bathroom had three panic cords and two panic buttons - who the fuck asked for the scream feature ??????

[flowercrowngods]

based on an idea i had about steve getting a bad migraine from the sudden bloodloss after kas feeds from him

post-canon, steddie don't like each other, hermit kas, depressed brain injury steve, kinda gloomy, anxiety & compulsions

Steve cuts the engine with a sigh, feeling heavy and alien, like a lone survivor in a ghost town. He’s not a lone survivor, and Hawkins isn’t technically a ghost town because there’s still enough of them here to build it back up or to watch it crumble and cave in on itself, front row seats to the fourth wave of destruction. 

Maybe the real ghost is Steve, actually, floating through his days just waiting for his brain to decide it’s had enough. Just waiting for the perpetual ringing in his ears to rise in pitch and frequency and for his skull to fucking crack open from the never ending waves of the never ending buzz.

Robin asks him about it a lot, notices how he will stop and listen to his body on every inhale that feels slightly wrong, or every movement that’s just a little too fast or just a little too sudden, the blood rushing into his head or out of it, the doctor’s words ringing in tune with the tinnitus: You watch that head of yours, young man, and do not hesitate to call emergency services when the headache won’t stop after a few hours, or when anything feels off, you hear me? 

The truth is, he barely heard him then. Blood was roaring in his ears, the tinnitus still quiet, but his hearing still dull from impact and screams and shock wave after shock wave of the world sewing itself back together. 

He sighs again, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel and trying to catch his breath. Taking stock of his head, the heartbeat he can only feel in his hands right now and nowhere near his temples, and the quiet little tap tap tap of his finger nails hitting the leather, wanting to make sure he can hear it. Wanting to make sure he doesn’t imagine the sound. 

Always fucking needing to make sure. 

Soon, he breathes a little steadier, convincing himself that getting out of the car won’t be the last thing he’ll ever do. It’s so stupid, too, that fear, all that anxiety living inside him just waiting to boil and spill over until he does something stupid just to spite it.

The cool breeze hits his face, working in tandem with his calming breaths to alleviate his obsessive thought spirals, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he does nothing but breathe for a minute there. 

He’s up. He’s standing. He can walk through the forest to the vamp’s hiding place, it’s fine. It’s fine. Although standing so suddenly makes him aware that he hasn’t eaten much today, too busy hating everything about this town and helping to rebuild it anyway. 

Forgetting to eat and drink is another thing that’s new to him. There’s quite a few things he forgets a lot, but those are the worst. Robin is always on his ass about that, but at some point he stopped telling her. It feels like he’s stopped telling her a lot of things. Maybe that’s something else that comes with severe brain injury, young man. 

He feels plenty guilty about it at least — but not enough to tell her about all the horrible things that are happening to him, or the horrible things he thinks are happening to him. The Upside Down is gone, Vecna is dead. These bad thoughts, they’re all him. But knowing that doesn’t fucking help.

Pushing away from the car and turning around to lock it, Steve decides to wallow in self pity no longer and to just get on with it. As much as he hates it. As much as part of him wants to just go home and claim that he forgot about that, too. 

It’s no secret that Steve never liked Eddie. The boy’s a hypocrite, he’s loud, he’s annoying, and he just likes to shame people as publicly as possible, spitting proclamations of conformity and sticking it to the Man while at the same time turning anarchy into despotism under the guise of rebellion — and he’s the dictator. 

Or, he was. And Steve never cared about him or his larger than life attitude that was worse than any of the smiles Steve ever wore to fit in in high school. Steve mostly ever just wanted Munson to shut up and eat his lunch, stop pretending he’s better than any of them just because he liked different things.

Although it wasn’t even about liking other things, it was only ever about disliking. And shaming and denouncing. Steve always wondered what kind of a miserable life that dude must have lived, shaping himself not from what he liked but from what he hated. Creating an identity that left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth because it was so fragile and contradictory and, frankly, so fucking annoying. 

Still, he’d never wished for Munson to get involved in all of this. He’d never wished for the man to die. And then to come back only to be turned into some kind of vampire, doomed to live an even worse existence than he did as a human, hidden away in some shabby cabin. 

Steve feels a little bad for him now. For Eddie. Or Kas, as the kids like to call him because he never reacts to his name anymore, more monster than human these days, although Dustin is sure they can domesticate him into becoming his old self again. 

“Like Dart, remember?”

“Dude, don’t compare our friend to your sick little creature.” That was Lucas, affronted and annoyed. Steve could relate, although… 

“You gotta admit, he’s kind of a sick little creature himself now.” 

“Steve!” they’d both yelled, and Steve just playfully shoved their heads back before going to grab a coke from the fridge.

And Kas, because vampires are apparently a thing even after the end of the world, needs blood to survive. The forests are void of animals most of the time, like nature has decided to give Hawkins an ultimatum before returning and the day hasn’t come yet. Maybe it’s something to do with electromagnetic fields, or maybe it was something else entirely leading them all to safety while Hawkins was turned into a war zone. Either way, there is nothing for him to feed here. 

Kas can’t just stalk around the woods at night and drink up a deer or two. Nor can he go rob the blood bank at the hospital, they’re running low as it is anyway. That left them all with only one option that Mike so disgustedly pointed out back then: Kas needs their blood. And Steve feels just bad enough for him to play along. 

So now he is out here playing blood bank for the monstrous version of a guy he never even liked, and his hometown is in shambles, and his head might actually sign the fuck off at any moment now, apparently. 

Things are going great. 

Saving the world is just… really fucking isolating. 

Still he has no choice but to announce his presence with a firm knock on the door, the pattern easy but memorable. 

“This is Steve,” he adds as his hand falls to his side, waiting. 

Kas always takes a while to come out and open the door, hiding away from any noise like a feral cat. Steve can kind of relate — he and Kas don’t have the best relationship either. He has no idea how sudden vampirism works, but just like feral cats will be able to tell when someone wants to hurt them and when instincts should be kicking in, Kas seems to realise how little Steve wants to be here and help him. How little he wants to have his blood sucked out of his body leaving his limbs to feel numb and uncomfortably tingly. 

Eventually, though, the door opens with a creek, just enough for a pair of eyes — too large, too wide, too wild — blink back at him. Steve just lifts his eyebrows, really kind of not in the mood to deal with this barely human vampire and his absolute lack of learning curve about this situation.

When he’s sure Kas has blinked at him for long enough now, he pushes open the door and shoves inside rather roughly, immediately feeling bad when he hears the slight whimper. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets again and trying not to grimace at the stale, disgusting air in the cabin. “Jeez, you really gotta open a window every once in a while. Thought vamps were supposed to have heightened senses or some shit.” 

Kas growls at him, mirroring Steve’s move and shoving past him this time, his shoulder slamming into Steve’s with painful strength. Glowering at the stupid vampire, he rubs at his shoulder before crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“Listen, buddy, I can just leave and have you deal with your hunger, okay? No big deal for me, I even get to keep my blood.” 

Kas snaps at him, showing his fangs and crossing his arms, too; a laughable copy of Steve’s own stance. 

“Or you could just cut the crap and get on with it so I actually can leave again without taking shit from the peanut gallery. Your choice.” 

The huff that follows is so indignant, Steve wonders if that could be what gets Kas out of Munson’s body and let the human win over the monster. Maybe indignation and annoyance is what will break the spell eventually, lift the curse just enough for Munson to get back into his old habit of monologising and spouting nonsense out of that big mouth of his. 

Steve is half tempted to try, but he really does want to just go home and lie on his large couch with no sensory input whatsoever, tuning out the world and his anxieties that might be about to turn into compulsions just for him to gain a little control over everything again. So he squares his shoulders and takes off his jacket before tilting his head to the side, allowing Kas full access to his neck. 

It’s always a little scary but still oddly fascinating, filling him with that same rush that came with witnessing all the supernatural shit over the past few years. Kas is the last remnant of all that, and somehow, buried beneath piles of rubble and trauma and the teenager he had to give up on being, Steve feels weirdly protective of that. 

Not of Eddie. Of Kas. Of the monster that lies dormant. Of the last bit of danger in his life, because he doesn’t know how to live without it anymore — so much so that he has to make it up.

Maybe it’s a symptom of his self destructive tendencies, as Robin would call it. But Steve might be as fascinated with the vampire as Robin is with fire; so she doesn’t get to have a say in this.

There is always a strange intimacy in the way Kas approaches him. Slowly, carefully. Like a hunter his prey. Steve doesn’t feel like prey, not really, but a part of him wants to. A part of him needs to be prey again, if only for those instincts that manifest with a perpetual tremor and a restless feeling in his chest to be of use again. If only so he can have a point again. Something to fight that’s outside oh his own head. 

Now, his point is standing still entirely and feeling those chapped but warm lips trail up and down his throat a little before Kas finds the right spot that won’t really hurt Steve, the right spot that will make it all go by quickly and without any hiccups. 

Still he shivers, like always, and Kas holds him close when he finally bites down. Like always. 

He stands motionless as he feels his blood flow alternating, rushing in his ears and his head, his heart thump-thump-thumping, putting up a fight against the strange intrusion. He hardly even breathes at all, focusing instead on his body and burying his finger nails in his palm for five seconds before releasing his hands and repeating the process three times before he gets it right. 

But then his head is pulsing, his heartbeat slowing down as his vision briefly blacks out in the same way it does when he gets up too quickly, and his heart falls. It’s too much. Too sudden. 

“Kas,” he says, but the vampire doesn’t hear him, drinking more and more of the blood that must be so thick with how little he’s had to drink today — something he only just remembered. “Kas,” he says again, more urgently this time; but still the vampire drinks. 

And where before Steve had a clear vision of the door in the dark room — the light of day streaming in through the cracks and framing it almost mystically —, it’s spotty now. Just slightly off. Like something is missing but his brain is working overtime to complete the picture anyway, reducing the blind spot to merely an illusion. But Steve knows what’s happening. He knows what the sudden pulsating of his head means, especially when it’s followed by his vision just going AWOL on him.

No, he thinks as the situation really settles in, and he begins to push Kas away. Not like it matters anyway now; the damage is done. No, no, no, no, fuck! 

He frantically shoves at the vampire now, blinking against the blind spot even though he’s painfully aware it won’t help. Kas breaks away from him, wiping his mouth and smearing his face and the back of his hand with Steve’s blood. If he looks just right, he can’t even fucking see it. 

Heart falling further, Steve buries his hands in his hair and pulls, hoping that by some kind of miracle he can just pull the migraine out of his head before it can really settle. It’s his only chance. He can’t drive like this, he shouldn’t walk like this, and soon he won’t be able to do anything at all. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” be hisses, hearing the edge of desperation in his own voice and caring very little about that right now. 

Kas is on him again in a second, and Steve waves him off, tries to shove him away but the vampire is stronger and persistent. 

A high keening sound builds in Kas’s chest, and Steve knows he doesn’t really speak, doesn’t really use his words, ever — maybe he doesn’t know how. But the keening sounds more like a whine, and the way he pulls at Steve to look at him is as much an indicator of worry as he’s going to get.

But Steve doesn’t want Kas’s hands on him, wants to just get out and away before the pain comes. So he takes another step back and holds up his hands, hoping that the vampire will just fucking take a hint. 

A little too quickly and a little too frantic, Steve shakes his head, his eyes flitting about the room to see if there’s still pieces of it missing or if phase two is about to start. He has about twenty minutes left before his body will be composed of nothing but skull-splitting pain that is only equal to someone ramming actual nails into his head — and even that would be preferable right noe, because at least that pain he wouldn’t need to explain. Or justify.

Another keening sound interrupts Steve's burgeoning spiral, and his eyes land on Kas, who really looks like a kicked puppy right now. 

"I gotta go," he says, voice a little unsteady with apprehension and panic, but just as he's about to rush out of the cabin, Kas crosses his path and won't let him move. 

A strong hand lands on his chest, and Steve really, really doesn't want to deal with that right now. He tries again, tries with more force to sidestep and push past him, but Kas won't let him budge. 

"Let me go." But Kas doesn't let up. "Kas. Please. You gotta let me go, I gotta get home, I—“ 

The first flash of white in his peripheral vision catches him off guard, moving his focus away from the clawed hand on his chest and toward the flickering line that cuts through the left side of his vision right now. 

Curious or worried or maybe just really fucking stupefied at having Steve act so weirdly, Kas inclines his head and ducks to catch Steve's eyes. 

"Move," Steve says again, as assertive as he can manage with his brain and body scattered between following the flickering lights that are invisible to everyone else and the pain that is about to consume him, leaving him incapacitated for several hours at least.

Instead of moving out of Steve's space and allowing him to leave, Kas shoves him backwards with that superhuman strength he has now, forcing Steve to stumble back helplessly. Fear rises in him again, and it's a different flavour this time that mixes horribly well with the anxiety and apprehension and all the waves and waves of blinding panic he feels out of nowhere almost all the time now. 

His knees buckle when they hit something rather violently, and then he's falling, landing on the worn couch with a breathless gasp, his instincts running wild. He needs to fight, he needs to run, he needs to get home and be safe and get the fuck away from this monster who won't let him go now. Steve doesn't know Kas as someone who will just take what he wants, but, well, he is Munson, in a way. So that tracks. 

But instead of attacking him, instead of going for his neck again and sucking the rest of his blood, instead of beating Steve to a pulp to keep him pliant and unmoving and turn him into some sort of personal livestock, Kas just... sits down next to him. Hands in his lap. Worried look trained on Steve, who needs to catch his breath and calm down.

"Hurt." 

It startles Steve. Kas has never spoken to him. But what’s more, Steve shouldn't be that obvious. He doesn't want to be that obvious, especially about hurting and being hurt. 

So he shakes his head, his hands coming up to press into his eyes, hoping to get rid of the flickering lights even though he knows that once they stop, the pain will come; and it will come badly. 

"'M not hurt," he says, lying through his teeth and the heel of his hand. "I just gotta go home." 

"Hurt," Kas says again, and it's more assertive this time, less of a question. Like he's telling Steve rather than asking. Like he's making him understand. 

He reminds Steve a little of Robin in that regard, and he almost has to smile. He would, too, if he wasn't so aware that it would become a horrible grimace, wavering and pale even by vampire hermit standards. 

So he sighs instead, letting his hands fall into his lap and wringing his fingers. There are about ten, maybe fifteen minutes left. Not enough to get anywhere safe on foot, and he sure as hell ain't driving when his vision is halfway through its rendition of a TV without signal, zig-zagging in white and red and green, flickering and flaring and leaving him a little disoriented even when all he's doing is sitting on that dusty old couch. 

"Hurt," Kas repeats for the third time, and Steve tenses, ready to snap at him to shut up, that he's not hurt yet but will be any minute now and that Kas should really just shut the fuck up and leave himself if he won't let Steve go anywhere. 

But looking at those wide eyes, he doesn't snap. He deflates. His shoulders fall and his eyes close, which only makes the flickers worse, he feels.

“I’m… I’m gonna have a migraine," he sighs, letting that hang in the air between them, letting the words take up the whole room and suffocate him while he knows that they won't touch Kas. That he won't understand. Nobody does. 

It's just a headache, Steve, get over it. 

They leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and he's just waiting for the huff to come. 

But it doesn't come. Instead, Kas just keeps looking at him; same worried expression, same unobtrusive posture, same everything. Right. He probably doesn't know jackshit about what that's supposed to mean. 

So Steve explains. “I, well. I kinda can't really see right now, but that'll pass. That's when the pain comes. I won't want to move. No light. No noise. No nothing. And all I can do about it is wait it out, which is why I need you to let me leave..." 

It's one of those moments where he hates that he's the only one of their group with a license; that he can't just radio with a code red and have someone come get him no questions asked. 

"I just wanna go home, man," he sighs, hating his voice for the weak whine around the edges. 

A beat passes between them, and Steve pretends like he's not counting the seconds. Like he doesn't notice that the flickering zigzag line is getting smaller and dimmer, and that agony is imminent. 

"Here," Kas says then, and somehow it's both an offer and a command. "You. Here."

Steve blinks, the words not really translating through the tired fog of his brain. 

"Huh? Sorry, uh, what?" 

"You," Kas says, shuffling closer to him, like that sort of helps him translate what it is he wants to say. 

"Me." 

Kas nods, then motions around the room and pats the couch cushion, releasing a cloud of dust from it. "Here."

“You—“ Steve frowns. "You want me to stay here?"

The nod is decisive and in another world Steve would have called it eager, with the way Kas is shuffling on the spot. 

"Kas," Steve sighs, rubbing his face, not quite sure how to make the vampire explain that it's gonna be bad. Really, really bad. The flickering shimmer is already waning, and phantom pains are already setting in, settling along his skull like little pinpricks of warning. 

A clawed hand reaches for his wrist, making Steve flinch away, but Kas doesn't hurt him. He pulls Steve’s hand away from his face almost gently, slowly, and makes sure Steve looks at him. 

"Safe." And he looks so genuine about it. He looks like he knows what that word means. "Safe." 

With a sigh, Steve accepts his fate. Kas isn't gonna let him go anytime soon, and at this point Steve really doesn't want to face the gloomy weather outside, stuck as it is somewhere between drizzle and downpour and so endlessly grey for days. 

Still he feels pathetic about it. Vulnerable. Exposed. Like a last bastion falling, the castle walls crumbling, the fragile house of cards finally falling, because suddenly this agony isn't something he keeps only to himself. 

Even if it's only Kas who witnesses it. Kas, who’s endured worse than that, Steve knows. Brainwashing, manipulation, the agony of shaping human into vampire so excruciating his mind has gone into hiding still. 

"Okay," Steve breathes at last, pretending that his voice didn't break on that single word. "Okay."

Kas hums, the sound resembling more a gurgle than anything else, and before Steve knows what's happening, cold hands are pulling him up and off the couch. 

"Jesus," he mumbles, barely catching his footing and pulling away from Kas's grasp, but following nonetheless, not even thinking about fleeing now. "I'm coming, I'm coming, man, don't touch me." 

Miraculously, Kas does stay away, walking just one step ahead of Steve, turning towards him every two steps to make sure he's still following. It reminds Steve of a mama duck herding her ducklings across the street and making sure they're all still there. It's weirdly endearing. 

"Why do you even care?" 

He doesn't get an answer, but that's no surprise, and he doesn't really mind either. It was more about wondering, about putting that question out there and letting it take up space for future contemplation. 

Kas leads him to an adjoining room, the north-facing windows all barred shut, ripped and moth-eaten curtains drawn to block out the last of the light. Right. Fitting, for a vampire's lair. 

The bed in the middle of the far wall is surprisingly large, though, and looks surprisingly soft. It's unmade, but that's just as well. There are no belongings in the room otherwis that Steve can make out, the framed pictures on the wall look as dusty as the rest of the cabin, so they can't belong to Kas. Or maybe he likes them enough to keep them, to claim them as his own now. 

It’s a heartbreaking thought. 

Stupidly and out of nowhere, Steve wonders if he could take care of this cabin. Dust it and clean it and only fill it with things Kas likes. Maybe things Munson used to like — surely the kids would know how to go about that. Or Wayne. 

He's about to ask; about the pictures, about the stuff, about Wayne — if he's been around lately, if he's still telling stories to bring back the dormant Eddie parts of his modified and manipulated mind.

But just as he's about to turn to the vampire and ask, the blinding flickers disappear from his field of vision in the dark room, and within seconds something inside his skull bursts, leaving his body awash with pain that nearly has his knees buckling. A whimper escapes him that he tries to steer into a groan, but then his hands are flying to his head and he stops caring about how he expresses this immediate agony to the world. 

Kas is on him again with a whimper, suddenly just as fucking tactile as his once-human form. 

“Don’t touch me,” Steve rasps, wrenching himself free from the gasp once more. He really wishes Kas would stop touching him. "You want me to lie down here, yeah? Take your bed?" 

Kas nods again, looking at Steve with those wide eyes that seem to glow in the dark — or maybe that's his migraine-addled mind seeing things where they aren't, making up for the blind spot and the flickering. 

Steve looks away, the motion hurting his entire face, and he closes his eyes as pins and needles are moving along the inside of his face, pricking up against the skin but never breaking through. 

"Right then," he whispers, his voice barely audible and still too loud, making his ears click and pressure collect around them, making him wonder if they're going to burst. "'M gonna lie down." 

Struggling with the heavy blanket, Steve is close to giving up and just lying on top of it, but Kas is quick to help him once he realises that Steve needs it. He pulls back the blanket, still looking so damn stricken about everything, like he's genuinely worried about Steve. It doesn't make sense. 

He doesn't have the strength for a Thanks or even a smile, but he nods just once, just barely, before sluggishly falling onto the bed and fumbling with the blanket once more. Every movement hurts. Every twitch of a muscle is too much, and just moving his pinkie is enough to douse his body in never-ending pain that travels from his skull all the way down.

Something Steve has always wondered is why migraines make his body shut down like that, leaving him in a state where all he can do is lie down and fall into a near-catatonic limbo until the pain has lifted enough to face the rest of the world again. Fighting inter-dimensional monsters and posing as a feast to demonic, modified monster bats was also agony. It also made him lose his footing and almost pass out from blood loss and pain, his back scratched open completely where the bats dragged him across rough stone. 

Migraine pains don't really compare to those, though, and it scares him. Because he knows that's all up in his brain. His fucked up, mangled, thrice-concussed fucking brain he never got cared for because the government goons never took them seriously. Never took him seriously. 

And now here he is, lying in a stranger's bed in a pitch-black room that's still somehow too bright, unmoving, too weak to even pull up the blanket, and hoping to pass out from it all. Hoping he won't hallucinate again this time. Hoping that he won't throw up this time, his body convulsing because it knows it shouldn't be feeling like this. 

Throwing up from pain. There's really nothing more fucked up than that. Or, there is. Throwing up from pain and begging an invisible man to make it stop, only to realise hours later that the most painful migraines can also make you hallucinate. 

He doesn't want that. He doesn't want any of that ever again, and certainly not in a strange, dark cabin with a vampire forged from a human he never even liked. 

Tears spring to his eyes, but they're not the kind that'll fall and bring relief. They just stay in the corners of his eyes, his only way to express the waves and flares of pain washing over him, wishing he could just pass out now. 

Kas tucks him in. Steve didn’t know he could do that. It strikes him as extremely non-vampiric even in this state he’s in. Steve doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as blink his eyes open as the pain travels up to his hairline and settles there, flaring over his forehead to his eyes and down to his cheekbones and then up again, a never-ending motion that he never stands a chance to get used to. 

“Safe,” Kas says again, and it zings through Steve’s body with violent force that doesn’t match at all with the gentle tone he’s using. 

Scrunching his forehead to stave off more words, Steve hopes that Kas will take the hint and know to shut up. 

But he has no such luck. 

“Here.” 

“Shhh.” He shakes his head minutely, shushing the vampire with a barely there noise, keeping the damage to a minimal amount. “You can go,” he slurs, trying not to speak at all. “Please.” 

A beat of blessed, blissful silence, before there’s shuffling again. Kas does walk to the door, but then stops in the doorway. Steve doesn’t want to look. 

“No.” Kas sounds surprised about it. Mystified. Like he wants to leave but can’t. 

What?

“Stay. Here.” 

Whatever you do, just please be quiet about it, Steve thinks desperately. Instead of saying any of that, he shushes him again, hoping that the thump he hears means that Kas is sitting on the floor now. Though he doesn’t understand why. 

Why do you even care? 

“Safe,” Kas says again, whispering the word into the room, and it doesn’t zing through Steve this time. 

With Kas refusing to leave and his pathetic state of existence so blatantly on display, and with waves and waves as his nerves fire signals to his overworked and tired brain, more tears sprint to his eyes. And this time they fall. Silently, and without a sob, without even a sniffle of acknowledgment. But they fall. 

And Steve just wants to go home.

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @hammity-hammer (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

part 2 here

#steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #kas eddie munson #dio words #kas takes care of steve fic #still not sure if this is tumblrable but it shall no longer stay between me and the discord thread girlies

[seeingivy]

funeral

actor!eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting fic

content: depictions of grief, talk of addiction/anxiety

an: i am alive (mostly). eat your cake, even though I think it Is bad (this chapter was the hardest to write, right next to the "the third act" chapter

songs mentioned: marjorie by taylor swift

previous part linked here

--

“What are you thinking, Eren?” Hange asks. 

The question is stupid. Eren is thinking of the only logical conclusion that he can draw from the autopsy report. The implication of it, of how Marco really died, is sitting right in front of him.

The patient is a twenty-three year old Caucasian male with no significant medical history. Emergency services responded to the scene of a motor vehicle crash around nine p.m. At the scene, responders found that the patient was trapped in the vehicle, upturned on the side of the road, with no pulse at the time of arrival. Patient was declared dead on scene. Autopsy concluded that primary cause of death was asphyxiation, secondary cause being severe loss of blood due to injuries in the extremities. 

“I’m thinking that the paparazzi killed him, Hange.” Eren spits. 

“Eren.” 

“Hange, don’t. Just-” Levi mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Levi’s eyes are borderline gaunt. Eren knows the past few days have sat horribly on Levi’s shoulders and perhaps the past year and a half have too. 

The guilt is excruciating. Because all Eren knows how to do is ruin people.

He dragged Levi and Hange into his mess, when he asked them for help. But it had gone too far at that point, the interview, the night on the beach, the fight - he had exhausted all ends and desperately needed someone on his side. 

Levi and Hange all but berated him for it. For letting it get so far, for waiting so long when he should have known that they were always there to help. But this reaction, Levi being the one to side with his outburst is proof enough that he made the wrong choice, that he should have stuck with himself. That them bending backwards and forwards to get him out of his mess has truly taken its toll. 

Levi and Hange always mimicked him and you. Eren and Hange, he knows they both have a tendency to get so lost in the emotion, to feel it so deep that the response is too loud, too much for what’s called for. That’s when you and Levi would come in, to soothe them down and bring them back to Earth. 

In the same vein, you and Levi, you planted your weeds too deep into the ground. Rooted in exactly what he’s not quite sure - perhaps misplaced insecurities, whatever the two of you seemed to hide in those deep inner walls - but it kept you both stagnant, stuck where you were. That’s where Hange and Eren came in, pushing you both to soar a little bit higher than what you imagined for yourself. 

But now Levi’s here, all but exhausted and broken, the same way he’s sure you were. That’s why things got so fucked up. Eren didn’t let you pull him down. He didn’t pull you up. 

“They killed him, Hange.” Levi states, tone void of any emotion. 

“Levi. It’s almost midnight, we’re all feeling emotional right now. We should look at this all with a clear mind tomorrow.” 

“They killed him. There is nothing to look at.” Levi says, enunciating every inflection of his words. 

Eren knows it for a fact. And from the look on Hange’s face, he knows they do too. His train of thought is cut off by the knocking - rapid, loud consecutive knocks slamming against the wood. 

“God, Eren. Go get it now before they run off with our food.” Hange murmurs, gesturing towards the door. 

Eren shuffles past the length of the hallway and swings open the door to find not his UberEats bag, but Lana, out of breath and panting on his doorstep. 

“Ew. You just left two hours ago. Why are you back already?” 

“Eren. Oh my god.” 

Lana wraps her arms around him, squeezing hard, as she cries into his shoulder. Her demeanor settles an immediate panic under his skin. The last time she reacted like this, Eren had to watch the most gut wrenching interview of his life while she held his hand. God knows whatever she’s about to tell him now is going to break him.

Eren brings his hands up and grabs her shoulders, applying pressure to stop her from shaking in his arms. 

“Lana. What’s wrong with you? Why are you-”

“Eren. I’m so sorry, you- I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need, just-just say it.” she pants, hiccuping in between her tears.

Eren frowns, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her out of the cold Seattle air into the kitchen where Hange and Levi are cooking by the stove. 

“Hi Lana Bear! How are you, kid?” Hange says, all but bouncing over to wrap their arms around Lana. 

This only upsets Lana more, the discomfort worsening in Eren’s chest as he can’t help but stare at her, at her brown eyes turning almost red from the downpour of her tears and the tension sitting in her shoulders. 

“What is it? Who died?” 

The question, when Eren asks it, is entirely rhetorical. A figure of speech, meant to emphasize that Lana’s reaction was extreme, too obscene for whatever it is she must be talking about. But when she doesn’t respond and swallows hard, the look on her face so crestfallen, Eren’s chest settles into a panic. 

His first thought is you. 

“Lana. Is she dead? What are you-” 

Lana scrambles for the remote on the counter, switching from the Disney Channel to the first news report she can find. The image is of an overturned car, the metal crushed and steaming in the front, accompanied with words that burn Eren’s ears. The first hit is relief - that it’s not you. The second hit is painful, like the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. 

Because it’s Marco. 

“What?” Levi says, taking his eyes off the stove to glance at the screen. 

Eren can feel his phone incessantly buzzing in his pocket and he reaches for it immediately, Lana leaning into his side as she continues to cry into his shoulder. Levi and Hange are moving closer to the television, like that’ll somehow make the sound better, the image clearer, like they’ll be able to find falsity in it. 

jean: the bodt’s said the funeral is going to be near the old house. ask levi and hange if we can all stay in the townhouse together. 

bertholdt: reiner and i are heading over tonight. 

sukuna: Let me know if you need anything. Give the paparazzi hell for this one. 

connie: i’m coming back to seattle. i-i don’t know if i can do this. 

Eren’s quick to respond to that one. 

eren: i’ve got you man. meet us in new york as soon as you can, we’re all going to stay at the townhouse. don’t leave sasha’s side until you get there okay?

connie: alright. okay, thanks. 

eren: phone is on. 

“This is bullshit. How do they know it’s him?” Levi says angrily, hands crossed over his chest. 

“Levi.” Hange says, voice nearly cracking. 

“No, I’m being fucking serious. How do they know that this guy is our Marco? There’s no proof. Call the Bodt’s right now.” Levi says, pacing the kitchen for where he left his phone. 

Eren frowns, his head racing as Levi walks the length of the kitchen and Hange settles into their immediate panic.

“Eren.” Lana says. 

“Hm?” 

“I have to tell you something. You’re going to hate it. I-” 

“Just tell me, Lana. No-no beating around the bush.” 

“The paparazzi…got to him first before the police.” she whispers. 

“What?” Eren says, through gritted teeth as his head all but short circuits. 

“They knew it was his car, he’d been driving it around that part of Nashville for a while. They were probably just following him to get pictures wherever he was going. But then he-he crashed and-” 

“And what? They took pictures of it? Of him?” Eren asks, squeezing Lana’s shoulders too hard. 

“Yeah. They-they only called the police when they were done, Eren. I-” 

The tears fill Eren’s eyes as the implication cuts deep. It all but sears the air in his lungs, the tears welling so fast that it’s already obstructing his vision. All he can feel is Lana’s hands, squeezing his biceps, as he tries to control the heaving in his chest. 

“How long?” 

“Eren.” she says, tone so pitiful it makes his blood boil. 

“How long, Lana?” he asks, voice cracking. 

“It took them forty-five minutes to get there. They would have been there in fifteen.” she whispers. 

And now, the autopsy report tells him enough. With a definitive resolve that the paparazzi killed Marco. Because he died from asphyxiation, from being twisted in the metal, not getting any air. And if the police had gotten there maybe a moment earlier, a second faster, they could have gotten him out, could have at least made sure he was breathing. 

They wanted a picture. Marco died for it. 

The anger surges through Eren, tenfold when he remembers the paparazzi lining up Jean and Mikasa’s engagement party, Falco’s school, his house the day his grandpa died. When you walked into his garage, drenched from the rain with a deep cut on your face and skidded knees, scared to death. 

“I’m done sugarcoating, Hange. Eren is right. They killed Marco.” Levi responds. 

Hange sighs, leaning against the counter as Eren walks up to them, resting his head against their shoulder. They all stand there in silence, not even seventy-two hours after the fact, and it still hasn’t hit Eren. 

In full flesh, that Marco is gone. 

The rapid knocking on the door, real this time, breaks him out of his thoughts. 

“Probably Zeke or Armin. I’ve got it.” he murmurs. 

“Thanks kid.” 

Eren watches as Levi sinks into Hange’s arms, sighing as he shuffles to the door and flicks on the porch light. He swings it open and immediately feels his throat tighten, fully constricted, at the sight of you standing in the lamplight. 

You’re looking up at him, swallowing hard, as you stare into his eyes and all Eren can do is wonder if your brain is short circuiting as much as his is. Surely, it isn’t. Eren has every reason to be embarrassed, to be ashamed. And you don’t. 

For posterity, he fights all instincts, every urge in his body, to reach forward and hold you. To let your sweet flowery smell take over his nose, to settle his face into that crook in your neck, to have your soft, soft touch running over his skin. To let the mountain of emotions he’s been carrying fall, because you’re here. 

But he can’t. 

“Hi Eren.” 

“Y/N.” 

He can’t help but inspect every micro-movement, every gesture you make. Your eyes are nearly glassing over with tears and you’re nervously fidgeting with your fingers. You’ve dropped your gaze to focus on the ground, a habit you always had when you were sad, as your voice breaks into the air. 

“Can I ask you something? Please?” you whisper. 

He reaches forward, hands on your shoulders, squeezing once and praying to god you remember what it means, as he nods. 

That he’s here and he’s got you. 

“Anything. What is it?” 

“Is he dead?” 

Maybe not anything. 

He can’t be the one to tell you. You of all people that Marco died, at the hands of the paparazzi. The same paparazzi who in your very pointed words, gutted your first love like a fish. Who were partly to blame, who drove you out of here alongside him. 

“Y/N.” 

“Is he?” you repeat, voice smaller. 

“Okay. Let’s go inside, you-”

“Is Marco dead, Eren? I’m asking you a question.” 

Your anger in your voice is enough to make him stop in his tracks, the second time your voice is laced with that animosity that it scares him into responding. He hears it, in his worst hours, echoing in his mind. 

How many times are you going to keep breaking shit without any care in the world? The camera, the fucking award you picked over me, Connie’s fucking livelihood, my heart. God, Eren. All you’ve ever cared about is yourself. From the start.

He swallows hard. 

“Yes. Marco’s dead.” 

And you don’t even know the half of it. 

He watches your glass tears, the ones sitting right on the edge of your eyelashes, fall in full force, onto your cheeks as you immediately start hiccuping, hands clasped against your chest. 

“I-I saw it on the news. I-I didn’t believe it but I- They always lie about stuff. I thought it was the same as that and-” 

“Y/N, come ins-” 

Your panic sets in so fast, so quick that Eren doesn’t even register it. Because one second you’re panting and the next Eren’s watching you retch onto the grass Connie mowed this morning. Eren pushes you into the house the second you stop, straight to the kitchen where Levi and Hange are still standing in their spots. 

“Wait, is that-” 

“Do you guys know if we have something like…anti-nausea? Is that what you do when someone throws up or-” Eren asks. 

“Is that Y/N?” Levi asks. 

“Yeah, she-she was on the porch, I-” 

Levi’s quick to walk up, hands on your shoulders as he talks, voice quiet and calm when he speaks near your ear. Hange moves to Eren’s side, her face wearing that concerned look she gives him too much these days, as they both rummage through the cabinets for anything that could help. 

“Y/N. You okay?” Levi asks. 

“I-I threw up on the-the porch. On the g-grass. So-sorry.” 

“It’s just grass. What’s-” 

Eren tries to still it - that pounding in his heart - as he walks over with the glass of water he filled up for you. Your hands must be wobbling too much because Eren doesn’t let the glass go, instead tilting your head up softly with his hands and pouring the water into your mouth. 

“Hey. Drink some more for me.” Eren states, voice soft as he instinctively reaches forward to fix the hairs sticking to the sweat beading your forehead, feeling your skin burning under his touch. 

“We should take her temperature.” Eren says. 

Levi and Hange dart out of the room, to the drawer upstairs where the thermometer is, as Eren takes breaks between helping you drink the water and rubbing circles into your back. 

Eren can feel every muscle in his body tense, his skin burning when you lean forward, forehead resting against his chest as you groan out in pain. 

“Hey. You with me?” Eren asks, murmuring straight into your hair. 

Eren feels your breathing still against him, his hands intuitively wrapping around you this time, cradling the back of your head in his hands. You hum in response to his question, which is a good enough answer for Eren now.  

“Found it.” Levi says, all but speed walking as Eren spins you around, watching as Levi meticulously pushes your sweaty hair out of your face and holds the sensor against your head. You’re all standing there in silence, craning over the little plastic as the two consecutive beeps go off. 

“98.6. You’re okay, Y/N.” Levi mutters, setting the thermometer back on the table. 

“Thank you, Levi.” you respond back, rubbing your arms on your biceps as you stare at the two of them, withdrawn and withholding from you. 

Granted, you’d do the same. You wouldn’t rush to their arms either if they ignored you for two years. 

“You can take this for nausea. If it happens again.” Hange says, placing a bottle in your hands. 

“Sure. Thank you, Hange.” you respond. 

The silence hangs in the air between the four of you as you stand there, each of you racking your heads for the right thing to say. Eren wants to tell Levi and Hange to stop being so rude, that they were the ones who were begging you to come back and now that you’re here they won’t even talk to you. Levi and Hange are debating which one of them should yell at you first, for being withdrawn from them and not asking for help the way Eren did. And you’re figuring out who you should apologize to first, between the three of them. 

None of you break. Because it’s not the right time. Because Marco is dead. 

“Everyone is sleeping together upstairs. There should be an extra air mattress up there, Eren will get it for you….knock if you need something.” Levi says, tone exasperated as he shuffles away. 

“Welcome back, kid.” 

Hange gives you a full smile as they follow him, leaving you and Eren in the kitchen. The distance Levi is putting in between you and him stings, but you swallow the burn and remind yourself that you’re the one who inflicted it on yourself. 

At the time, after the interview, the rationale made more sense. Nonsensically, you decided that you were done with the industry and that, by proxy, meant that you were done with them too. You did your interview and stuck to your word, never looked back. 

It’s humiliating now. Debilitating thinking about how much you must have hurt them. Because each of them, they continually reached out until it stopped. Mikasa made every effort to have you come to her engagement party, that she would even stop the press from coming for Vogue the way they had planned for you. 

And when you didn’t show, all she did was send you pictures, of her and Jean cutting the cake and of the dress she had bought for you to wear. Hange and Levi were so vigilant about it, on making sure that you were okay, that you had security details, that people really were leaving you alone. You didn’t heed any of their efforts, because for all intents and purposes, you were leaving the girl you were behind. 

Her dreams, the love she held, the friends she had. 

It seems stupid now. It seems incredibly and gut-wrenchingly stupid that your last words to Marco were over two years ago because you were punishing him for something that wasn’t his fault. That you can’t go to any of them for comfort because the thing that they need comfort from is you. 

All you know how to do is ruin people. 

“Are you hungry? Or do you want to go to bed?” Eren asks. 

“I can go to bed. Levi said air mattress?” 

“Yeah, we’re all sleeping together in the loft upstairs.” 

“We?” you ask. 

“Mikasa and Jean are here. Ymir and Hisu, Bertholdt and Reiner, Connie and Sash. Everyone else should be getting in tomorrow.” 

Eren pads towards the stairs and you awkwardly follow, crawling up the stairs behind him. You can hear the loud chatter of voices, talking over each other, as you try to catch the ends of their conversation. 

“But where do they go when you pee?” Sasha asks. 

“Fuck do you mean, where do they go?” Reiner says, voice incredulous. 

“Like in the bowl? Because if you’re sitting on the toilet, they have to go somewhere?” Sasha repeats. 

“Sasha. It’s almost one in the morning. Please stop talking about balls.” Ymir groans, earning a good amount of laughs from the group. 

“Eren, tell them all to shut the fuck up.” Jean groans, forearm over his eyes as he and Mikasa roll around on their mattress. 

Eren looks at you, eyes weary, before he turns to respond to them. 

“Y/N’s here.”

They all peek their heads up, curious eyes falling on you, as you give them a halfhearted smile, trying your best to wipe your sweaty palms on the back of your dress. 

“Hi guys.” 

The silence is deafening. You can’t pick what’s worse - Reiner and Bertholdt squinting their eyes at you or Mikasa and Jean refusing to look at you. 

Mikasa and Jean. 

Historia stands up, strutting over from her air mattress, to wrap her arms around you, the pressure of the hug so hard you can barely breathe. You breathe in her smell, spicy and sharp the way it’s always been, as she pulls away. Her warm hand is resting on your cheek, the smile on her face so genuine that it untangles the smallest parts of discomfort on your chest. 

“Hi princess. Missed you.” 

“Thanks, Hisu. I missed you too.” 

That’s always been the thing about Historia. That she’ll pick up, even when you haven’t called her in two years, and run to your aid. 

“How’d you know we were here?” Jean asks, hands resting on his knees. 

“I asked Historia.” you respond. 

“Told you I was her favorite. She reached out to me before you.” Historia mutters, flopping back onto the air mattress she’s sharing with Ymir. 

“You’re so arrogant, Historia. And full of shit.” Jean responds, rolling his eyes.

“You’re so right, Jean-Boy. This is just like what we fought about earlier.” Connie responds. 

The group of them break out into an argument, Historia looking like she’s full on about to wrestle Connie as he only instigates her on. Mikasa’s already resting with her eyes closed as Jean turns pink in the face from his irritations. 

And you can’t help but laugh, warm tingling in your chest at all of them, wholeheartedly the same. You look over at Eren and smile, which he returns. But despite it all, that stillness, that outsider feeling sits in your skin. Because despite them being the same, the striking differences in the room tell you things are wholeheartedly different too. 

“Okay. Where’s the extra air mattress?” Eren asks. 

Connie turns, eyes wide, as he gives the two of you a sheepish smile. 

“Really funny story. Sooooo….” 

“God. What did you do?” Eren groans. 

“Long story short, I was thinking about waterbeds. If you pop a water bed, it should be like a waterfall right? So if it’s an air mattress, it should be like an inflatable air balloon thing. Like the weird noodle guys at the car store? Right? So, I tried to pop it. And succeeded.” Connie responds, rambling. 

“Was it cool?” you ask. 

“Ugh. Not at all, princess.” Connie responds. 

You smile, perhaps bigger than you should at Connie using your old nickname, as Eren starts yelling at him. 

“You should be the one to sleep on the floor since you’re the one who ruined the mattress.” Eren states. 

“She should sleep on the floor. She got here last!” Connie responds. 

“She just threw up. And she wasn’t going to sleep on the floor regardless.” 

“Is she contagious?” Connie responds. 

“Connie!” 

Eren rolls his eyes as Mikasa stands up, shuffling to your side and lightly tugging your arm. You look at her, taking her shorter hair in, as you give her a smile. 

“Hey. Want to go change? Your old clothes should still be here, don’t know how well they’ll fit.” 

Eren breaks out of his conversation, leaning forward to where the two of you are talking, to interject. 

“What’s mine is yours. Take mine if you need to.” he says, before returning in full flesh to the argument he’s having with Connie. You can tell they’re both joking from the way they’re trying not to laugh as you start to walk away. 

The two of you quietly pad down the length to the two doors, directly across from each other, as you take in the scribbled signs switched. Your old room now reads Jean and Mikasa with Connie’s handwriting scribbled underneath inscribing please fuck quietly on the door. And consequently, Eren’s room now reads Eren and Y/N with Sasha’s handwriting scribbled underneath reading yall are fucked UP for this. 

You turn to Mikasa and give her a weird look. 

“Right. We’ve been here for a week, actually. Table reading season four stuff. Jean and I want to share a room so we moved all of his stuff to your room and your stuff to Eren’s room. We’ll put it back.” Mikasa states, pushing open the door to Eren’s room as she starts rummaging through your old drawers in the closet. 

“No, no. It’s okay. I wouldn’t want to impose on you guys when you’re almost about to be newlyweds?” you ask. 

“Yeah. Yeah, next year. And we just moved it because we thought you weren’t going to come back. And Eren didn’t want to toss your stuff and all.” she responds. She pulls out a shirt, most definitely from when you’re fifteen, as you both snicker at the size and she keeps digging. 

You walk around Eren’s room, your room too now, as you eye all the boxes filled with your things, tangled in with Eren’s clothes lying around on every open surface. You take a seat at his desk as you start inspecting his little bulletin board, the pictures underneath the pins. 

One of him, Lana, and Sukuna - the three of them smoldering at the camera. Eren and Connie smiling, Eren and a little kid with short curly hair, and two pictures of you. The first one is of you and him sleeping on set and the other is the two of you with Falco, both of you crouching down to his height and hugging him from behind.

And hanging around both of the pins are your friendship bracelets, which you take off the hooks to inspect. 

So that’s where it went. In all of the fire of moving around so much, jumping from one place to another, you always thought you lost it. But you must have left it here all along.

You run your hands over the beads, yours and Eren’s names, as Mikasa gives you a head shake, indicating she didn’t find anything. 

“S’okay. I’ll look through Eren’s stuff I guess.” you murmur. 

Mikasa nods as she leans against Eren’s desk, hands crossed over her chest, as the silence hangs in between the two of you. She takes one of the bracelets from your hands, twisting the beads in her fingers, as you do the same with yours. 

You find solace in the fact that Mikasa is still wearing her engagement ring - a constant in the sparring mix of changes you just witnessed in the room. 

Connie sober. Ymir and Historia sharing a mattress. Eren and Connie getting along. Mikasa and Jean even tolerating being in the same room as Eren. In the same room as you. And the jarring absence of Marco. 

“How are you?” Mikasa asks. 

“Okay, Mika. How are you?” 

Mikasa sinks down, sitting flat on the floor as she hikes her knees to her chest. You follow suit, dropping from your chair to sit next to her, lacing your arm through hers as you both blankly stare at the floor ahead of you, picking what topic to broach first. 

I missed you. I’m sorry I haven’t talked to  you in two years. Our friend is dead. Eren is here. 

“The engagement party looked beautiful, Mikasa.” 

She smiles, leaning her head against yours. 

“Thank you, Y/N. It was quite nice actually.” 

“I watched it on Vogue. Cried quite a bit.” you respond. 

She laughs, rolling her eyes at you as she lightly shoves you. 

“Should’ve come then. Cried in real time.” 

You swallow hard, cheeks warm, as you squeeze her hand. You know she’s joking, but the guilt runs too deep. 

“I’m sorry for not coming. I-I really wish I was there. And I know there’s no justification for it but-” 

“We aren’t mad at you. Jean and I.” she clarifies. 

“I’d understand if you were. I’m your best friend. I’ve-I’ve been with you guys since the start and-” 

Mikasa’s hands are soft on your shoulders, tears gathering in her eyes, as she looks at you, eyes pinched in pain.

“You had every right to not come. To be done with this. What they did to you, to Eren- Y/N, god.” 

You swallow hard. 

“It didn’t warrant me not coming to you-” 

“It did. You don’t even know the half of it. You-you and Eren. You just-” 

There’s a knocking at the door and Eren pads in, eyes wide as he sees you and Mikasa on the floor, tears gathered in her eyes and your limbs tangled together. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can come back.” 

“No, no. It’s okay, Eren. Her clothes are too small. I can go grab mine for her if you two want to talk-” her words pointed, the emphasis on the last words hard. 

“No, don’t bother Mikasa.” he responds, disappearing into his closet to find a pair of clothes for you. 

Mikasa turns back to you, giving your cheek a pinch. 

“I’ll make Jean sleep on the floor if Connie doesn’t give up his mattress. It’ll be like old times.” she responds, shuffling out of the room as you stay on your spot on the floor.

You hike your knees to your chest as you twist the beads in your fingers again, Eren’s name that you used to wear on your wrist almost every day foreign in your fingers. 

“Eren. We’re going to be late.” you groan, impatiently tapping your foot on the ground as you wait for him by the door. 

The two of you are already thirty minutes late to Erwin’s going away party, the last car waiting to take the two of you, Marco, and Annie out to the little soiree that Erwin is throwing for himself - in celebration of him being killed off. 

“Sorry, sorry. Looking for my bracelet.” he responds, darting back and forth from different corners of the room. 

“Well, hurry up. Annie’s getting pissed.” 

“I found yours! But where is mine?” 

You look down at your wrist to find the pink beads on your wrist, spelling out your name against your pulse point in your wrist. 

“Oops, sorry. I’m wearing yours.” you respond. 

Eren’s quick to walk over to where you’re standing on the door - giving you enough time to groan at how haphazardly he got ready for the party. His tie is loose against his neck, hair all messy as you reach up to fix it. 

“God, Eren. At least brush your hair.” 

“Quit moving your hands.” 

Eren takes his hand in yours, quickly sliding the bracelet off your wrist and switching it with the one in his hand. 

“Well, get ready properly. Your tie isn’t even on right.” you respond, irritated as you reach forward to tighten the fabric and smooth down his collar. 

“And if I told you I put it on wrong just so you would fix it, what would you think?” 

“That you’re asking for a death sentence from Annie for wasting time.” 

He rolls his eyes, reaching up to lift the hand he just placed the bracelet on. His thumb is straight against your pulse point, blood pulsating under the spot, as he lifts his hand to leave a kiss right there. 

“And that it’s cute that you did that.” 

He gives you a wide grin, locking your hands together as you both rush out the door. 

Eren shuffles out, sitting across from you as he puts the stack of clothes between you and hikes his knees to his chest. He holds his hand out and you place the bracelet in his hand. 

“You left it in the bathroom.” 

You nod as you try to steady your mind - still running a hundred miles per hour and overstimulated from seeing everyone again. From how familiar it all feels, how easy it all is to fall back into this despite how different things are. 

How you and Eren are miles apart, how you haven’t talked to them all in months, how Marco is dead. That Marco’s death is suspending all of you in a weird state of reality, that every angry word spoken and every bit of harshness seems miniscule now.

“Do you want me to leave?” Eren asks. 

“No.” you shrug. 

“Do you want to talk?” 

“No.”

Eren nods, counting each of the beads on the bracelet, as you both sit there in the silence, letting your eyes float around the room as you let your mind wander. 

Marco and Colt playing chess everyday when he visited you in Canada, Marco falling for every stupid joke that Connie played on him, the way you all cried when Marco died in the show, Marco at the awards show. 

“Eren?” 

“Yes, Y/N?” 

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” 

The question takes Eren off guard. He debates it then and there - telling you the truth full and whole - on the basis that he can’t handle the way you’re looking at him. At the fact that you even asked that, at the implication that you thought he could ever forget. 

“Of course. On set, in the-” 

“No, no. I mean, for real.” 

“At the awards show.” Eren responds, without a beat. 

“Yeah.” 

Eren leans forward, wrapping his hands around your neck and pressing his lips to yours. You can still feel people moving around you, setting up things for the closing part of the ceremony, but the only thing you’re paying attention to is Eren. And his lips. And the way he’s pulling you closer, like he can’t get enough of you. 

When you pull apart, you’re both panting, smiling at each other. 

“Thank god. If I got cock-blocked from kissing you a third time, I was actually going to commit a murder.” 

“You want me so bad.” you say, sarcastically. 

“Obviously.” 

You both smile and turn to the left, to a very smiley Marco staring at you two. And then you cringe, remembering that you and Eren are literally backstage and there’s like seven people who just watched you suck face. Marco walks up, wrapping his arms around both of you and hugging hard. 

“I love you guys.” 

“Marco. Don’t-” Eren starts.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. You need time to figure whatever is going on, without Connie and and Sasha up your ass the entire time. But I’m really, really happy for you.” 

“Really, Marco?” you ask, leaning into Eren’s touch. 

“It’s always been you guys. You guys better not break up or else I’ll come hunt both of you down. And if I’m dead, I’ll come back to life just to haunt you guys.” 

“Do you think he’s haunting us?” 

Eren frowns, the memory refreshing in his head. One he thought of a few days ago, lingering on the fact that Marco’s probably turning in grave right now. Granted, Marco was very vehement about his stance on you two - your interview and what Eren did, making Marco so agonizingly and uncharacteristically angry that it bothers him now. 

For not listening to him. That if he does ever get to cross that bridge with you, at least be your friend again, that Marco won’t ever know. 

“I just don’t understand why you won’t just go out there and tell her. You know where she lives.” Marco states, irritated. 

“Because I just can’t, Marco! You watched the interview!” 

“The entire song was about how she forgave you. How she isn’t holding a grudge against you. And-and the way she was talking about it, some part of her knows that other people had something to do with this, Eren. She knows deep down.” 

“The interview was fucking horrible. This entire thing, this thing that I did, fucked her up so bad that she isn’t even doing this anymore. This was all she wanted, ever since she was a kid, she-she was so determined and she gave it up because I said all those things, because I did what I did.” 

“Eren. It’s more compl-” 

“No, it’s not. And she fucking hates me. You should have seen how upset she was at the awards show…..I-I ruined it for her. I ruined her entire dream, Marco.” 

“God, Eren. Your tunnel vision is insane. You’re not even giving her a fighting chance when she doesn’t even know the truth!” he says. 

“Maybe haunting is too mean of a word. I think he’d be happy to see us together, right now. Even if the circumstances aren’t the best.” he responds. 

You smile, giving him a nod. 

“He always did like playing cupid, didn’t he?” 

“At the engagement party, he walked around telling everyone that Jean and Mikasa were only dating because of him.” 

“That’s a lie.” you state. 

“No one believed him.” Eren responds. 

The two of you fall into silence again, resting your chins on your knees, as more thoughts swim through your head, pain so palpable it’s sitting in your chest. That if Marco were here, he’d be prancing in and giving you two devious smirks, lovingly teasing both of you. Pulling both of you aside, saying that bygones should be bygones if you still love each other. 

You look up at him, watch his eyes flutter open and close, as he fidgets with his hands. 

You still love him. 

“Can we be civil for the weekend? Like…like you’re not Eren and I’m not Y/N, we’re just-” you sutter.

Your question falls short, hanging in the air as you watch the gears in Eren’s head turn. 

“I just mean. So many things happened between us. And I know there’s hurt there, on your part and maybe mine too, but…..I don’t want us to be mad at each other at the funeral. Or after.” 

You swallow hard. 

“I’d hate for one of us to die being mad at each other. Without having talked in years.” you whisper. 

Eren gets it. The guilt that must be wracking you for not talking to Marco, when you were one of the people who was closest to him. He reaches forward, taking your hand in his, as he fidgets with your fingers. 

“He knows you loved him, Y/N.”

He watches the tears pour down your eyes, face pink and eyes swollen, as you talk. 

“Did he? Because I ignored his texts. For years. He texted me happy birthday, asked how Falco was doing, wanted to know if I watched Halloweentown on October first like I always do, if I was happy, if I wanted to talk and-” 

He squeezes your hand, pulling out his phone, as he scoots to the space next to you. He tries to still the pounding of his heart as you lace your arm through his, leaning your head against his. 

“He knows, Y/N.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I was with him. I talked to him quite often after….after everything that happened. I promise you, he knows you loved him.” 

You shake your head, guilt sitting in your head. 

“I have something for you.” he murmurs. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s from a few years ago. I think he was really, really drunk.” 

He hands you his phone, open to a voicemail from Marco, as you wipe the tears on your phone and press play. His voice comes through the speaker booming and giggling and hiccuping as he talks. 

“Eren. Eren! Fuck, I love you so much dude. You’re-you’re such a guy. Like I-I just see you and think hmmmm. That’s a guy. Are you with Y/N? Tell her I love her. She’s my best friend. You’re all my best friends. I’m so happy I got to grow up with all of you. Oh, Connie just threw up on the floor, oh Connie- hey, stop! Okay, love you brother, I have to go.” 

The voice cuts off abruptly, as you laugh. 

“Never could hold his drink, could he?” 

“Not everyone can be alcoholics like Jean and Mikasa.” 

You both laugh, chest aching from how familiar, how soft this feels. That you’re both sitting in this room, where you grew up, fell in love, slept next to each other every night. Eren can see the tears welling in your eyes, thinking of his best efforts to stop it, at whatever is plaguing your mind. 

“So. You said you’re not Y/N and I’m not Eren. So who are we?” he asks. 

“I meant that metaphorically, you’re-” 

You watch Eren’s eyes flit around his room, scanning till he stops around his bookshelf, and turns back to glance at you. 

“Your new name is Margaret.” 

“Ew. And I didn’t mean it like that, Eren.” 

“Who is Eren? My name is….” he responds, giving you a smile as he elongagates the syllables waiting for your response. 

You roll your eyes. 

“Bruce. Your name is Bruce.” 

“Bruce Wayne!” 

“No. Not like Bruce Wayne. Think of someone really boring. Irritating, agitating.” 

“Perfect! I’ll just think of you after five shots of tequila.” 

You both laugh as Eren stands up, holding a hand out to pull you up. He sets the stack of clothes in your hand as he makes a move to walk out of the room. Except he hangs on the door for a second, voice soft when he talks. 

“Does Bruce have permission to say something?” 

“Sure.” 

“I know he technically just met Margaret because she was born a minute ago, but he missed her. A lot.” 

You feel your cheeks burn as you give him a nod, murmuring a quiet me too before sinking into the bathroom to slip his clothes on. 

Connie, does in fact, not give up the mattress. Jean and Eren begrudgingly share as you and Mikasa cuddle into the night. 

--

You wake up first, to find Mikasa sprawled over your entire frame. Her entire body is burning hot and you send a silent prayer to the world's strongest soldier, Jean Kirschtein, for putting up with this for so long. After you all but free yourself from her grasp, you spare a quick glance to see Jean must be smothering Eren more than Mikasa was you and silently muse that the two of them truly are made for each other. 

You pad down to the kitchen, yanking the hood of Eren’s hoodie over your head, to find Connie sitting at the table, scribbling away in a journal, a steaming bowl of oatmeal next to him. 

“Good morning, Con.’” 

He looks up, one of his hands going instinctively to cover what he was writing as you take the seat next to him, crossing your legs up on the chair. He immediately relaxes, giving you a bright smile.

“Good morning, princess. You can have some if you want.” 

“No, no. I don’t want to impose.” 

“What’s mine is yours.” he says, mimicking Eren’s voice. 

You snort, reaching for his spoon, as you take a bite of the warm food, soothing the stiffness in your throat. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

“Mikasa basically strangled me all night.” 

“Ew. Of course she has the cuddle bug. I swear, Jean and Mikasa were always goo goo ga ga, but they’re even worse now.” 

“They’re getting married, Connie. It’s sweet.” 

He smiles, sliding the string through the pages, as he turns to you giving you a smile. 

“Yeah. It is sweet.” he responds, voice quiet. 

Connie swallows hard, eyes weary as he turns to you. 

“I want to apologize.” Connie says. 

The elephant in the room. He’s the first one to touch it. 

“Oh. That’s okay, I under-” 

“No, no. It’s not okay.” he responds, tone almost harsh. 

You and Armin share a look the second he breaks the frame, glass shattering over the length of Armin’s apartment. 

“Why the fuck would you guys bring me here?” Connie asks, sweat beading his forehead. 

From the way he’s moving, all erratic and nonsensical, it makes you think that it’s out of his system. That if Connie had a chance, this would be when he would sneak off to the bathroom to get his fix. But he’s nowhere near that, instead settled into Armin’s tiny New York apartment, screaming at the two of you. 

“Connie. You asked us too.” you respond. 

“I was fucking high! Why would you guys even entertain a word I said?” Connie states, voice even more agitated now. 

“Connie. You…you need help. We looked at some rehab places while you were asleep and-” 

“Rehab? I’m not going to rehab. Are you trying to ruin my fucking career, Armin?” 

“No, but we want to make sure you’re okay. They’ll be discrete, we’ll make sure the security detail is good so that you can be better and-” 

“I am fucking fine. Do I look like I need help?” 

You and Armin share a weary glance, before looking back at him. 

“Connie. We love you. We-we just want to help you, okay?” you say. 

“Does it ever embarrass you when you do this, Y/N?” Connie says, voice laced with venom. 

“Sorry?” 

“Does you not think it’s embarrassing to beg like this in front of people who don’t fucking care about you the way you do about them? I figured that Eren putting you in your place like that would set you straight but it seems like you didn’t learn your lesson, did you?” 

You swallow hard, eyes and skin burning as Connie waits for your response. 

“You don’t mean that. You-you’re just mad because you can’t be high right now.” you murmur. 

“Am I, Y/N? Or is it true?” 

“It’s not true. This isn’t you, Connie.” 

“God, Y/N. Wake the fuck up. We aren’t fifteen anymore. No ones sitting here holding your hand telling you that you’ll be the best anymore. I get that you need that ego boost to move forward but I sure as hell am not going to be the one to give it to you.” 

“Connie, that’s enough-” 

Connie swallows hard, eyes focused on his fingers as he talks. 

“I know-I know that I said it wasn’t true. But I really did say all of those things because I was high. Or because I wanted to be high and was in withdrawal and-” 

“I know that, Connie. I’ve never held it against you.” 

He frowns, twisting his pen to his fingers. 

“You always give grace even when you don’t know the whole story. Me, Hisu, Eren.” he murmurs. 

“You deserve it…and I partially knew. I mean, addiction is a disease. It hurt at first but that wasn’t your fault. You just needed to be treated and helped and I’m glad you did.” 

He smiles, resting his cheek against his hand. 

“Thank you, Y/N. Don’t mind me if I spend the rest of my life asking for forgiveness. I won’t ever feel like I deserve it but I’ll keep asking anyway.” he murmurs. 

“I’ll always give it to you.” you respond, squeezing his shoulder. 

You silently wonder that if you ever did come back, sans funeral, if things would be like this. If you and Eren could pretend, if Mikasa and Jean could look past it all. Because some parts of it, they feel earnest, truthful. But you can’t tell if you’re all suspended in some disbelief, clouded by your grief and trying to cling onto one of the things Marco loved most. His time on the show, with you all. 

“Honey when I’m above the trees, I SEE IT FOR WHAT IT IS.” Connie sings, screams. 

“Oh my god, Connie.” you deadpan. 

He’s singing happiness. Like the happiness you sang in your interview, when you forgave Eren. 

“THERE’LL BE HAPPINESS AFTER YOU. BUT THERE WAS HAPPINESS BECAUSE OF YOUUUU. BOTH OF THESE THINGS CAN BE TRUE, THERE IS HAPPINESS.” 

You clamp your hand flat against his mouth, trying not to snicker, as he continues to sing underneath your hand. 

“Are you insane? They’re all sleeping.” you whisper. 

“Not anymore we’re not.” Ymir responds, immediately smacking Connie against the head. 

“You’re going to give Eren a nightmare, Connie.” Historia mutters, dragging her feet into the kitchen as Ymir follows. 

“I’m already living it.” Eren grumbles, leaning against the counter as he splits a PopTart with Jean. 

Slowly but surely, every one of them shuffles down to the room, the deja vu of the situation hitting deep as each person follows suit. Sasha ambles down after a few minutes, finishing off the bowl of oatmeal that you and Connie were sharing while Reiner and Bertholdt murmur quietly over the coffee cup. Eren’s in hushed conversation with Jean and Mikasa, fixing himself breakfast, as Hange and Levi wander into the room, immediately thrown off by all of you in there. 

“Jesus.” Levi says, tone exasperated. 

“Good morning, Levi.” Mikasa says, gesturing to the water boiling on the kettle for his tea. He gives her a grateful smile, taking a seat in his corner as Hange talks to the group of you. Connie’s resorted to cracking all of your knuckles since his are all worn out as they go on. 

“Good morning kiddos!” 

“Don’t….do such a cheery voice, Hange.” Levi says, sighing. 

Hange’s smile falters, before dropping all together, and giving a thoughtful nod. Eren shuffles over to your side, taking the seat next to yours as he places a steaming bowl of ramen in front of you. 

“Oh. Thank you, Eren.” 

“Who?” 

You roll your eyes as Eren smiles, reaching forward to flick your cheek. 

“Bruce.” 

“Bruce, indeed.” he responds. 

Eren knows he’s in treacherous waters. That this line you’ve drawn, that you’re not you and he’s not himself, works almost too well for Eren’s purposes. That he can pretend, in earnest, that none of the things he said happened. That you and him are just as you always were, untouched in the bubble you were always in when you lived here. . 

“The funeral is tomorrow, as we all know. The Bodt’s have requested that we get there ten minutes before the service, so be on time tomorrow. Bertholdt, Sasha, I’m looking at both of you. ” 

You all nod, humming in response, as you start digging into the bowl, switching off with Connie and Sasha who are both trying to monopolize the only real food in a five feet radius. 

“That being said…” Hange says, swallowing hard. 

They’re pacing back and forth almost, teetering on their ankles, when they talk. And when they finish explaining - autopsy report in hand and the gut punch sticking in your chest - you all sit there, blankly staring. 

And wander in silence for the rest of the day. 

It was one thing that Marco died. And an entirely different one that he was killed. 

--

“Someone go get Eren, we only have thirty minutes.” Levi says, everyone lingering in the kitchen and the living room, in a sea of black. 

Almost everyone is here now - Erwin, Armin, even Eren’s parents - all lingering around as you wait to head to the funeral. You give a curt nod to Levi and march out to the pavement, pebbles crunching under your feet as you make your way to set. 

Eren’s been in there since last night, never retreating to the room to change into his pajamas before he settled down on the couch downstairs. Despite your protests, he refuses to sleep in the same room as you. Or let you sleep anywhere else besides Jean’s old bed in his room. 

You let the pebbles crunch under your feet, ignoring the sting as you pass the tandem bike, and slip onto the set. You can see new costumes designs printed against the walls, storyboards with Levi and Hange’s handwriting on them as you make your way to the back towards the piano.

When you see him, that rage, simmering warm in your stomach over the past twenty-four hours, the deep-seated pain of Marco dying alone, crying out for help, comes to a head when you see Eren. Because he’s sitting at the bench, with his book propped up against the stand, and a bottle of pills in his hands. 

You march up to where he’s standing, crossing your hands across your chest as you all but glare at him. 

“Oh. Hey, you look-” 

“Are you serious?” 

You watch his face scrunch up in confusion, that stupid look on his face aggravating you even more. His tie is unkempt, his hair is messy - he’s always so haphazard with these things. 

“You’re doing pills in here before Marco’s funeral. Are you fucking serious?” 

He looks down, at the bottle in his hand and stands up, and swallows hard when he looks at you. 

“Wait-” 

“No. No, for once, you’re going to listen to me. You-you’re sick. Marco’s dead. You can’t even give it to him to be fully there while we say goodbye? This means that much to you?” you spit, watching him shut his eyes. 

“Y/N.” 

“How could you do this? To him? To me?” 

He reaches forward, hands on your shoulders as he squeezes, and your eyes burn like acid. And every feeling, building up over the past few days, comes tumbling out. 

“Why did he have to leave us, Eren? We didn’t get enough time with him. He was only twenty-four, he didn't even get to grow old. He was supposed to die, years from now, so happy, so-so surrounded by people he loved.”

Eren forgoes the rational thought. He reaches forward fully, snaking his arms around you as he cradles your head into his frame, trying his best to stifle your cries into his shoulder. 

“And you. He would hate that you were doing this. I hate that you’re doing this. You-you don’t have to. There are other things that can make you happy or-or fix whatever it is that’s wrong.” 

“Y/N.” 

“What, Eren?” 

He pulls back, reaching for the pill bottle, and placing it in the palm of your hand. You read the label, immediately embarrassed and ashamed of your reaction. 

Eren Jaeger *Lexapro 5 mg  Take one tablet by mouth with the morning meal.

“Oh my god, Eren. I’m so sorry, I-” 

You pull back, sitting down on the bench, as you dig your fingers into your temples, trying to stop that pulsating feeling under your skin. The rage, the feeling, coursing through you so hard that you can’t even pick what you’re mad at. 

You’re breathing panic in and out, chest heaving, as Eren takes a seat next to you, leaning his elbows on his knees. And the feeling, it lands on feeling overwhelmingly embarrassed. Because Eren’s not doing drugs, he’s taking anti-anxiety pills. 

“Eren. I’m so sorry. That was so horrible of me, I thought it was-” 

“You thought it was like Connie.” he finishes

“Yeah. And I’m sorry for assuming, I just-” 

“I’m not mad at you. You were just trying to take care of me. I appreciate it.” 

You groan, embarrassment still coursing through you, as you lean your forehead straight against the piano, the smell of the ink on Eren’s book permeating your nose.  

“Do you remember that birthday party of mine I told you about? When I was ten, at my old house in New York? It was when we were in Australia.” 

You nod. 

“I remember feeling it. A paralyzing block in my chest, like I couldn’t move. And when I was able to move, it was only because it all came rushing to me, so panicked, so fast that I-I didn’t even register what happened.” 

He was barely even ten. You lift your hands to his shoulders, squeezing hard, as he continues. 

You’re here and you’ve got him. 

“I didn’t tell anyone. I thought something was wrong with me. I thought that people feel this way, that it’s normal, but I just felt too much of it. That I just can’t handle things the way normal people do.” 

You frown, reaching up to cup the side of his face. Your fingers brush over his dimples, soft under your fingers, as you talk. 

“Eren. There is nothing wrong with you. That’s just an anxiety attack.” you whisper. 

You’re not sure what it is about what you said but when you look up, there are soft tears flowing down Eren’s cheek, the voice coming out of his mouth so garbled you can barely understand what he’s saying. 

“Hey, Eren.” you whisper, 

“No. No, no. Stop.” 

Eren stands up, retreating to the other side of the piano, where he’s leaning over, his entire frame heaving up and down as you walk to his side. 

“Why are you-” 

“I don’t want you to help me. You shouldn’t be helping me.” he says, his voice shuddering. 

“Why not?” you ask, frowning. 

“I’ve been horrible to you. I don’t deserve your help. You-you should be cussing me out, so mad that you can’t stand me, that you want me to suffer and you’re not. And it’s agonizing for me that you aren’t.” 

You walk up behind him, wrapping your arms around him from the back, as you feel him sigh. You lean your cheek flat against his shoulder, squeezing as hard as you can as Eren continues to cry, fists clenched so tight on the piano that white. 

“You’re not you and I’m not me. We agreed on that.” you murmur. 

“Y/N. We can’t-” 

“Who?” 

He snickers, amidst his tears, as he turns around, and you slot your arms under his. You can feel his heart thumping under your ear, loud and fast, as you place your hand over the spot. The two of you stay that way for some time, Eren's tears falling onto you, as you try your best to remedy whatever it is that's burning inside of him.

“Just calm down and breathe. Falco says it always helps to talk about something else, when he feels like this.” 

He tenses at the mention of Falco, which you realize was a mistake. 

“Why were you in here?” you ask. 

“The Bodt’s asked me to write a song for the service.” 

The perfect distraction.

“Can you sing it for me?” you ask. 

He looks down, green eyes - full and round - as he nods, shuffling towards the piano bench as you take the seat next to him. You can see that the lyrics are scribbled on the book resting against the stand, the paper stiff from blotches of Eren’s tears. He starts playing the piano, his voice echoing on the walls of the set. 

And if I didn't know better I'd think you were talking to me now If I didn't know better I'd think you were still around What died didn't stay dead What died didn't stay dead You're alive, you're alive in my head What died didn't stay dead What died didn't stay dead You're alive, so alive

You rest your hands against the keys next to his, slowly following his pace, as he continues to sing, the hum of his voice filling the air. You can’t help but think it. That he’s beautiful. That this is your Eren, miles away from whoever he was when you saw him last. 

I should've asked you questions I should've asked you how to be Asked you to write it down for me Should've kept every grocery store receipt 'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

You can feel the tears flowing down your cheeks now, straight onto the piano keys and your hands, as you cry. 

And if I didn't know better I'd think you were singing to me now If I didn't know better I'd think you were still around I know better But I still feel you all around I know better But you're still around

When you and Eren get to the service, you walk hand in hand to the piano. And play the song together, for Marco and Marco only. 

--

You knock on the door, padding into the room to find Levi, hunched over his computer and leaning his hand on his cheek. You take the seat next to him, crossing your legs against the chair, as he looks over at you, expressionless. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” you say. 

Four days after the funeral and all of them have cleared out. Forced to go back to wherever they were before, to push down the beating pain and move forward. The grief, perhaps it did suspend reality for the rest of you. Leave you to pretend that nothing that happened was real, that you were still teenagers running around on this set together. 

That wasn’t how it was for Levi. Because in almost a week of being there, he had yet to talk to you with a straight face. 

“What are you working on, Levi?” you ask, cracking your knuckles. 

He turns the laptop towards you, one of the old hard drives from the earlier seasons pulled up on his computer. He plays the video, one of Jean sitting in a chair behind the green backdrop. 

“Okay, Jean. Tell me your goal for the end of the show.” Levi asks. 

The video, Jean must be barely sixteen, wearing one of the old costumes from season one. You remember now, that Hange was insistent on documenting everything - that you all were going to grow up so fast that they should keep videos. Obviously, Hange is too disorganized to do it themselves, so Levi bit the bullet and did it for them. 

“I don’t know. That’s so far away, Levi.” he groans, scrunching up his forehead. 

“Just answer, Jean. Where do you see yourself at the end of the show, when you’re in your twenties?” 

“With Mikasa.” he responds. 

You both smile as Levi switches to the next videos, the two of you watching all of them in silence. 

“I want to be myself. That’s all I want to be, not embarrassed or ashamed, I-I just want to be me.” Historia says, smiling into the camera. 

“I don’t know. That’s a weird question, Levi.” Mikasa grumbles, glaring at him. 

“You’re horrible, Mikasa. Jean said he wants to be with you.” Levi responds. 

“Well, that’s a given. Of course, I’m going to be with Jean.” she responds, giving one last eye roll to the camera. 

“Doing something important. That means something to people.” Connie responds. 

You swallow hard, as you see Eren, fifteen and so smiley, as he crawlsl onto the little stool.

“My turn?” Eren asks, giving Levi a bright smile. 

“Yes, kid. Your turn. Why else would you be sitting here?” 

“Okay. This is a secret so don’t tell anyone.” he says. 

“I’m not broadcasting to a news channel, Eren. Just hurry up, I still have to get through half of you.” 

Eren nods, reaching up to fix his hair, before he talks - his voice filled with that confident resolve, that one he always sported when he was fifteen.

“I want to get the Best Actor in a Lead role award. And on the same night, I want Y/N to become a triple threat. And then I want us to tell her that I told her so. Me and her, at the top.” he says, giving the camera a bright smile, before jumping off. 

The next one is of you, what you said being entirely lost to you in your memories. 

“What do I want to do when I'm in my twenties? Hm.” you echo. 

“Today would be nice.” Levi deadpans. 

“Well, I don’t know! That’s so broad. I want to be doing stuff like this. Acting, making music, To have people enjoy the work I make, and making it with my friends, like Eren and Mikasa and Armin. I want to be here, more than anything. It feels so right to me, that I get to do this. It’s special, it’s a privilege and I’m really thankful I get to do it.” 

“Note to anyone watching. This is one of our only kids with manners.” Levi says, setting the camera down to give you a hug. 

You bite down on your cheek, looking over at Levi, as he plays the last one. Of Marco. 

“Okay, Marco. What do you want to do when you’re in your twenties?” 

“Well. I know what I’m going to be doing.” Marco says, crossing his arms against his chest. 

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” 

“See. Spoiler alert, but Hange and Levi just killed me off this show. But we made a deal. That I get to be in each season, even if its a super minor role like a flashback or whatever. So in my twenties, I’ll be here. Surrounded by all my childhood best friends, making this show that’s always meant so much to us.” 

You swallow hard as Levi wraps his arms around you, the two of you watching Marco’s smiley face disappear from the screen. 

“So I’ll see you in four months? For season four?” 

“Damn right you will.” you respond. 

And for the first time in a week, Levi breaks a smile. 

“Good.”

--

next part linked here

an, again: SEASON FOUR ERA (this shit abt to be so awkward when they're not all sad/grieving )

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#seeingivywrites! #method acting #eren #eren x you #eren x reader #eren x y/n #eren jaeger #eren jaeger x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x y/n #eren yeager #eren yeager x you #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x y/n #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan x you #attack on titan x y/n #aot #aot x you #aot x reader #aot x y/n #snk #snk x you #snk x reader #snk x y/n #aot actor au #actor eren #actor eren x reader #actor eren x you

[fuck-customers]

I work in a public library. People come in drunk/high/etc, so all staff have been trained on what to do in a situation like an OD. Today, a very annoying regular told me I needed to call 911. I asked him why, because he and his friends come in wicked high all the time--I was obviously ready to call emergency services or get the Narcan, because that's the normal response, but ESPECIALLY for this particular patron and his friends.

He started cracking up at my reaction and told me that he just needed a colored pencil sharpened. His friend from across the room started cracking up too. He kept coming up to laugh and say how awesome it was that he "got" me so good (he said he could tell because I looked so worried, like no shit I looked worried), and how he used to get the previous person in my position all the time with that joke. 

I used to think this dude was just annoying (super rude, comes in high all the time and is super loud and disrespectful of the space and other people, super dumb but the kind of dumb where they act like you're the idiot because they don't understand you, and when he's sober, he's just plain mean to people and acts like staff should be waiting on him hand and foot), but I actually hate him for real now. Like fuck off dude, really not a funny goofy joke. 

#submissions #fuck customers

[anjelicawrites]

Burning Needs

Paring: pleasure dom!Osferth x reader, service top!Aemond Targaryen x reader, Aemond Targaryen x reader x Osferth.

Synopsis: pure smut. I have no redeeming excuse for this. Thank you my instigator #1 and love of my life for inspiring this!

Warnings: overstimulation, multiple orgasms, toys, cunnilingus, p in v sex, cumplay, subspace sex, the boys kissing because why not.

There are those days where you need Osferth, you need him to take the reins so that you can be out of your head for a little while. Today you don't have a special reason, you are simply itching, starting ten things at the same time and not finishing one: your student's homework lay half marked on the table, you haven't written a single page of the project you want to propose for the PhD in Classics you've been courting for a while and the pile of clothes to fold lays untouched near the washing machine. You seem unable to find rest, your own skin a nuisance.

Aemond is working from home today and has been neck deep in calls, managing to emerge from his study only for a quick sandwich and a peck on your cheek. Osferth has been plowing the garden for hours and had just hit the shower, filthy to the bone and happy, cheeks and shoulders reddened by the sun. 

It's a quiet day and yet you feel like you want to jump out of your body as you rearrange some knick-knacks and check if the plants need water. 

You jump when Osferth's hand touches your shoulder and you swat his chest reflexively, your heart beating a crazy tattoo inside your chest; Osferth knows you all too well, he just needs a glance to see how wired up you are as you hug him

"Os?" you ask burrowing your face against his chest

"What is it?" he already knows, but he wants you to spell it out. 

You rub your face against his chest, inhaling deeply the mix of body wash and natural scent. You don't want to say it out loud, shy all of a sudden. 

"My lady love?" 

His touch is soft on your chin, fingers tight to make you stare into his eyes; you avert your gaze, teeth worrying your lower lip

"You know" you say petulantly

"What do I know, if you don't tell me?" there's mirth in his voice and his lips are soft against your forehead

"I need you" you rush as you hide your embarrassed face against the curve of his neck

"Was it so hard to confess?". 

Now, you have more of a submissive bone in your body than him. When you need him, most of the time you brat out until he has to teach you a lesson. Rarely, but it has been happening more frequently since Aemond came around, it's not the pain that you need, it's pleasure until you forget you have a body. 

In all his past experiences, Osferth didn't really have the chance to explore this side of being a dom, which he's liking more than he'd ever thought he would, and he has Aemond's hard limits to thank. If your lives hadn't crossed and entwined together, you two would have probably missed the chance to have fun this way. 

"My love?" 

His fingers find your chin again, needing to know if he’s reading you right.

"Os?" 

Your eyes are already glazed over and your pupils blown: you two are absolutely on the same page here. 

"Give me fifteen minutes and then come upstairs - his hands cup your face, warm, the skin rough and familiar - bring the closed orange juice carton, the big one in the pantry

"I will, sir". 

Your big, beautiful brain is already halfway gone, without him doing nothing but talk to you. 

"Drink something sugary and eat some chocolate. You are going to need all the energy you can muster". 

A full body shudder thunders through your body, stealing a smile from his lips: he doesn't really need fifteen minutes to organize all he needs, but why miss the chance to use your own imagination against you? Fucking with your brain is half the work: once you are in the right mindset, it's so much easier to play with you, to bring you right where he wants you to be. 

On autopilot you drink freshly pressed orange juice, leaving half pitcher in the fridge and eat some of Aemond's dark chocolate, the one he craves when coming down from subspace. On muscle memory only, you grab a marker to write on the board attached to the fridge that more needs to be bought and grab what Osferth asked you to bring, while your mind is already upstairs, creating scenarios upon scenarios, sweat running down your spine, cunt wet and ready for the taking.

The moment the clock strikes the fifteen minute mark, you walk upstairs, your heart in your chest, excited and scared at the same time. 

When you cross the threshold, you feel like a shy virgin, which is hilarious. You've never been afraid or shy whenever sex is involved, but when your brain is in this special kind of gutter, it's like your first time all over again. You feel the warmth of desire spread everywhere in your body when Osferth softly smiles, grabs the items you bought and takes your hands in his. His hands gently help you remove your clothes, fingertips teasingly caressing your skin as it's revealed; goosebumps spread everywhere, your nipples stiffen and Osferth delicately kisses each with love and devotion until a soft moan leaves your lips

"Are you still with me?"

When has he kneeled? And where are your panties?

"Yeah - you murmur - all green". 

You know there's a stupid smile on your face, because it's mirroring Osferth's, who delicately parts your folds and kisses your clit, his tongue licking it slowly, until you buck your hips against his face. His hands curl around your hips to steady you

"Come for me whenever you want". 

You want to agree, your words deserting you the moment his thumbs open your folds again, obscenely wet, to make space for his tongue.

He takes it easy, he knows your first orgasm is always hard to reach and you need time to get there, to get in the right mood. His tongue licks your clit, slowly inching to your hole with every passing, until it catches there and he sneaks in to french kiss you there, while his nose plays with your clit. Your hands grab his hair to move his face to your leisure and he lets you, this is not about control, it’s about your pleasure and the moans spilling from your mouth as he fucks you with his tongue, your juices escaping to wet his chin. The moment his nose pushes the right angle against your clit you feel your nerves light up violently and you ride his face brutally, until you come and he tries to drink down all you are giving him. 

His hands on your hips keep you steady and upright, his lips kiss the meat of your tights, leaving marks on the delicate skin, his tongue licking all his lips have missed; he is so addicted to your taste, he’d die if you’d ever deny him this. 

His name falls from your lips, letting him know that you need to lie down; he gives your clit a quick peck and then he lifts your body on his shoulder, not trusting your shaking legs to carry you to bed. You laugh and he slaps your ass jokingly, eliciting another peal of laughter from you, the sound music to his ears. 

With as much care as the position allows him, he lies you down on the bed, making sure your eyes are on him when he removes his t-shirt; he knows you love it when he peels it off grabbing the cotton from the back. 

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah - the world slurred leaves your lips - My head feels like it's full of cotton candy"

"Good. We need that gorgeous brain of yours to shut down for a while, don't we?". 

You nod, your eyes now focused on the growing bulge in his pants. 

"Do you think you'll need to be restrained?". 

He loves the dumb way you look at him. He doesn't truly need to ask you, you've given him the reins, it's too fun to torment you though, to keep your brain awake enough for ideas to form and work to his advantage. You want to shake your head, but you know you have to use your words like a big girl; your reward is three fingers in your cunt, curling to push against your G-spot, making your squeal and arching your back in surprise and pleasure. 

Osferth's rough fingertips keep rubbing inside of you, your muscle trying to curl around them, he just scissors his strong fingers and keeps going, pushing against the rough patch there, the other hand on your lower belly to keep you in place and you try to kick until the pressure is too much and you come again with a shout. 

Through half lidded eyes you see Osferth licking his fingers, a low hum of pleasure escapes his lips and the bulge in his pants is completely outlined. That looks uncomfortable and you want to ask him if he wants a hand with it, your brain is too stupid already to form a coherent thought. 

A small slap lands on your left breast, not hard enough to hurt but enough to focus your attention on your lover and you moan, watching him cupping himself as he lies on the bed, his lips kissing the inside of your tights, open mouthed and hungry, until his hot breath is on your cunt, two fingers opening your lips and you shiver; you are already so sensitive and it's only been two orgasms. You know he's not going to stop until you can't take it anymore. You want him to keep going until you cannot possibly function, yet, you are scared of the depths of the pleasure you have to face.

A moan like a cry for help leaves you lips when your clit is enveloped again by Osferth’s mouth, your hands go to his hair, this time he’s not letting you control his movements, his hands grab your hips to plaster his face better against you and his tongue licks your clit fast, his lips curl around it to suck at the same time and you explode.

You lose count of the number of orgasms he gives you, barely aware of the flurry of mouth, tongue and lips against your cunt, too lost in the pleasure, throat raw and legs clenching around Osferth’s head. He gives you respite when he feels that he is going to come, your pleasure the only primer his cock needs. He stares at you while he cups himself, his cock raw by the friction against the cotton of his bottoms: you have already lost the use of your legs, when he caresses you calf, he can only see your muscles twitch reflexively, your hands lie by your sides and you are covered in perspiration. His mouth tastes like you to the point he knows he will be able to taste you in the back of his throat, no matter how many times he brushes his teeth. His tongue sneaks out to lick whatever drops of your essence are left on his lips, hungry.

This is not enough, it will never be enough, the need to devour you, to carry you within himself will never be seated, no matter how many times he has you; his love for you opened a wound on his soul no amount of lovemaking will ever heal. He needs you now and he will need you always, you make him feral and desperate for you, the higher functions of his brain hanging by one thread: keeping you safe.

His hands grab your ankles and he pulls your unresponsive body closer to his, your eyes can barely open, your brain too fuzzy to truly care about what he’s going to do to you. Your ears pick up a whirring sound, your brain needs a second more to recognize it, as if it mattered, as if you are in any shape to run. As if you don’t want this.

With extreme caution, Osferth places the clit sucker on your engorged clitoris; the thing is on the lower setting and still you yelp, your hips pathetically trying to move, the muscles non responding. 

A chain of pleas and noes fall from your lips: you are well aware that he will torture you with it until you come with each setting and there’s ten of them. You want to reason with him, to bargain, the pressure on your clit is minimal, enough to light the nerves there and to muddle your thoughts. You cannot possibly come, not like this, it's not enough

"You will" he says, eyes trained on your face. 

You want to shake your head, to beg, to make him go faster, for him to use his fingers, please, anything to help you, Gods please! The sudden change of the angle makes you squeal and come, the breath cut from your lungs. 

You know your chest is heaving and your heart is beating like crazy, you cannot feel anything but the ringing in your ears and the toy sliding against your lower lips to grant your clit a modicum of mercy. You are crying, fat tears sliding down your cheeks; Osferth knows he'd make you a disservice if he's stopping now. You are desperate, yes, but you are still in yourself and you didn't come to him for this; it's strange how seeing you in the throes of brutal pleasure is harder for him to manage, than the times you two play with pain. His first instinct, the wrong one to follow, is to stop and start the aftercare immediately and that's not what you need right now. He elects to ignore your desperation, kisses your forehead though and ranks up the toy, moving it back to your clit. Your head jerks from side to side, the pleasure a painful shock on your clit; with a desperate effort your hips try to move and Osferth needs a hand to keep you pinned where he wants you, subjugating you again to the toy. Each higher setting is a tortuous journey towards pleasure, your body sending thwarted signals your brain cannot analyze, your muscles twitching as you scream again and again for him. He's barely giving you respite between bouts of pleasure now, the sucker on your clit after every orgasm makes your hip jut up in overstimulation, his voice softly encouraging you as his eyes switch between your beautiful face and your drenched cunt. You are coming so much, he cannot wait to lick you clean again. Osferth's cock hurts and pulsates with every small movement he makes, he feels his control slipping with each of your orgasms. He doesn't want to come just yet, his brain is screaming at him until he removes his pants hastily before he uses the highest setting on you and you come immediately. The animalistic part of him takes control and he plunges inside your loose cunt and he just needs the enveloping warmth to come, his hot seed making you shiver.  

He stays rooted inside of you, the small movements of your cunt's muscles massage his spent cock until he starts moving again, feeling his erection mounting. You've been so good, making him come almost untouched, you reserve a reward. He is in no hurry though, your cunt is so perfect he wants to savor it, how wet it is, how his cock fits perfectly in there, your muscles valiantly trying to curl around him to offer him more friction even in your fucked stupid state. He tells you everything, praising you as his small cross dangles in front of your face, right above your parted lips and you snatch it with your lips, your lizard brain knowing this would make him happy and it wins you deeper thrusts and rhythmic slaps on your breasts, until you come, taking Osferth with you.  

He knows he is too heavy and he should roll off you, he can feel how ragged your breath is, his cock doesn't want to lose your warmth though, until one idea pops into his mind. 

He kneels between your splayed legs, not wanting to miss the slow sliding of his come from your overused hole. He has to fight the need to push it back and to plug you, he has other ideas as he pushes on your lower tummy to make sure everything is out and you groan, eyes rolling back. He knows your nerves are afire, any touch and you would receive a shock wave of pleasure; it's so fun to play with you like this. 

You are a ragdoll in his embrace, making all too easy to sit you between his splayed legs, your head abandoned against his shoulder, his spent cock nestled again in your warmth as he helps you drink the juice in greedy gulps: you must feel so thirsty after screaming that much, your throat raw. You've been such a good girl for him, bringing straws even if he's forgotten to tell you, he has to reward you again. 

His fingers find your clit the moment you stop drinking and he pinches it tight until your back arches and he releases it, thumb and forefinger sliding easily around the overused nub, until a smaller orgasm hits you and you wail. 

He needs his phone for the second part of his reward, stretching his arm to the bedside table without removing his cock from inside of you. His timing is perfect, he thinks, while he sends a quick message to Aemond. 

After what it feels like a century of calls, Aemond emerges from his home office to the quiet of the living room. He can see the dogs and cats splayed outside in the sun and you are not there, nor Osferth; where are you two? His phone chimes to the sound of a text incoming, thankfully it’s not his work phone, it’s either his mum or Helaena; he’s surprised it’s Osferth, who curtly asks him to come upstairs. What the hell is going on?

He gets his answer the moment he opens the door and sees you completely and utterly abandoned against Osferth. Both your bodies covered in perspiration and his cock inside of you, the room reeks of sex, his own cock stirs immediately, the scene presented to his eyes debauched and full of love at the same time. He doesn’t even need to be told to undress, his hands working on autopilot on the buttons of his crisp shirt and trousers. 

You are so out of it you don’t even react when he crawls up to you, his lips soft on your sweaty forehead are what makes you open your eyes and call his name, maybe you don’t need to use your safeword with him, he’ll have pity on you.

“She are still verbal” he notices

“That’s why I need your help”.

You want to add something, to have a say in the discussion regarding you, your bratty side trying to crawl out of the shadows and it’s immediately subdued by Osferth’s two fingers sliding inside your pussy again. You vaguely hear them say something about playing a game, too late your brain works out it’s “How many fingers can this pussy get”, before your legs are splayed again and cold lube is poured on your cunt. Your abs tight when Osferth slides his other two fingers in, you want to beg, to say that you can’t play this game and only a moan escapes your lips when Aemond index breaches you in, sliding delicately next to Osferth’s, trying to open you up for him. You don’t think you can take anymore and yet your pussy accepts his other three fingers, the pressure inside your belly unbearable, still your cunt tries to curl around the intrusion. They are barely moving, just staring at your stuffed hole with incredulous eyes as their fingers wriggle delicately, the same idea forming in their heads, their hands pushing on your lower abdomen as your breath catches. Too much, it’s too much, your brain is screaming, you can't, it's too tight, you want to say, please stop and yet the time to use your safeword hasn’t come yet. Your hips try to wriggle as they delicately move in and out, your abs pulling and clenching until your back arches and you squirt all over their fingers.

Your ears are ringing so much, you can barely hear their praises, Aemond’s left hand on your cheek sends a zing of pleasure to your brain. You don’t even notice he’s drying your tears, his eye full of love for you, nor feel Osferth sliding out from behind you to let you lie on the bed, legs obscenely spread, your lower lips red and wet for them.

Osferth’s slightly chapped lips are on your forehead, leaving gentle kisses while you try to catch your breath, his calloused hand sliding softly up and down your side, his eyes ready to check for signs of discomfort and all he can see is you drunk on pleasure, your breath slowly going back to normal. 

Even though your pussy feels sore, you still hunger for more, you need your lovers again; the intrusion of the small bullet vibrator in your hole has you moaning, the vibration low against your G-spot. Aemond’s long body covers yours, his lips chaste on your mouth, just leaving small pecks that make you relax in his warmth, make you want to scoot closer to him and just lie there in his embrace. The vibrator against your clit steals a scream from your rough throat, your eyes widening the moment you see it’s Aemond who is torturing you, his face close to your pussy to observe your clit being played with. Your body is too heavy for you to even try to move, your hips incapable of sliding away; and where would you want to go? Chapped lips envelope your stiff nipple as a callous hand pinches the other, a long sob escapes your lips the moment someone pushes on your lower belly again, your clit firing off against the vibrations as you wail pitifully. 

Someone is growling in the distance, you’ve squirted again, this time all over Aemond’s face and hair, unlocking something primal inside of him, the animalistic instinct of tasting you takes over and his face is buried in your pussy, his teeth delicately biting your clit and you sob, incapable of doing anything else but feel him, his hunger for you, his hands on your tights to keep you spread open for him, the small vibrator inside of you going faster and you come again and again, your brain finally shutting down and accepting defeat, your body following the pleasure burning your nerves. You squirt again and don’t hear your boys high fiving, nor their praises, your eyes are too heavy to open and you miss them kissing passionately, your taste on their lips driving them insane with need.

Their big hands are on your body again, the bullet removed from your overused cunt, Aemond helping you to sit up and drink some more. You are so pliant for him now, all soft moans and goosebump erupting wherever his hand lands on your skin, he almost feels bad for having used your body the way he did and for what he and Osferth are about to do. His cock is so hard, though and you have given him permission a long time ago to fuck you even when you are deep into subspace. His lips are on your temple, murmuring sweet nothings and encouragements, telling you what a good girl you have been for the two of them, you just hum in pleasure, soaking into his warmth.

You are on your back again, legs kept open and up on Aemond’s arms; he shivers when just his head breaches you and Osferth’s hand starts jacking him, stopping his advance, his lips on the column of his neck. You are so warm and loose, Osferth’s palm rough on his skin as he moves faster and faster, one goal in mind and Aemond’s hips just follow his movements, his orgasm curling and curling at the base of his spine, until he comes inside of you, his cock milked until he has no more to give. He has to let go of your legs, hands planted at the sides of your body, breath ragged after keeping his orgasm under wraps for so long. He has to clean you up, though, your pretty pussy is kept plugged by the head of his cock, the moment he leaves, everything is going to come out and he doesn’t want to miss a single drop. He needs a moment to coordinate his movements, he manages to be fast enough  to plug you with his fingers the moment his head leaves you heath.

You barely keen the moment his hot lips meet your cunt again, his tongue delicately licking you clean and leaving your overused clit alone; you will need the respite, because they are not done with you.

Once you are clean of his spunk, he grabs Osferth’s short locks and kisses him passionately, his own come, still in his mouth, being passed to the other man, who hungrily sucks everything in. With a greedy eye he stares as Osferth’s fingers make your pretty cunt gape and then spit the come back inside of you, his fingers plugging you close again and curling to seek you G-spot. You tremble at the intrusion and come immediately, twice, his thumb against your clit. 

Osferth’s own erection is agony, every small movement fires pleasure and pain up and down his spine. You’ve been so good, coming all these times and you are still ready to give them more, to sheath them inside of you. He can’t control himself anymore and slides inside of you, your muscles still try to curl around him and he wants to cry at how good you make him feel, at how much your body recognizes his on instinct only. He tries to reign his orgasm in, tries to go slow and savor you and God it’s so hard, your body enchants his, steals control from him, the pleasure robs him of whatever control he has left and he comes, fingers on your abused clit, because you deserve a reward for being so good for the two of them.

You are floating somewhere your brain is not needed, somewhere safe, where your body is loose and weightless. You can feel big hands on your skin, moving you in a different position, but everything is muffled and you don’t really care, knowing that you are safe. The warmth enveloping you is nice, the skin against yours so soft and nice smelling, the words in your ear soothing, you just rub your face against the body keeping yours up and someone hums happily. Slowly you get a hold of your body, your muscles feel overused and your pussy sore, you feel so happy and safe where you are, enveloped in warmth and Aemond’s masculine scent.

“Are you back, issa dōna jorrāelagon? - my sweet love, softly murmured against the crown of your head, you just burrow your face against his neck and he laughs - oh, I see, you are still non verbal. Shall we go take a bath? I think it’s ready”.

An unhappy sound leaves your lips and you pout up at him; you are so cute he hums happily at you.

“What’s wrong, dōna hāedar, sweet girl? Gaomagon ao jaelagon nykeā vūjigon, do you want a kiss?”.

You just nod sleeply against the curve of his neck and he gives you a small peck on your lips, which is absolutely not enough. You let him know of your displeasure with a pathetic sound at the back of your throat, which wins you a serious kiss, his tongue entering your pliant mouth with ease. You can taste him and yourself; if you weren't so tired you'd be ready to go again, to welcome him in the depths of your body and you wish he'd lie you down on the destroyed sheets to sheath his cock inside of you. Both him and Osferth have given you so much pleasure you don't care that you can't physically come again or that your cunt is sore, you'd do anything to thank your lovers. 

Aemond seems to pick up on your rambling thoughts, his soft lips on your sweaty forehead

"I will make love to you, Issa gevie dāria, my beautiful queen, when you are fully responsive to my touch. I want to drink every moan, every scream you will give me". 

You hum happily at him, noticing just now that both the eyepatch and the sapphire are gone: he is as naked and vulnerable as you are, the biggest gift he could honor you with. You want to thank him for his trust, for believing in your love for him, but words fail you, forcing you to kiss his shoulder with reverence, trying to pour all your feelings into your actions. He seems to understand, his hand cups the back of your neck to keep you where you are, enveloping your spent body with his. 

Slowly he puts one arm under your knees to anchor you safely against his body and stands up; carrying you around is so easy, you are weightless in his arms, his precious love who needs all his care after gifting him with the honor of her body. On the way to the master bathroom Aemond sees Osferth emerge from the big room, cell phone in hand, loose bottoms hanging on his hips. He looks so young and nothing like the sex demon who has fucked you into subspace, his smile so open and soft: the duality of the man he loves. Osferth beams at him and you, his lips find the crown of your head to place a delicate kiss there, his empty hand stroking your cheek tenderly; you are so pliant when you are coming down to yourself, the only thing he wants to do is curl around you and keep you safe, even if he feels the tendrils of his own need for cuddles start to emerge. 

The water is the perfect temperature for your tired body, the body wash squirted in there is your favorite; you don't want to leave for the rest of your life, your body bracketed by Aemond's as he starts washing your hair and his own, his fingers undoing the knots your trashing has formed and massaging your scalp. He tells you about his day and what he wants to do during the weekend, about Helaena's new project being greenlighted by her boss. He could tell you about the stock market and you'd listen, the softness of his voice the thread you need to slowly re-emerge from subspace. You can hear Osferth calling the only pizza place that delivers in this neck of the woods and you know you are in for a treat, the submissive in you reveling in the care your two lovers are pouring on you. 

It doesn't take long for Osferth to come back and join the two of you in the water, his body nestling against yours, his face hiding in the curve of your neck as Aemond washes his back with long strokes. You two are so soft and needy he thanks the Gods again that the delivery guy knows where to leave the pizzas while you three are in the bath. He knows you two will not drown, it's just that his protectiveness is at its maximum now, he needs to tend to the two of you, make sure that you come on the other side of your lovemaking, safe and happy. 

You are not truly sleeping, your head lolled back on Aemond’s shoulder, your eyes half lidded stare at his beautiful, relaxed face. You can feel Osferth moving to Aemond’s other side, putting his head on his free shoulder with a content sigh, his hand sneaking to grab yours, fingers entwining on Aemond’s abs. You truly feel that the itch which had tormented you for half of the day, is gone, your brain back in gear. Osferth is sleepy and hungry, patting himself on the back mentally for having changed the sheets while on the phone with the pizzeria, he only wishes not to have to leave the hot water to eat; if only teleportation were a thing, he thinks the moment your tummy rumbles. He shares a quick stare with Aemond, before taking your tired body from him to help you out of the tub. His drop of endorphins is not as stark as the one he has to deal with when he dominates you with pain, which means he can be a functional human being and help you dry your hair and wear one of his old T-shirts. He doesn’t bother with panties after applying soothing cream on your abused lips, he knows you are far too sensitive to have anything chafe there at the moment. Behind you, Aemond has gathered his long hair in a quick bun and he’s now braiding yours to help them dry faster; he’s quite happy that you can stand on your own, albeit on shaky legs, he doesn’t need your words to know he’s doing right, picking up from the happy sounds escaping your mouth. He kneels and helps you wear your skid proof socks, today it’s the elephant ones and he steals a kiss on the side of your knee, making you giggle like a schoolgirl; no one sees this side of you, or of him, but Osferth and he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Osferth carries you bridal style downstairs, your face pressed against his shoulder, your lips leaving kisses on the reddened skin; he quickly wraps you in your favorite fleece blanket, only your skid proof socks, your head and your hands emerging, your head on his shoulder, waiting for the food to come. Your boys sit by your sides, taking turns into feeding you and peppering kisses on your forehead, while something mindless plays on the telly. You don’t finish your food, too tired and still coming down from subspace to truly care and fall asleep with your head on Osferth’s shoulder and your feet on Aemond’s lap. 

The three of you wake up in the morning all entwined on the sofa, the mark of a good day to come.

#aemond targaryen x reader x osferth #aemond targaryen x y/n x osferth #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #osferth x reader #osferth x y/n #osferth

[imagine-darksiders]

Fish out of Water - Chapter 2

Giant Mer!Sunnydrop X Reader, Giant Mer!Moondrop X Reader.

Summary:

Tags, warnings: Mermay 2022, Giant Mermen, Amputee Reader, Amputation, Medical Trauma, Depression, Grief and Mourning, Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, Car Accidents, G/T, Giant/Tiny, Explicit Language, Loss of Leg, Mental Health Issues

Story on ao3

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It isn't until midnight that you make a phone call in the end, and even then, you forgo the police – they'd likely give you a warning for wasting their time. You don't call animal services either – because you highly doubt 'giant sea monsters' fall under the list of animals they're licensed to deal with. And the nearest emergency mental health unit, ironically, doesn't have a twenty-four hour helpline.

So it is that you find yourself wedged into the cramped space between the sofa and the wall, peeking over a cushion and keeping your eyes fixed vigilantly upon the front door with your phone pressed against an ear, worrying at a loose piece of skin dangling off your lip.

Six rings later.... “Ungh... Lucinda, speaking," a groggy voice picks up and mutters down the line.

“Aunt Lucy!” you whisper hoarsely, “Thank Christ – I – I need you to pick me up! Right now!” You wait impatiently with your breath stuck in your throat as the sound of rustling, silk sheets filters out of the phone's speaker.

“Y/n?” comes Lucy's voice again, half asleep and incredulous, “I... Oh, what time is it?”

In the background, you hear a man – Derek, you deduce – roll over and grumble, “Who is it, Luce?”

“It's Y/n, darling,” she whispers back before turning her attention to you again, “My dear girl, are you all right? You're calling at-” There's a pause as you assume she takes a second to check her watch. “- Gone twelve!? What on Earth is the matter?”

What on Earth indeed. You can't be sure those things were even from Earth. Regardless, pondering won't get you out of this cottage and away from the ocean any faster.

“Please,” you whisper, clutching the phone in two, quaking hands so harshly that the plastic creaks in protest, “Please I – I need to get out of here! Something... something happened, Aunty. There are these... these...!”

God, how the hell are you supposed to describe what you'd seen without sounding like a lunatic? “I don't know," you eventually settle on, "But you have to get me out of here!”

Lucy makes a sound of confusion as you crane your head out over the sofa again and eye the windows, searching for shapes moving around outside in the dark. “Damn things are in the bay outside Grandad's cottage! I-I thought they'd kill me! I still can't believe I got away-!”

“-Y/n, slow down, Darling! For god's sake, you're starting to sound hysterical.”

As is your goddamn right after everything that you've just been through!

Gulping down a pacifying breath, you crush a palm against your temple and through gritted teeth, you hiss, “I know. I know. It all sounds insane, but – please, I just need to get away from here-!”

“-But why?”

“God dammit, because of those fucking sea monsters, Lucy!” you snap much too curtly, though you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed right now.

This time, there's a definite, pregnant pause before your aunt clears her throat and asks, “I beg your pardon, dear, but... what did you-?”

“-MONSTERS!” you cry squeakily, throwing your free hand up in exasperation, “Great big, fucking sea monsters! With-with tails, and – and tentacles and teeth! They, they-!”

A long, loud sigh stops your incessant babbling and you scowl at the sound of soft snickering, followed by a sharp, 'Hush!' from your aunt. Coughing politely, Lucy clicks her tongue and with the patience of a saint, she delicately asks, “Y/n, I'd like you to tell me honestly. Have you had anything to drink this evening?”

Hesitating, your eyes immediately jump towards the window facing the cliff's edge, where you've left several bottles of beer strewn about in the grass.

“I...I only had like... three beers,” you stress meekly, wetting your lips. You're in too much of a state to recognise that you should have just lied and said a plain and simple 'no.'

“Okay,” Lucy starts with another sigh, “Here's what I think you should do. I think you should get yourself to the kitchen, get a glass of water, some paracetamol, and hop straight into bed.”

“I don't need paracetamol, Aunty,” you stress through clenched teeth, “I need-”

Something above you creaks and you freeze in place, ducking your head behind the sofa and craning your neck back to eye the ceiling dubiously. When a further second or two pass without a repeat of the noise, you lick your lips and whisper, “I'm not drunk, Lucy, I-”

“- Of course not, darling,” she interrupts diplomatically, “But you are exhausted. And likely sleep-deprived, and this is the first moment of genuine peace you've had since your dear parents died, God rest their souls.”

For a full, five seconds, you can't quite fathom a thing to say. Eventually though, you blurt out, “I really don't think what I saw is a result of sleep deprivation! Or.. or delayed grief!”

“And how would you know?” she returns abruptly, as cool as a placid lake, “You never went to the therapist like you were advised to do. You took yourself out of the world. You turned the grief counsellors away from your door.”

She must be able to sense the indignant bristling of your shoulders because it sounds as though she thumps her head down on her pillow with a deep and affected sigh. “Look, I can hear how frustrated you are. But... Well, I mean, really, Y/n. Listen to what you're saying. You said you saw...” She trails off, deliberately leaving her sentence open-ended for you to finish.

A hand creeps up to your face and you spend several, sobering moments pinching the bridge of your nose before heaving an almighty groan, dragging your hand down over your nose and mouth, muttering, “Giant... sea monsters.”

Aunt Lucy's prolonged silence is fairly damning.

And okay, yes, you can appreciate that you're asking her to really stretch the boundaries of her imagination, but...

“Will you come and get me out of here, or not?” you finally ask, neither denying nor confirming that you may very well be losing your mind. Hell, you've lost your parents, your leg, your dignity and social standing. What's a mind, really, in the grand scheme of things?

There's a tired hum on the other end of the phone, and you already know her answer before she speaks.

“I just don't think that'll do you any good, my dear-”

Your eyes slip shut and you let your skull thunk back against the sofa behind you.

“- You haven't even given the old place a chance,” she adds, “Now, listen to me. You've had a hell of a shock. You're overwrought. Why, it's hardly any wonder you're-... ah.” She lowers her voice and clears her throat. “-Seeing things...”

It's a struggle to even passively listen to the second-hand embarrassment in her voice, though you can understand the root of it.

If word gets out that you're hallucinating giant sea monsters, it'll be yet another blight on the family name.

You'll become known as that seldom-mentioned relative who's shacked up in the 'wacko-basket.'

A cruel judgement, to be sure, but then, the people your parents rubbed elbows with are anything but sympathetic.

“I think,” Lucy continues carefully, “That you need to give it another few days. Go to bed and get some real rest. Breathe in that wonderful, ocean air. If you're still concerned about, hmm, monsters in a few day's time, I'll send Derek down to fetch you.”

In the background, the aforementioned lover groans begrudgingly, only to receive a quick 'ssh' from your aunt.

You hate to say it, but the longer she talks you down, the more doubt begins creeping into your mind and muddling the evening's events, blending reality with fiction and blurring your memory like good whisky.

You are extremely tired... and you've heard the stories of how sleep-deprivation can warp reality... plus, the beers likely didn't help...

Maybe a good night's sleep will fix things...

It's a lie you've told yourself countless times before. 'If I just got enough sleep...'

What a joke.

Regardless, Aunt Lucy is right. There has to be a more believable explanation than 'sea monsters.' You're an educated woman, for goodness sake

It's high-time you started behaving like one.

Slumping defeatedly against the sofa's rigid back, you cut off the muffled argument going on over the phone. “You're right, Aunty. You're right... God, sorry for bothering you so late.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, darling,” she replies, clipped and chipper once more, “You just get some sleep. Things will be all right in the morning. You'll see.”

“..Yeah.” Rubbing at your eyelids, you manage to suppress a yawn long enough to murmur a grateful, “Goodnight. Sorry again.”

“Goodnight, Y/n. Speak soon.”

Your finger hits the red button and there's the telltale 'click' of the line going dead.

Forget the water, forget the paracetamol, forget peeling off the day's clothes and turning off the light, you simply pull yourself around to the front of the sofa and flop face-first onto the squeaking, leather cushions, dragging one of them into your ams and squeezing it so ferociously, you can focus more on the ache in your biceps than whatever mysteries or hallucinations that might be lurking outside in the dark.

------

By the time you pry your head up off the sofa cushion again, it's gone noon the following day, and your mouth is as dry as a roll of parchment.

Shuffling lazily across the cold, tiled floor of the kitchenette, you yawn widely and rub at your eyes with a thumb and forefinger, sparing a brief glance out through the large, bow window that sits above the sink.

As is typical of the time of year, the sky is heavily overcast, and a steady pitter-patter of rain plinks softly against the glass windows. The sea beyond the cliffs is as dreary and grey as the clouds rolling overhead, its choppy waves sweeping in great, undulating swathes from the East. All in all, it's the kind of day that makes you want to burrow beneath your duvet with a mug of something hot and a good, engaging book..

But then... when was the last time you actually read a book?

All you're likely to do is lay on your bed and stare blankly at the ceiling, leaving the proverbial door wide open for your misery to creep in and swallow you slowly, sucking the energy out of you like a tick that will gorge itself on your most terrible regrets until the dreadful thing sits fat and swollen with grief astride your chest.

Dejectedly, your gaze slides away from the window and moves towards the front door, where an umbrella stand waits expectantly alongside its two occupants – one of your crutches, and an old doorman's umbrella, dusty and grey, much like the rest of this cottage's interior.

Perhaps you could go for a walk and get some fresh air.

'Sounds like something someone who has their life together would suggest,' you smile humourlessly to yourself, 'Someone like Aunt Lucy.'

It isn't as if you're especially keen to make an effort to shower, so maybe a stroll in the rain will clear away the cobwebs instead. Hefting your shoulders up and down in a private shrug, you amble towards the coat rack that takes up its stance beside the umbrella stand and tug a tattered, wax coat from one of the arms, pulling it on over yesterday's clothes. You don't know who it belonged to, nor how long it's been since anyone washed it. Maybe you'll throw it in the washing machine when you get back....

Then again, maybe you're more likely to toss it onto the pile of clothes that are slowly accumulating next to the washing machine, but that never quite make the journey inside the drum. Laundry is relatively low on your list of priorities, after all.

Stuffing your hands into the warm pockets, your fingers brush over a strip of smooth, cool plastic. Absentmindedly, you fish the object out and glance down at it, quirking your brow at a small penknife laying in your palm, a cheap and unimpressive little thing, the kind you'd probably win in a Christmas cracker.

Without any real humour, you quirk your lips up and snort. Grandpa was definitely a fisherman. This thing's only use is likely to cut the line if it gets irreparably tangled.

After sparing the little kitchenette a lazy once-over, you drop the penknife back inside your coat pocket and although your belly rumbles, you elect to grab a meal upon your return.

Pulling open the door, you wrench your crutch into one hand and stuff it beneath an arm, then swipe the umbrella up as an afterthought, just in case the downpour gets a little too heavy.

Perhaps, as Aunt Lucy said, the ocean air might do you some good.

But recently, you find yourself lacking in optimism.

--------

The winding cliffside path meanders and curves with the dreary landscape. You trudge along it, as aimless as any vagabond who ever wandered over the Earth. Nowhere to go, nowhere to aim for, nothing to do. One foot in front of the other, your head bowed against the wind and drizzling rain.

Down below you, out of sight, breakers crash ceaselessly against the cliff walls and it takes a considerable amount of willpower to keep yourself from peering cautiously over the edge, half expecting to see two pairs of gigantic, luminous eyes staring back up at you from within the water's murky depths.

Flipping up the collar of your wax coat, you duck your face further inside it and tear your gaze from the distant ocean with a shudder. You've barely taken two more, hobbling steps before a flash of yellow blips at the very edge of your vision.

You swing your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash and very nearly end up tripping over your own feet to see...

… Nothing.

Nothing but a bleak, barren sea of grey lays out in front of you, and scanning the waves as they roll and crash in the current yields no results either.

Huh. “Still seeing things,” you inform yourself dismally.

It's slow progress, limping along the cliff path, but eventually, after another twenty minutes or so, you come upon a rusted, brown sign. The words have long since been eroded away by inclement weather and the unending march of time, but the image above them is unmistakeable.

There's a small, white arrow pointing left towards the edge of the cliff, and beside it, a simple graphic that depicts a flight of stairs.

Sure enough, upon glancing over at the cliffs, you spy the top of a metal railing jutting out above the grass right at the precipice.

Once upon a time, you wouldn't have even batted an eyelid at the prospect of attempting those steep, cliffside stairs.

Now though, you despise how your heart thuds anxiously in your chest and you can't stop yourself imagining your prosthetic slipping out from underneath you and sending you tumbling down the stairs to crash onto the sand far below.

Perhaps its defiance, perhaps its a blasé attitude towards danger that only emerged after the death of your family, but you suddenly find yourself pointing your shoes at the steps and hobbling over to them.

The biting wind whips cruelly at your face as you stop right at the edge of the cliffside staircase and peer down them. A wide, silver-sanded bay stretches out below you, hemmed in by sweeping cliffs on either side that protect it from the wind.

Conveniently, a silver, rain-slicked railing follows the path of the stairs, and it's with just a smidge of trepidation that you move your clutch and umbrella into the same hand and grip the rail tightly with the other.

The journey down is slow-going and undeniably as perilous as you'd expected it to be, but eventually, after a task that would hardly be considered arduous for someone with both of their legs intact, you find yourself down on the sandy beach, inhaling a lungful of sea-salted air and gazing around at the rolling dunes, each adorned with their spiky tufts of marram grass.

The tide has slowly begun to creep back in, eating up the beach inch by inch. But you, like the vast ocean, are in no particular hurry. You've still got time.

Wearily, you toss your crutch aside, exhale through your nose and flop yourself down onto the slope of a dune, letting your head thud backwards against the silver sand, heedless of the grains that'll no doubt be making themselves at home within the strands of your hair.

After letting rainwater plop steadily onto your closed eyelids for a time, you click your tongue and lean up to stuff the umbrella handle down into the sand, creating a rather unorthodox yet effective shelter from the rain, at least for your upper half.

Droplets patter softly on the canopy overhead and you finally, finally sink into yourself, letting your elbows and knees slump until they're flush with the ground.

You're tapped out - lost to the comforting brontide that grumbles moodily in the distance and the roiling waves sloshing up onto the beach.

You don't even notice a flash of silvery scales that slip noiselessly from a clump marram grass and weave down the sand dune towards you. A pair of eyes - red as the blood that pumps through its veins – lock onto the tantalising patch of warmth laying amongst a wasteland of cold sand and rock.

A forked tongue sneaks out from behind two, slender fangs and tastes the air.

The adder is still a bold young snake, not yet accustomed to the dangers or even the presence of humans. The source of heat in front of it shifts ever so slightly and the snake rears back at once, stilling in place and watching warily to see if there is to be any further movement.

When the mountain of warmth remains safely motionless, it slowly eases itself out of its tight coil and slinks a few inches nearer.

Wholly unaware of the serpent behind you, you think nothing of raising an arm to rub at your eyes, only to jump out of your skin when something issues a vicious, threatening hiss at your back.

Rolling over onto your side, your gaze lands unexpectedly upon a pair of red eyes and you go utterly still, trapping the breath inside your lungs lest the slightest expansion of a chest provoke the serpent currently staring you down.

And then, all at once, the adder pauses, and looks up, it's knife-like focus drawn by something above you.

The snake recoils with another hiss and your head snaps around at a sudden cacophony of splashing that comes from the waves, much, much too loud to be just another breaker crashing upon the shore.

You hurtle up onto your elbows at once and very nearly jab out an eye with one of the umbrella's prongs. But the sight you witness gallumphing towards you from the ocean surf and up onto the beach makes a poke in the eye or a snake bite seem the least of your worries.

It's like watching a terrifying sunrise in fast-forward.

There's a face – a terrible, familiar face that you've only just convinced yourself can't possibly exist.

The sea monster from yesterday's hallucination... One of them anyway. The first, exuberant one is dragging itself up the beach towards you in great, unsteady gallops, heaving its body along on colossal arms that kick up a maelstrom of sand as they go.

There's no time to get yourself up and run, the creature is upon you in terrifying seconds.

With a scream, you throw yourself down onto your front and cover your head as the beast comes crashing to a stop almost on top of you.

Using its forward momentum, it brings a monolithic arm down from the sky and slams into the sand directly between you and the snake, like a hammer striking an anvil, and the resounding boom that shakes the ground underneath you smacks your heart straight up into your throat. That certainly hadn't felt like a figment of your imagination.

Raising your head at the collision, you peek up at the wall of bristling, scaly flesh that keeps you separated from the adder. All around you, the world grows inexorably darker, whereas in contrast, your own face turns ashen as the leviathan's torso curls itself over you until its vast throat nearly presses down on top of your head, forcing you to flatten yourself against the sand on your belly for fear of being squashed.

And then, it growls.

You've been inside a thunderstorm before. Actually inside a thunderstorm during a trip up north to the mountains... When that thunder rolled, the sound wasn't above you, it was beside you, all over you, swallowing you in a deafening roar that rattled your bones and shook out your ear drums.

You're immediately reminded of that harrowing experience when the beast's growl rolls over you now, passing overhead like an earthquake through an immense throat and exploding from between its baleen teeth so loudly, you have to clap your palms over your ears and screw your face up, letting out a comparatively pathetic bleat of alarm.

But through the cacophony and chaos, through the terror of having this growling, snarling beast bearing over you like a mountain, one though sticks to your mind like the sand sticks to your rain-soaked clothes.

When the snake raise its head and reared back, you came to an awful realisation. It hadn't been looking at you. It had been looking at the creature hurtling towards it.

And if the snake had seen and reacted to the sea monster, then that means....

“Oh god,” you whimper, twisting your head over one shoulder to peer up at the quivering frills sticking out of the beast's neck above you, “You're real!”

If this thing is real, then right now, you're in real trouble.

Heaving yourself up onto shaking elbows, you whip your head sideways, seeking out even a glimpse of daylight. You find it instantly, there beneath the monster's shoulder, you can see the open beach.

You only have a tiny window of opportunity...

The umbrella and crutch lay somewhere behind you, and in a moment of desperation, you begin shuffling around on your belly until you're facing the gap and throw out an arm, wrapping trembling fingers around the first thing they come into contact with and dragging it along with you as you crawl on your stomach out from underneath the beast's shadow.

Hitting the open sand, you let a fleeting burst of relief slug you in the chest when you realise you've grabbed the crutch. You can't imagine you'll be able to get very far at all without it.

Adrenaline fizzes through your brain as you shove yourself upright and make a mad scramble onto your feet, tears springing to your eyes when your scarred thigh hums in protest. Biting down on your tongue to distract yourself from the agony in your leg, you begin to limp as best you can away from the behemoth at your back.

You'll have to circle around to the stairs when you can, but for now, you're far more preoccupied with putting as much distance between you and that thing as possible.

The uneven beach leaves you stumbling with every other step, but you still haul the crutch out ahead of you and use it to propel yourself as swiftly as you can towards the cliff walls, but before you can even make it halfway there, the growling, spitting creature falls eerily silent....

But not for long.

The quiet is broken almost right away by a sharp, urgent trill.

“Fuck!” you choke through gritted teeth, unable to resist risking a glance over your shoulder.

Ah. Perhaps it was foolish to look.

Silver scales slip away to safety over a sand dune and your stomach bottoms out as you catch sight of the real threat, its head now raised in your direction and its white, bulbous eyes fixed unblinkingly upon you.

Within the span of another second, you see it shift, and that's all the incentive you need to unleash a frantic shriek and whirl around to face the cliffs once more. The stairs are out – too far away – the creature is sure to cut you off before you can even get close.

Perhaps though... perhaps there's the slightest chance... somewhere in these old cliffs...

There!

Set within the crumbling rock like a narrow maw, you spy a hollow, naturally formed by thousands of years of erosion from the sea and the wind. God, you hope it's large enough.

All you can think to do is lurch unevenly towards it as the ground beneath your feet begins to shudder with the swift approach of something massive.

“Come on,” you urge yourself between ragged breaths, “Come on!”

The hollow draws gradually nearer, at the agonising pace of a glacier, but the sea monster?

You're only ten feet from the entrance.

A tremulous croon beats at the air around your head...

Five, shambling feet.

A blast of heat from rancid breath licks at the nape of your neck.

With a last, desperate cry, you throw yourself and your crutch through the gap in the cliff walls and tumble forwards into a pool of icy water that had been left behind by the sea.

Shocking cold bites at your skin and you let out a shrill gasp, yet you waste no more time in scrabbling forwards, deeper into the tiny cave, and not a moment too soon.

With meagre seconds to spare, the beast careens to a stop just in front of the entrance you'd disappeared into, causing the walls of the cave to shift and shiver from the force of a titan colliding with them.

Whipping around onto your rear, you shove yourself backwards, splashing through the rock pool until your spine hits the furthest, damp wall, and there, your escape comes to a grinding halt, gulping down desperate lungfuls of air in a cold, dark hole.

Your gaze lifts belatedly to the entrance of the hollow and meets the huge, white eye of the sea monster outside.

Startled, you yelp again and the eye retreats all at once, giving you a better view of the beast's face. It cocks its head to the side, squinting an eye halfway shut as it inspects your hiding place for a moment, then, to your utmost dismay, it brings one of its webbed hands up to the entrance.

“Go AWAY!” you shout at it, drawing your knees up against your chest as two, slender fingers worm their way through the gap and enter the cave with you, probing around near your shoes and splashing in the water, seeking you out.

The creature outside whines and its fingertips come close, far too close for your liking, mere inches from finding you in the darkness. Miraculously however, they don't seem capable of venturing any further inside. Grunting in what you can only imagine is frustration, the beast slowly withdraws its hand, only to replace it immediately with the opposite appendage.

Fortunately for you, the same outcome occurs.

The cave's entrance was barely narrow enough to allow you passage, far too small for any more than two of a leviathan's fingers to reach in and scrabble about uselessly for you.

You don't let yourself relax at this revelation though, and you likely won't until you're back in your familiar, land-locked city without a coastline in sight.

Cold, wet and trapped, you're forced to keep yourself pressed up against the wall behind you for what you hope doesn't turn out to be hours.

Surely it'll lose interest once it realises it can't reach you.

Surely to god...

Please.

"Leave me alone...” you croak hoarsely, burying your head in your knees and feeling the dread of hopelessness eat away at your empty stomach.

It's difficult to have to come to terms with a truth as enormous as the one waiting for you just outside this cave.

Eventually, as the sky outside starts to darken, the creature seems to finally realise that its efforts are in vain and that you won't be coaxed out by its warbles and dulcet hums. Whinging deeply in its throat, it pulls its fingers from the gap and replaces its hand with a soft, yellow snout, exhaling warmly into the hollow.

You flinch when the hot breath washes over you, easing your shivering, if only just a little.

“What do you want from me?” you hiccough weakly, hardly bothering to raise your head. As you expect, the beast only blows out one more, suffocating breath before it draws away and settles itself down on its front, facing the entrance, chin propped on folded arms.

You might have imagined it, but when it lets out a soft whuff into the sand, you could swear it sounds downright dejected.

You feel as if you've sat here for hours, shivering with cold and keeping your eyes shifting periodically between the darkness of your knees, the colossus stretched out across the beach outside and the distant seashore that drifts closer and closer with each passing hour.

The tide is steadily coming in.

You're running out of time.

And still, the beast lingers.

Once or twice, you're slapped with a sense of false hope when it suddenly heaves itself up and disappears from view, but just as you start working up the courage to creep forwards and take peek outside, you immediately retreat back to the far wall when the beast reappears from the sea, each time carrying a new 'gift' in its grinning maw.

One by one, they're inexplicably dropped in front of the entrance to your hidey-hole. First comes a series of pretty scallop shells, then an entire bucket's-worth of samphire, followed by three unfortunate mackerel, and most recently, a rusty, European number plate.

You can only watch on in befuddled disbelief as the beast uses the very tips of its fingers to push its treasures inside the cave before it pulls away and lets its chin drop to the sand again, warbling at you expectantly.

It has to be perhaps the worst attempt at luring prey from its hole that you've ever seen.

You certainly won't be budging any time soon, not for love nor money.

The cold has seeped well into your bones by the time the sea reaches the cave's entrance, sloshing against the cliff walls and creeping steadily higher.

A sneeze begins tickling at the back of your nose and before you can stop yourself, you're lurching forwards and belting out an explosive, “ACHOO!”

Outside, the sea monster gives a sudden start, raising its head and flicking its rays towards you inquisitively.

Swiping at your nose, you give it a weary glare and sniffle, “What're you looking at?”

In response, it cocks its head to one side and its chest expands with an enormous lungful of air, deflating again in a rumbling croon.

Clicking your tongue, you merely avert your eyes in response and take to rubbing vigorously at your arms in the hopes that friction will instil a little warmth into your paper-thin flesh. The old, wax coat provides some respite, but it was meant to keep the rain off your back, not to keep you warm as you hunker down for hours inside a bitterly cold rock pool.

Something shifts outside, and you shoot a glare up to the monster, seeing its large, blank eye pressed to the gap again, zeroing in on you.

“Ugh,” you scoff wetly, “Why are you still here?” There's no real bite to your tone, only a marrow-deep exhaustion intermingled with tired resignation - a sad concoction to be sure.

You've finally begun to accept that this thing isn't going away any time soon.

And just like that, as if the Universe itself is dead-set on proving you wrong, the creature's eye snaps away from the entrance and it shoots up onto its elbows, glancing around, fins quivering so rapidly that they seem to blur at their edges.

Perturbed by the change of demeanour, you straighten up, hugging your knees closer to your chest.

With its eyes blown open wide, it heaves its bulk around to face the ocean opposite your little bolt-hole, and in doing so, it shifts to one side, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the crashing waves beyond.

“Oh no...” you whisper seconds later, brows pinched achingly across your forehead.

A colossal shadow rises out of the distant sea, blood-red pupils burning like twin suns on the brink of going supernova.

'Oh good,' you can't help but bitterly muse, 'Because of course the second creature would be real as well.'

With the yellow leviathan's back to you, you wonder if now is the only opportunity you'll get to beat a hasty retreat, weighing up the risks of drowning in here against potentially getting eaten if you dare to set foot outside.

Eyeing the newcomer warily, you don't expect to be given a sudden pause.

… Something's not right.

Despite having eight legs to haul itself along, the colossus is moving drunkenly, its head lolled to one side so that the fin atop its round skull hangs limply down to its shoulder. It makes its way up the beach at an unsteady tilt, aiming for its yellow counterpart, who has grown still and silent as a mountain.

The vast tentacles are sluggish in their attempts to drag the rest of the creature out of the briny depths, and upon a cursory glance at the foremost tendril, you can't help but notice that it, unlike the other seven, is being held aloft, out of the water, curled up against the creature's torso.

Uncertain, you scan over the limb, only to let out a tiny gasp when your gaze lands upon the enormous gillnet made of twine that's wrapped around and around the tentacle, keeping it trapped and bent in on itself at an angle that has to be awkward, even for such a muscular appendage.

In spite of your many, many misgivings, you forget to stop yourself from wincing at the sight.

And then, just as the last of its rear tentacles pull themselves up into shallower waters, the beast teeters forwards and starts to topple. All at once, the yellow creature's fins plaster themselves back against its skull and it bellows out a shrill, sharp screech, springing into action and bounding off across the beach. However, it's too late to keep the paler beast from crashing down into the shallows like an enormous redwood tree, sending a violent tremor across the ground and casting ripples through the water you're sitting in.

You have to wrench yourself out of your stupor with a visceral jolt, realising that both creatures are now distracted. Your path is momentarily clear.

This could be your best and only chance.

Setting your jaw, you swipe up the crutch that has sunk into the pool at your side and use it to haul yourself upright. The thigh strapped to your prosthetic hums, and both legs threaten to buckle out from underneath you after such a long time spent curled up in the cave, but you simply grit your teeth and push on, lumbering towards the gap in the cliff walls.

The odd trinkets are left behind to be swallowed by the tide.

It's tricky to try and hurry through ankle-deep water, and each footstep splashes freezing droplets of the sea onto your bare leg and sends goosebumps racing up and down your spine.

Further down the beach, the monster that had cornered you has reached its downed companion's side, fretting and uttering pitiable cries, all of which you steadfastly ignore as you limp towards the staircase, hugging the rocks and refusing to spare even a single glance over your shoulder.

You don't need to know, you need to go.

With your eyes glued to the slippery, metal railing that runs up the cliffs, you don't see the yellow behemoth's head turn to look in your direction, nor do you see it stretch a hand out towards you, fingers splayed, as of a sinner pleading for the Heavens to answer their desperate prayer.

But you do hear its sudden and choking wail of distress, a howl so shrill that it spears you right through the chest and leaves you faltering in your steps.

It's the closest to human the beast has ever sounded...

Just as you splash to the bottom of the stone stairs and plant your free hand on the railing, you cast a final, reluctant glance behind you, locking eyes with the first creature and feeling your heart sink into your stomach...

You berate yourself for looking.

The leviathan's hand is still out-stretched, as if it could span the length of the water-logged bay and bring you back within its grasp. It's baleen teeth are on display, but the corners of its once grinning mouth are now twisted into an unmistakable frown fraught with anguish, calling out to you wretchedly in that strange, haunting croon that reminds you of whale-song.

It doesn't want to let you get away, but it won't leave its companion's side to fetch you.

… Loyalty? From a beast of the deepest, blackest parts of maritime myth?

Your crutch thwacks against the first step...

“I'm sorry,” you hear yourself whisper, absently shaking your head and drawing away.

Gradually, the first creature's hand lowers to the ground, its triangular fins laid so flat against its head that you couldn't be sure there were fins there at all if you weren't already aware of them.

It's pale-faced companion lifts its chin from the shallow water and for one, fatal second, your gaze flicks down to meet its own.

It's massive torso expands and contracts with each breath it pulls into rattling lungs. It isn't unlike seeing a mountain breathe. Those blood-red pupils never waver, watching you warily from beneath drooping eyelids that blink in less-than-perfect tandem, notably fatigued.

It must have exhausted itself trying to escape the gillnet.

Your fingers are growing numb on the freezing cold railing.

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you reluctantly allow your eyes to break away from that wild, mistrusting stare and travel down the length of its torso until they land upon its trapped appendage.

You look to the net, sealing your lips together when you notice the very distinct rivulets of scarlet liquid dribbling down off the limb and plopping into the sea below it, marring the dark, grey water like ink drops.

You can hardly believe you finally have freedom at the tips of your fingers and you're faltering. Just because of a bloodied net. So what if one tentacle is caught within thick, sharp twine? The beast still has seven others to work with. You wish you would have been that lucky...

A lump grows slowly in your throat and you find yourself peering down at your own prosthetic, the very same extremity that this monster had returned to you yesterday, unprompted, unasked.

Once again, you raise your eyes to both creatures, the first, and the second, the one with the sunnier disposition, and the one with the nocturnal characteristics.

“Oh, come on,” you growl at yourself, giving your intact leg a jerk as if to get it moving, even if the rest of you is hesitating, like an idiot, "Now is not the time to grow a fucking conscience."

Those things are not your responsibility. What the Hell are you expecting to do anyway?

Help?

This is bigger than you.

So, much bigger than you.

Tipping your head back to stare up at the sky, you peel your lips apart and heave out a long, hollow sigh. "Is a little sense so much to ask for?"

Raindrops patter dully on your upturned face, and it soon becomes clear that this is the only response you're ever likely to receive from on high.

"I must be out of my mind..."

Cautious as a doe stepping out of her thicket, you draw your crutch off the bottom step and place it back in the water at your side, turning to face the pair of sea creatures, both of whom are watching you just as closely as you're watching them, one hopeful, the other guarded.

You know without a doubt which of the two you can relate to more.

#fnaf #sunnydrop #moondrop #security breach #merau #mermay #mermoon #mersun #giant/tiny #g/t

[animelovelover123]

DMC: Family Pet AU – Being Walked In On

Link to Master List

Set-Up

Being at the service of 11 people who could call for you and seek you out as they please, it’s inevitable that there would be interruptions in private moments. Here is how they would react to being walked in on.

Dante

Woops. Well, this wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. This kind of predicament is commonplace thanks to his inclination to take you in the main room of his shop because then you leave your scent all over where he spends most of his time. That way he can enjoy you while you’re gone, entice some of his other lovers if they visit (Nero is particularly weak to this after a bout of embarrassment), and get a good chuckle when some people walk in and crinkle up their noise as they are assaulted with the lingering smell of sex. Vergil’s and Lady’s looks of shock and disgust while trying to restrain blushes are to die for. Literally, Dante usually gets stabbed or shot for it but it’s so worth it.

Anyway, when one of his family walks in while you are bouncing on his lap, he barely hesitates when looking at them with a mischievous grin. Hooking his arms behind your knees, he lifts your legs up and apart so the third party can clearly see where Dante disappears into you.

“Always room for one more.”

Vergil

Vergil is not the type to feel embarrassment or shame often. And especially not in matters like this for he has every right to please you and be pleased, there is no need for false modesty. Even when he does start to harbour such things, usually when he has failed spectacularly or he has shown his weaker side, it usually surfaces as anger. Either way, he has zero patience for being interrupted for anything less than a true emergency. He tries to ward others off by wafting out his demonic energy as a warning, but if a family member intrudes anyway, he won't hold back his aggression.

Vergil can sense someone approaching. He tries to ward them off with his demonic energy but here they come anyway. And apparently, they were thoroughly thoughtless, in both senses of the word, because they started to open the door without warning. Before they could even slip a hand in Vergil sends out a Summon Sword, piercing both the door and the door frame, jamming them together, and making clear the world of pain they are in for if they try to intrude any further. If he still has some clarity of mind, he will shout in a tone bordering on a snarl, “Leave this instant or not even Sparda himself can save you from my wrath.” And if his humanity was already lost to primal pleasure then he would only let out a single deep, loud, venomous growl.

Nero

It depends on how long you and he have been part of the family. If he is new to sharing both you and himself with others outside of his relationship with Kyrie, then he will get bashful. He’ll let out a cute little noise, which he will deny later, and fumble horribly as he tries to preserve your and his modesty. He will also cuss, either under his breath if the person seems remorseful for interrupting or pointedly if the person is unsympathetic or jokey. His shyness rarely comes out as physical violence though as, in the beginning, he doesn’t want to risk lashing out when you’re so close. And later he has long since accepted the sharing situation.

When his uncertainty about the whole ‘polyamorous family’ situation he had been thrust into finally ebbs away, he is able to not panic and think things through when times with you are interrupted. If it’s someone he doesn’t want in the moment he will pointedly tell them to “fuck off”. If it’s someone submissive or a person he respects he’ll be more polite in telling them he’s “in the middle of something”. But, if it’s someone dominant and he’s in a certain kind of mood, well…

Nero is all raspy breaths and twitching limbs as he falls back onto the headboard, his muscles losing all strength in his post-orgasm. He watches with half-lidded eyes as you lift your head from his chest, breathes long and slow as you too come down from the high, to meet the approaching hand of the person that had walked in just moments before. Nero watches as you receive praise, get soothing pets, and a kiss for a job well done.

“Hey,” Nero calls, grabbing onto the person’s clothes to tug at them for attention. His face regains its redness, his eyes are pleading, and his lips almost start to pout to match the slight whine in his voice. “me too. I did good too, right?”

V

Being interrupted is quite bothersome to V. People seeing his naked form is of little consequence to him. Having been created with a fully matured mind, naked as any newborn would be, he did not experience that suffocating title wave of shame brought about by puberty and the pressure to hide one's developing body. He also spent the first month of his existence as a homeless wanderer stealing and scavenging while only having one outfit to his name, openly washing himself and his clothes in any somewhat clean water he could find in the ruins of Red Grave City. In short, V did not find naked bodies inherently sexual. If anything, he found them beautiful, like an art piece that told the story of one's life. It was the feelings of the people in said bodies that decided if the mood was sexual or not.

No, the problem he had with being walked in on was how it swiftly snuffed out the atmosphere he had so carefully constructed. Getting to this point with V was almost always a lengthy process, tens of minutes or even hours of poetic wordplay, tantalizing looks, and fleeting touches. It was such a delicate dance that he would even station his familiars outside of the room to ward off any who would dare to steal his dance partner before the crescendo.

Unfortunately, there would still be times that someone slips through the veil and tares it down, bringing with them a rush of cold air that dissolves the heat in the room. And just like if someone were to drag a man out of deep slumber in which he was cradled in the most blissful of dreams via a splash of ice water, V is thoroughly put off and perturbed for quite a while. His smooth voice helping to disguise the severity and meaning of the venomous thorn-like words shot bitterly to dig into the intruder.

Credo

Always the prim and proper general, Credo held true to the traditional rules of lovemaking that he had grown up with. There was a time and a place for such intimacies, something he would remind others of if they were caught being untoward at inappropriate times. And when such an opportunity comes about it should be done with grace and respect as giving one’s body over to another is the utmost sign of trust and affection.

So when someone suddenly teleports into the room he reacts quickly. He devil triggers his arms and uses his shield and wing to cover both your bodies as his elbows fall to the mattress on either side of your shoulders. His hips stop and he leans forward to further hide your face in his chest. Though having an order on the tip of his slightly swollen lips, Credo holds his tongue when the intruder speaks because, more than a lover, he is a soldier. When the commanding and formidable voice of his superior instructs him to continue, “for an honourable knight never leaves a job half finished”, Credo’s body tenses with conflicting values. He raises his chest from your face so he can look down at you, mouth closed in a concentrated line, his eyes silently ask for your feelings on the predicament.

If you show any sign of discomfort, he will stand his ground despite any possible punishment he may, but most likely won’t, receive for defying orders. “My apologies, but an honourable man does not force his love to do what makes them unhappy.” If you consent though, flashing him a smile and giving a curt nod, he will return to his full human form and lift back up from his elbows to the palms of his hands. Suppressing the slight quiver trying to sneak through his voice but not the heat spreading across his face and even to the tips of his ears, Credo responds. “Yes sir.”

Lady

With her hatred for demons and drive to avenge her mother and her own lost childhood engulfing her teen years, Lady ended up being a late bloomer. So, despite being a full-fledged adult, she approaches sex like a skittish but overzealous teenager. One with a body as sensitive as her temper and as easy to fire on all cylinders as her happy trigger finger.

Just as in battle, Lady is fluid and precise with every movement, able to multitask as she takes from her opponent what she wants while still being in complete control despite laying under you. And you are most definitely losing as your tongue keeps stopping to take in shaky moans and whimpers under her constant assault. Lady isn’t mad though, if anything it strokes her ego as she has to curl a leg around your head to pull you back down onto her to encourage you to continue, making you whine even more.

And just like in battle, Lady’s reaction time is impeccable as the moment she catches the creaking of the floorboard just outside of her room she jumps into action. Her thighs clamp around your head, one of her arms wraps around your waist, and she grabs the pistol she keeps under her pillow. In one smooth movement, Lady flips you both over, you now on your back and her sitting upright above your head. Before the door opens even halfway, she aims and fires at the person she has already identified, shooting through the opening and past the person if they are human or, if they are any amount of demon, snipes them upside the head. And as she lets out a proud huff as the intruder tumbles backward, she finally leaves herself open enough for you to take charge. For once Lady lets out a stuttering whimper/moan as you suddenly pull her down to sit on your face.

Trish

Trish has always been confident in her body and her sexuality; just look at how she dresses! She is also a demon who has had to bear witness to Mundus playing with his harem of Pets while she served under him. So, the possibility of someone walking in on her doesn’t really bother her. The only times she shows a modicum of modesty is if her current partner becomes uncomfortable, then she will protest for their benefit. That’s not to say she is an exhibitionist or nudist or anything of the sort. She just sees no point in acting coy about seeing people naked or knowing they have sex. This is especially true for her regarding the family. Everyone was sleeping around together, why try to pretend you aren’t?

So, when someone walks into the room, Trish turns to them with her usual sultry smile and doesn’t even slow her fingers as they drag in and out of you. Although she will give one plump cheek, which was held up and towards her, a comforting tap if you whine in embarrassment while pressing your face further into the bed below you.

She will hear the person out if they have an important message, but what she finds more fun is when the person gets all hot and bothered by the display before them.

“Would you like to play too kitten?” Trish asks as she beckons them over with just one finger. “Come on over here. Mommy has two hands.”

Nico

With Nico having spent days, weeks, and even months at a time living out of her van, she is already used to blocking out the sounds of other people or having to shoo them off while in the middle of private business.  She’ll tell you what, “There ain’t nothin’ worse than being seconds away from finishin’ polishin’ your pearl when the copers come bangin’ on your door threatenin’ to toe your wheels if you don’t shove out asap.” And interruptions became even more prevalent as she started letting more and more people hang out in her van. This didn’t make it any less aggravating though when she was interrupted.

“Oh baby.” Nico groaned, hand reaching behind her to grab your hair and hips rolling forward into your hand currently down her shorts to further add pressure to your twirling fingers. With her leaning back against your front and you pressed up against the jukebox, Nico quickly caught the door to the van being opened directly in front of you both. Just as metal-covered fingers slid through, Nico lifted a foot and slammed her boot into the door.

“Jesus Crist!” Nero shouted, hand retracting out of the doorway. “You trying to break my fingers?” He looked over his hand which was thankfully unharmed but the devil breaker gauntlet was now fingerless.

“Buzz off man.” Nico shouted back.

“I just wanna buy-“

“Stores closed, I’m busy.”

“Look, it will only take a minute.”

“Take a goddamn hint dude.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re tryin’ to have a good time in here.”

“We…” Nero trails off in thought then remembers seeing you enter the van just as he was leaving. “Really? Right now?”

“Hell ya right now.” Nico turns to look over her shoulder as she grinds her ass back into you.

“We’re in the middle of a mission Nico!”

Kyrie

No matter how much time she has had to adjust to the more open affection within her new demonic family, Kyrie will always be a shy, chaste, saint of a woman. She lets out a giggle whenever someone brushes against her in an affectionate way, blushes when someone gives her a quick peck, and tries to hide her face if someone wants to capture her lips in public. Heaven forbid someone walks in on her doing something so intimate.

With her heart already hammering in her chest and her face so hot anyone would think she had a severe fever; it was only by screwing her eyes shut and clinging to the pillow she hugged to her chest that kept her stable enough to keep her trembling legs open as your head drifts down between them. Being so wound up as is, when she hears the click of the bedroom door opening, she lets out a panicked shriek. She buries her face in the pillow she is clinging to, turns her back to the door, and snaps her legs close. Even as the person on the other side of the door shouts apologies while closing the door and retreating, Kyrie doesn’t move an inch from her shaking fetal position. After taking the time to calm her and assure her that the person didn’t see anything, she pulls her face away from her pillow to look at you, an apology on her lips and tears still in her eyes.

Sparda

Ever the family man and responsible leader, even when in the throes of passion Sparda would stop to address any family member that interrupted the moment. On rare occasions, usually if he or you are on the brink of climax, he will growl at the intruder to wait. But he will quickly finish and find them after to discuss whatever they came to see him for. Still, his arousal would take a pretty bad hit if interrupted and he may need some extra attention to get back to where you both left off. He doesn’t like making you work extra though, especially if you also lose some of your arousal in the process. This is often mitigated however by him being an oh so generous family man.

“Is there anything else?” Sparda asked, having successfully talked through his family member’s problem. He spoke with gentle patience despite his natural frustration at being interrupted and noticing how he had softened considerably at this point. You, however, were still giving off an aroused aura. And not just for him, but for his kin too who also seemed to have noticed your curious looks. And so, being the generous father who wants all his kin to feel loved and well-practiced, and knowing that you two can entertain each other while he returns to his previous fervour, he motions them towards you. “If you have time to spare, would you like to join us?”

Eva

As a mother of twins who constantly fought and looked to their parents for backup in arguments, she was far too used to being barged in on. She had mastered the technique of covering herself and her partner up in the blink of an eye and even on the brink of an orgasm she could put on an unassuming voice and caring smile as she asked what was wrong.

So when you and she are entangled in an embrace, both topless as you drag your tongue along the lingering stretch marks from her time breastfeeding, and someone enters the bedroom unannounced Eva has the bed’s blanket wrapped around you both before you even lift your head. “Do you need something?” She asks with all the sweetness of a saint while you paw at her chest in disappointment. One of her hands soothingly travels up and down your back as you pout up at her when her other hand gently pushes you back.

#devil may cry x reader #devil may cry imagine #v x reader #vergil x reader #dante x reader #nero x reader #sparda x reader #credo x reader #eva x reader #lady x reader #trish x reader #kyrie x reader #nico x reader #sparda x eva #nero x kyrie #v (dmc) x reader

[justanotherstarlightmonger]

Adjacent- JJK

A/n: NEW SERIES AS JK'S BDAY GIFT!! Many of my favorite people on this site and my sister are JK stans. This series was in the works for a lil while and I've decided to release this in honor of jk day!

Summary: The charming man who moved in next door a few months ago shows you that love should always be all inclusive. Even if it came as dual package with a clingy girlfriend and a similar cat? Especially so.

Genre: Neighbor AU, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst in there somewhere, generally soft.

Pairing: Idol! Jeon Jungkook x CEO! female reader.

Series Navigation

Masterlist.

PROLOGUE

word count: 870 words

“How much of an attention whore do you have to be to not realize that I can’t be at your service day and night, y/n?” Dae-Jung’s voice kept rising with every step he took towards you.

“Honey, that’s not what I want, I didn’t know who to call and Nox wouldn’t stop throwing up!” you countered, trying to keep a steady tone because he was being loud enough for the both of you.

“And so you thought that spamming my phones with calls would get me to answer if I didn’t pick up the first time?”

“Normally when your fiance calls your multiple phones, multiple times it’s a sign of an emergency, honey” though the fond pet name tasted bitter on your tongue.

“Your fucking cat throwing up is not an emergency!”

“He’s our cat!” you reprimanded. You would hear his tantrums but you would not stand for rudeness to your precious boy, especially when he had to stay at the vet’s for his strange coming down with illness.

“No, he’s not y/n.” his voice lowered almost dramatically, “He’s a pretentious, overfed, spoilt vermin who’s as much of an attention whore as you are, and I’m losing my patience with both of you.”

“STOP CALLING ME THAT!” you screamed, your frustration breaking through.

“Don’t raise your voice at me, woman!” he said threateningly.

“Excuse you?”

“You heard me. You owe your entire spoilt existence to me and my bank account and I will not stand here and take your screaming lightly, as if you’ve forgotten your place.”

The ground split under your feet and the flames of hell rose to lick your feet.

“My place?” you took a step forward, “MY PLACE?” you grabbed Dae-Jung’s collar, “Never, EVER talk down to me like I was a bimbo you picked off the streets Kang Dae-Jung. I owe you nothing!” you shook him fiercely and pushed him backwards.

“Leave.” his voice was poison. “Leave before I call the cops on you.”

You were already halfway to the front door, grabbing your phone and car keys on the way. “Don’t bother calling me.”

“What makes you think I will!?” he called after you, cementing the god-awful ache in your chest as you slammed the door after you.

As the door sang the sweet tune of the security system activating the lock, you heaved deep breaths, trying to calm your thundering heart, your eyes raking your surroundings to find a distraction. Something. Anything.

The packages that sat in front of your neighbor’s door seemed to hold your eyes longer than anything else. The pile was ridiculously tall, as if they had gone on a midnight shopping spree on a single store and had bought, seemingly the whole thing. Your mind faintly registered that you had never actually interacted with your neighbor that had moved in a few months ago. Granted that the way your schedule was set up, you left for work later than the average office worker, and came back much later too, but it was currently almost midnight, and apparently they hadn’t come home either.

Speculation was helping your mind calm down, ironically, so you took a few steps closer to the packages.

Jeon Jungguk, the package on top read. So he was a guy? You wondered who he was. How he looked, how he was with his loved ones.

Would he drop what he was doing to pick up his beloved’s call whose cat was throwing up blood and she was on the verge of a breakdown herself?

Or would he not bother? Leave her to collect herself, then the poor animal and drive to the vet, trembling all the way?

You felt the sickness coming back. You shook your head and stepped back. You probably looked like a stalker creep anyways. What were you doing hovering over an essential stranger’s packages? In front of his home too.

You really were losing it slightly huh?

You turned and made your way to the elevator, your sneaker clad feet not making much sound.

Once inside, you called the vet’s office.

“Miss l/n, I was wondering when you’d call. Your baby seems to be missing you.” the receptionist said cheerfully.

You missed him terribly too. Nox had been with you since he was a little kitty. He had spent his entire four years of life, being spoiled and loved to bits by you, and you felt guilty about how he was so sick on your watch.

“I miss him too. Please take care of him for me. Have the scans been done?” you asked, eager as to when you could have him back in your arms.

“Yup, and he was a perfect gentleman all through. He’s so well trained, you’ve really given him lots of time and care. We’ve submitted his works to the lab and you can come pick him up tomorrow in the meantime as we wait for the results to come through.”

“That’s perfect.” you breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Perfect, see you then miss l/n.” the receptionist hung up and you felt a bit of life come back to you.

Now, where would you spend the night?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/n(2):

Taglist open!

Send in an ask or leave a comment to be tagged. I'm more than excited to bring this piece of my heart to the world.

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #Jungkook angst #bts Jungkook #golden maknae #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook x y/n #neighbor jungkook #strangers to lovers #jjk #bts fluff #bts series #bts smut #fic:adjacent #Taglist open

[justanothersyscourse]

Guys, let's have a chat

This one is going to be incredibly sensitive, and will involve the topic of abuse and suicide, so if you're not in the right headspace, keep scrolling and come back another time ❤️ I hope you feel better soon.

I think this is a discussion that everyone should have at some point, if you haven't already, but it seems to be forgotten quite easily in the heat of the moment.

So let's start with the Big Statement™️

Threats of suicide are a manipulation tactic.

This isn't about someone coming to you in confidence to talk about mental health struggles and ideation, opening up to you about what's going on in their head. It's not about people rationally and healthily discussing their interpretation of your words and actions to avoid triggers.

This is about people who tell you that you are the reason they are going to hurt themselves. That say that something you did is the problem. That use the threat as a way to keep you in line and from expressing your own boundaries and talking about your own mental health and emotions.

This is about people who use threats of suicide to direct attention away from their own actions and to emphasise yours.

When I was a teen, I was in a relationship like this, with a boyfriend who would threaten suicide when things weren't done "right" or when I tried to leave. I wish someone had told me back then that whatever they did wasn't actually my fault. That their life wasn't my responsibility.

That I needed to take care of myself first, no matter the consequences.

That it was not my fault that the other person wasn't taking care of themselves.

That it wasn't my responsibility to get them help or to stay around until all of the joy and light had been snuffed out of me. That I didn't have to resign myself to a miserable life because of guilt and fear over another person's own decisions and actions.

It's a hard concept to wrap your head around when you want to help people and you find confrontation difficult. It's a hard concept when society pushes politeness for the sake of others over selfcare for yourself.

But make no mistake.

Loud, obnoxious, demanding threats like that should be ignored.

Turning around and giving in only shows the manipulator that it's working and that you're controllable. Attention from outsiders only gains them sympathy and more power, turning people against you. It can be hard and isolating, but you're not alone.

When you're in these kinds of relationships and situations, it can feel like there's no right answers or actions to take. It's so hard to tell yourself that is not your responsibility, and that it's not your fault.

The only right answers are to allow the behaviour to continue at the expense of your OWN mental health, or taking the harsh step of saying, "that's not appropriate and I'm not engaging until you stop or get help."

My mom's ex called her once after they broke up, and he was telling her how he was going to kill himself without her, how horrible she was for not thinking of him and his needs, how hard things were for him now and how he would be better off dead. I had been the one to find the inappropriate pictures of my sister, and my mom was still struggling. She hadn't seen them, the phone had been taken during the investigation.

But what she did in response will stay with me forever.

While he was on the phone saying this, she asked for my phone, and she called 911. She told them he was a danger to himself, she let them hear what he was saying over the speaker.

In minutes, there were emergency services at his house, and he was running from them, calling my mom a bitch over the phone, what was she thinking calling the police, OBVIOUSLY he wasn't going to do that, he didn't say that, he wasn't serious. In the background you could hear the police and medics, "Sir, please stop running, sir, come back, sir, we just need to talk."

She did the right fucking thing.

And I learned.

And I will do the same fucking thing if it ever happens to me.

I will use the report function. I will call them on their threats. I will stand up for myself. I will put myself first, above all else.

I will not take responsibility for someone's decisions and actions that are out of my control and come at the expense of my own health, safety and worth. I will recognize that it's not my responsibility to ensure someone else is getting the help they appear to need. I will not hold myself responsible for someone that won't help themselves.

And you should do those things, too.

Please be safe out there.

You deserve to be safe.

You deserve to think of yourself first, and not feel guilty for it.

#tw #tw abuse #tw suicide #tw sh

[dragonmuse]

I had so much fun with your scenario in which Izzy becomes a writer! Do you think there's any chance of a universe somewhere where he'd become a professional chef? Maybe one that makes a name for himself making food that's both gourmet and allergen-free... I love all these possible AUs that you write, by the way <3

( Thank you so much! <3.

soooo this one became a full on fic. no bulleted list. Because of that, there was no place to put it, but Eddy in this timeline comes out in her teens and is already out when she meets Izzy. CW: There is an old-fashioned Izzy allergy attack in this one. Brief mention of a hospital, but no one stays there.

Let's call this one 'bottle of red, bottle of white' )

“Boss?”  Fang appeared at Eddy’s elbow. They were trying to sort out the reservation system that Hornigold had foisted on them last week. It was a fucking mess. 

“What?” Eddy snapped. 

“There’s an emergency.” 

Eddy whirled on Fang, who did have a wild look about him. 

“What kind?” 

“Ivan already called 911. It’s Izzy.” 

“Did he stab someone?” Eddy asked with a groan, heading back towards the kitchen.

“No, boss-” 

The kitchen was silent. The kitchen was never silent. It was a place of flames, banging pots and yelling. If Hornigold was back there (rarer and rarer these days) than it was even worse, with barks of ‘yes, chef!’ following his shouted order. 

No Hornigold today. But also no banging, no leaping cascades of fire. The rapid ‘clack clack clack’ of knives had fallen off. The entire staff seemed frozen, eyes glued to the floor. Eddy looked down and there was Izzy, sitting on an overturned bucket. Izzy who rarely let anyone touch him, had Ivan’s hand on his back, as he tried to draw in air. 

“Iz,” Eddy dropped into a squat, fear seizing her. Israel Hands didn’t sit during meal prep. He was a shark from 4pm until midnight, moving from spot to spot to ward off death.  

Izzy didn’t look up. His hands were planted to his knees and his breath was staggered. The hands were covered in furious red bumps. 

“Did he get burned?” Eddy demanded. 

“No, boss,” Blue Toby was looming over them. “All of a sudden he started wheezing.” 

“Ambulance is on it’s way,” Ivan provided. 

“Fuck,” Eddy closed their eyes, sucked in a breath than nodded sharply. “Ivan, stay on the phone. The rest of you, get the fuck back to work. Dinner service is still dinner service.  Iz...Izzy, can you hear me?” 

A slow faint nod. 

“Fang, tell Sam he's on front of house until I get this figured out.” 

“Yes, boss.” 

Industry sounds started up again, but not nearly as loud as usual. Ivan went on talking to the operator. 

Eddy put a hand over Izzy’s shoulder. Listened to the way his breath strained. 

“Don’t you dare die, you mother fucker,” She hissed. “I will dig you out of your grave and make sure you never have a moment’s peace if you die.” 

Izzy’s horribly broken out hand groped for hers. He held it tightly, eyes pressed closed. 

Eddy could hear her pulse in her ears.  

Cooking was not Eddy’s thing, really. Eating was fun though. When they’d been offered a gratis summer class on cooking at some underprivileged kids' bullshit school, Eddy had taken it figuring that at least there’d be some extra meals. It had been a condescending, terrible fucking experience, except for two things: 1. She’d met Hornigold, celebrity chef, who frequented the school to find young, cheap labor and 2. She’d met Izzy, who actually liked all the ridiculous classroom stuff and had attached himself to her like an angry limpet. 

It had only taken a two years of doing Hornigold’s bidding that Eddy realized that maybe only one of those two things had actually been good. Not that Eddy wasn’t fucking aces at her job. Restaurant management was made for her. Three years in, she ran the Ranger almost single-handedly. Hornigold’s flagship restaurant only turned profit because Eddy was at the helm. But it was miserable work. Hornigold would never unclench his fist fully around the place, swooping in to make a mess of what Eddy had finally cleaned up and taking them to task for things that no one could control for. 

No...no. The only goddamn thing worth having that she’d gotten out of that ridiculous class was Izzy.  Reliable, loyal, workaholic, Izzy, who turned all of Hornigold’s tired old recipes into something at least palatable. Izzy, who terrorized the kitchen staff into a peak efficiency, uncaring of what they said about him on smoke breaks.  Izzy, who no matter how late he’d been up the night before, was awake before Eddy and handing them coffee when they stumbled out of the bedroom. 

Her roommate, her partner, her sometimes fuck that once let her choke him in the pantry and he’d made such sweet sounds around her fingers. There were no moans today, no penetrating eye contact. Izzy was fighting for his breath against the world instead of her and that was fucking unacceptable. 

“Don’t die,” she ordered again and he squeezed her hand harder. 

“Back here!” Ivan guided in EMTs. Eddy was shoved back, but that never stopped them from staying where they needed to be. When they loaded Izzy into the ambulance, Eddy was right there beside him. 

The phone in their pocket was already buzzing with recriminations from Hornigold, some asshole probably tattled. Eddy didn’t give a single fuck. It was a restaurant, fully-staffed. Everyone would survive one night without peak service. 

Whatever they gave to Izzy in the ambulance seemed to start working. His breathing became a little less labored though nowhere close to normal. In the E.R., they get him laid out and an I.V. hooked up, but there were no rooms available, so they were just in the hallway. Eventually, Izzy groaned and sat up, head in hands. 

“What the fuck?” Eddy demanded of him, even as she rested her hand on the back of his head, brought in close enough to kiss his stupidly over gelled hair. 

“Peanut butter,” Izzy muttered. 

Eddy froze. They knew Izzy had some shit about nuts. He wouldn’t eat them. Wouldn’t cook with them either.  Seemed like one of his many weird twitches and Eddy had let it alone. What did she care if there were nuts on the menu?  But Hornigold had insisted that his latest ‘innovation’ (a dish he’d served twenty years ago and was hoping everyone had forgotten about) needed a dollop of peanut butter in it. 

Izzy hadn’t said a word as the instructions had been rattled off. But he had been wearing latex gloves all week. 

“Are you fucking allergic?” They bit off, furious they hadn’t realized before. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Did,” Izzy’s voice was raw. “He didn’t give a shit. Hadn’t had a reaction in years, figured maybe I’d gotten over it.” 

“Well, you didn’t,” she growled. 

“Yeah,” Izzy agreed. “Noticed.” 

“Should’ve told me. I can’t do shit about what you haven’t told me.” 

“You had other things.” 

It had been a bitch of a week. Eddy had been furious for most of it. Izzy never minded their temper, seemed even to enjoy it sometimes, but he wouldn’t have brought them a problem when they were like that. 

“You could’ve died, moron,” Eddy snapped. “Then what would I do? Out half the rent and a head chef? I’d have to find like ten new people to replace you.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Fuck. Hornigold legit almost killed you because he doesn’t know how to spice a stew,” Eddy realized. “You probably had like three alternatives, right?” 

“Four,” Izzy agreed. 

“Shit.” 

It took some time, but eventually Eddy was allowed to take Izzy and his shiny new Epi-Pen home. The apartment was a disaster, usually was Tuesday through Sunday.  Mondays, Izzy would tidy and Eddy would do laundry for them both. Sometimes, if Eddy was lucky, those cleaning sessions would end in Izzy cooking something just for the two of them. Something new he’d thought of while churning out ancient classics of someone else’s cookbook that would be spectacular.

Tonight, Eddy ate cold mac and cheese from a box, watching Izzy sleep in her bed. She had steered him in here when they got home and he hadn’t asked a question, just kicked off his shoes and fallen against the sheets. 

It was one thing for Hornigold to treat Izzy like shit. Hornigold treated them all like shit. But it was another to almost kill the man. Izzy belonged to Eddy. No one got to take him from her. 

After they were done eating, they got into bed and curled around him, listening to him breathe.

“Eddy,” Izzy pushed at them. They startled awake. 

“What?” 

“I need to piss.” 

“Come back after,” she demanded. 

To their surprise, he did come back and let himself be reeled in close. They didn’t cuddle usually. They didn’t ever actually sleep together, but Eddy wasn’t letting him out of her sight if she could help it. 

“We have to get out of there,” she whispered in his ear and Izzy didn’t argue. 

It took two years. Two more painful years to scratch up what they needed, to do it quietly. To find the place, to shake money out of investors that weren’t keen on handing over cash to two people in their twenties with thin resumes. In the end, all they were able to secure was a hole -in-the-wall place in a rundown neighborhood. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Eddy determined. 

“It’s a shithole,” Izzy contended, but he was smiling. Not the feral one with too many teeth that some staffers saw right before they were fired. Just the real one that he got sometimes when Eddy complimented his food. 

“We’ll make it gorgeous,” Eddy allowed. 

“You will,” Izzy walked straight back into the kitchen with a pile of cleaning supplies and a gleam in his eye. 

It took weeks of elbow grease, and a clever manipulation of funds to get the place into opening shape. Eddy sourced tables and chairs from curbsides, bringing them back to clean and paint until everything was black, purple and blue. On a whim, she even painted the horrible linoleum flooring a matte black, sealing it in with satisfaction at 2 AM on weekday. 

“Huh,” Izzy had said as he stumbled in to find them slumped over a rescued table the next morning. 

“You like it?” She challenged. 

“Should do the ceiling too,” he offered. 

They did that. Strung fairy lights up over it so it glistened like the night sky. The walls got covered in bric-a-brac, paintings that Eddy found in Goodwill, seascapes where she could get them. 

And in the kitchen, Izzy built a menu like an architect, scaffolding up dishes. Eddy’s stomach had never been fuller as she happily tucked into his ‘failures’. 

“Need a name,” Eddy said one night as they both chewed through egg-free pasta noodles drenched in garlic, oil, and oregano. 

“Choose whatever,” Izzy gestured loosely with a fork. “You’re good at that shit.” 

“You’re the executive chef,” Eddy grinned. “Just call it Hands.” 

“Fuck that,” he snorted.  

“How about Nutless?” 

“Yeah, that’ll go over.” 

“Dizzy Izzy’s?” She suggested and then cackled as he threw a noodle at her head. 

In the end, the white on black lettering on the sign says ‘Freedom, a fine dining experience’ in Eddy’s own loopy and writing and underneath in Izzy’s spiky letters ‘nut-free, egg-free, soy-free, full of flavor’. 

Running a restaurant together, without Hornigold’s interference, was both easier and harder. Eddy had complete control, but there was also no one else to blame when things went wrong. Izzy stayed in the kitchen like someone had chained him to the stove, despite have a half-decent kitchen crew. He’d even gone back to the fucking horrible school and plucked a sous-chef from their ranks. Roach swore even more than Izzy, had a pathological attachment to his meat cleaver and made the world’s most gorgeous quiches. Thanks to Roach, they expanded into brunch service on the weekends. 

“You don’t have to go in,” Eddy would remind Izzy on Sundays. “Roach has it.” 

“Busy today,” was all Izzy would say and then disappear. 

The hookups in the pantry were off the table once it became their pantry and was no longer a rebellion, but a liability to the shelving. Nights in one of their beds fell off as they both came home too tired to do anything more than sleep. 

And Eddy....they found they didn’t miss it much. It was easier to be Izzy’s business partner than his life partner. 

So they didn’t talk about it and that part of their lives died on the vine. Withered up and went cold.

“I found a place,” Izzy told them, not making eye contact. They were eating their own dinners, hurriedly over the sink as the kitchen buzzed around them. It was one of Eddy’s favorites, seared scallops, which they rarely served. That should’ve made them suspicious. 

“What do you mean?” 

“To live,” Izzy stared harder at his place. “Closer to here.” 

“Iz...” 

“I can’t stay,” he muttered. “I can’t- we can do this. Here. But I can’t be in your space all the time if we’re not...” 

“Yeah,” Eddy choked. Fuck. “Yeah, okay.” 

**** 

Izzy hadn’t lived alone for more than a few days in his entire life. Gone from home to his shared apartment with Eddy. At first, he relished the quiet. The control. No one else's things cluttering up his precious few hours of free time. But it quickly dulled. He missed Eddy desperately some days, even when...maybe especially when, he was around them for hours anyway.  

If it hadn’t been for the restaurant, maybe Izzy wouldn’t have had the balls to go. Maybe he would’ve hung around the apartment for the rest of his life, waiting for Eddy to want him again. 

But there was Freedom. There was the kitchen where he ruled with an iron fist and could spend the day elbow deep in food prep. Yes, there was still Eddy swanning in and out, poking and teasing him while they made sure the money flowed in. 

And it did. Reviews came out and Izzy read them late at night, memorizing criticism and recalling it at horrible moments, but they were generally good. People liked the food, like the atmosphere Eddy had curated with their inane knick-knacks and charisma. They were good at being partners on the steady black floors of their tiny kingdom. 

So Izzy poured himself into the restaurant. They hired more staff. Oluwande, who was a good host, came with Jim, who wandered into the kitchen one night and never went back out on the floor again and Frenchie, who made divine pastries light as air. 

“Iz,” Eddy circled up around him one night, their eyes alight. “The place next store closed.” 

“The pharmacy or the antiques place?” Izzy glanced up. 

“Antiques,” Eddy reached down, plucked up one of the bits of beef  dancing around the pan that Izzy had been cooking. Izzy had given up even pretending to threaten them about that a long time ago. Eddy had asbestos fingers and no sense of kitchen hygiene, it just was what it was. Anyway, the appreciative noise she made when she had a bite of his food had always been his favorite compliment. 

“Good,” he determined. “Hated that dusty window display.” 

“Yeah, but...” Eddy hooked her chin over his shoulder. A few years of working together, living part had left her physically affectionate again and he never shook her off. “Iz. Next door.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Space, Iz. Two stoves.  More tables. The walk-in freezer I know you jerk off too.” 

Izzy’s eyes went wide, “We can’t afford it...can we?” 

“We can,” Eddy said delighted. “We fucking will.” 

It required meeting with some rich dude that owned the building, but Eddy came back from that meeting very merry and an agreement in hand. 

“You’d like him.” Eddy declared, then wrinkled her nose. “Actually you’d probably hate him, but I like him. Anyway, he gave us a sweetheart deal.” 

They had to close for an entire month which was heart-stopping, but Izzy didn’t have time to obsess over it because he was handed a sledgehammer. To cut costs, they did a lot of the labor themselves and it was like the beginning all over again. The whole staff pitched in and the wall came down. 

“What if we didn’t do the floors black?” Eddy floated as they stood between the two spaces, only the demarcation of paint to say where one had once started and the other began. 

Izzy crossed his arms over his chest. He loved the black floors, Eddy’s first tender foray into making their mark on their space. But whatever they chose it would still be Eddy’s. That’s what mattered. Eddy out front, facing the world, Izzy in the back, making it taste better. 

“Do what you want,” he said and it wasn’t dismissive. He hoped Eddy knew that. 

The way they caught his eye suggested that they did, so he left it there. He had a walk-in freezer to stock anyway.  

He didn’t count on the chandelier. 

“What the fuck?”

“It was Stede’s idea,” Eddy said gleefully from beneath the actually very tasteful fall of crystal. 

With a bigger space, they finally put in a decent size bar. It was made of mismatched reclaimed wood, homage to their now retired mismatched furniture. Eddy hired a bartender and then informed Izzy,

“No allergies, omnivore. He suggested if you guys did a tasting he could build out a cocktail menu to match. Told him you’re shit at wine pairings.”

“Thanks,” Izzy rolled his eyes. “Cocktails though?”

“People pay through the nose for specialty cocktails,” Eddy shrugged. “Stede knew the guy, says he’s good. Works rich people parties sometimes, apparently.”

“Great.” Izzy prepared himself to spend an hour listening to a pretentious peacock pick apart his menu. He made the tasting platter as perfect as he could because that’s just how he was and brought  it out to the bar at the appointed time. 

The guy was waiting, already seated at the bar and he was a knockout. Long legs in skinny jeans, shirt so wide necked it threatened to dip off one shoulder and a creamy bit of fabric wrapped around his neck. His hair looked intentionally mussed, a fucked out look that only came from gel.

“You Spriggs?” Izzy asked, pleased that it came out nearly normal. 

“That’s me. You must be Israel.”

“Izzy,” he corrected.

“Izzy,” Lucius repeated with a lingering look. “Lucius, please”

He set the tray on the bar. “Won’t all stay at the right temperature but I don’t have my staff in this early in the day to make as we go.”

“That’s fine,” Lucius studied the tray. “This is…this so beautiful. You didn’t have to make it…wow. Sorry I feel like I asked you to do a lot of work. I just needed some quick bites.”

“Eat with your eyes too,” Izzy did not flush. Absolutely not. 

“Yeah I’m devouring,” and that sounded lewd as hell. “Where do I start?”

“There’s the hummus,” Izzy pointed to it. “Has some heat if you mind that kind of thing.”

“I like a bit of spice.”  

Did everything this guy say sound like a double entendre?  Lucius dipped pita into the hummus and took a bite. Then he made a low, throaty noise that went straight to Izzy’s dick. 

“It’s so creamy! Holy shit, it’s like a mousse.” 

“Yeah,” Izzy said vaguely. “That’s the point.” 

“Wow, okay, and this is the eggplant stack thing, right? Gotta say I like that you don’t do any dippy names. Everything is what it says it is.”  Lucius took on the mouthful with another one of those noises. It took everything in Izzy not to turn around and look for a camera. This felt like a setup. 

“Never liked playing cute. Eddy tried it early on, but it didn’t sit right.” 

“Mhm,” Lucius picked up his glass of water and took a sip. “There’s another appetizer?” 

There were fifteen small plates on the tray. Three appetizers, ten entrees, two desserts. Tight menu for a tight space.

Izzy answered Lucius’ questions, watched him basically make out with each dish, and decided he didn’t care if he was being punked, his ego had never been this well stroked without any apparent agenda.  

Lucius licked the back of his dessert spoon, then asked, “Mind if I get behind the bar? I think better if I mix as I go. Kind of like sketching.” 

“Yeah, go ahead,” Izzy said roughly. “Sketching?” 

“Uh huh. Okay, so the vibe this gives me is like...summery? Which is pretty cool because you’re mostly using winter vegetables.” 

“Yes,” Izzy nodded.  “Mostly. The farmer we source things from grows some out of season things in a greenhouse, so it’s still fresh.” 

“Into that. So I’m thinking I can keep a base of four cocktails, then rotate two in seasonally to match what you do with the menu.” 

“How’d you know that we switch things out?” Izzy hadn’t told him that yet, figuring it was enough to work with the winter menu that they were currently dealing with. 

“I read some reviews,” Lucius admitted, taking down various bottles. “Got a favorite liquor?” 

“Vodka. I hope you didn’t read that twat from the Sun.” 

“Was that the guy who bitched about the ambiance? Came off pretty petty.” 

“It was,” Izzy said darkly. “He hit on Eddy and they turned him down. So.” 

“Oh ew,” Lucius wrinkled his nose. He dug out a shaker and shoveled ice into it. “Eddy get that a lot?” 

“Yeah, it happens.” 

“Stede is mega into them,” Lucius laughed. “I’ve known the guy for like two years? Never seen him like that. Twitterpated.” 

“Yeah,” Izzy shoved down the bile that threatened to rise. “What are you making?” 

“Mmm, not sure yet. Eddy said you hate wine.” 

“I do,” Izzy sighed, waiting for the judgment. 

“Me too,” Lucius snorted, plucking something off one of the small plates. “I never got what the big deal was, it all tastes the same to me. I thought chefs were required to like it though.” 

“It’s got its uses, but I don’t go looking for it. Didn’t go to one of the fancy cooking schools or anything, never ‘refined my palette’ whatever the fuck that means.” 

“Must not mean much because everything I just ate rocked my socks off,” Lucius grinned. “And I’m not just saying that. Like that lamb changed me on a deep level. I'll never be the same.” 

Izzy had made that lamb for Eddy, years ago. Just the two of them in the closed kitchen of Ranger after dinner service one night. It had been too busy for either of them to choke anything down. She’d leaned against the sink, pulled out a flask, and told him that it was the anniversary of her mother’s death. They’d shared the liquor and Eddy had slumped exhausted while Izzy tried his best to make a dish for heartbreak. There’d only been lamb left over, so he’d added all the warm spices that Eddy loved, layered it in tomatoes and carrots, cooking it all until it was tender.  

Eddy ate it without a word, but pressed so close to him that Izzy had to brace himself against the counter to keep from tipping over. 

He’d made it for them both on the regular after that night.   It was the only thing on the menu that had stayed the same from day one of Freedom. 

“Yeah?” Izzy choked.

“Uh huh,” Lucius picked up the shaker and gave it a vicious rattle. His hands were big, fingers almost circling the fat metal cylinder. “You already have a house red and white. Add a few more slightly more expensive options and that’ll be that.” 

“People like a long wine list.” 

“Fuck ‘em,” Lucius said merrily, then paused. “Should I not swear? Am I going to lose a job I’ve had for ten minutes?�� 

“I don’t give a fuck,”  Izzy snorted.

“Great,” Lucius poured a clear drink into a martini glass, then searched the bar, coming up with a sad looking lime. He wrinkled his nose at it, but got a peeler and with a flick of the wrist had a perfect curly string of green that he set along the edge of the glass. Then he put it in front of Izzy. “Try that.” 

“Hmm,” Izzy picked it up and, by long habit, smelled it first.  It smelled mostly of lime and...basil? Could that be right? He took a small sip. It exploded over his tongue. Fresh and clean, not too sweet, but with a good edge of it and definitely alcoholic as hell.  

“Basil and lime vodka gimlet,” Lucius explained. “It’s not quite right, really need to let the basil sit for longer. Pair that with the lamb and it’ll cut the richness and compliment all the ginger and stuff. Right?” 

The question seemed in earnest, so Izzy took another sip and then dragged a finger through the remaining dregs of the lamb plate and sucked it off thoughtfully. Yeah it did do that, especially with the vodka keeping the drink warmer. 

“It works,” Izzy confirmed. “Keep that one.” 

“Yeah,” Lucius was watching him with such intent that Izzy wondered if he wanted him to say more. 

“It’s good," he allowed.

“Thanks,” a soft laugh as Lucius re-focused himself, “Okay,  probably want something gin based too. Gin is really hot right now.” 

They talked through the rest of the drinks, Lucius trying a few more things and Izzy approving all of them with only minor adjustments. By the end, Izzy was getting well into tipsy and was starting to suspect that Lucius might be flirting with him. Which was ridiculous. Probably just his way or whatever. Bartenders made good tips by being flirtatious, probably. 

“Should I send you the finalized list?” Lucius asked as he tidied up. 

“Just to Eddy. She’ll get it printed up.” 

“Do you have a graphic designer? I do that sometimes on the side." 

“Eddy question,” Izzy dismissed. 

“What’s an Izzy question then?”  

“Food stuff. Inventory stuff. Don’t give a fuck about the rest.” 

“Yeah? You don’t come out and shake hands?” 

“Hell no. If I wanted to talk to people, I wouldn’t have gone into cooking.” 

“Yeah, bet you hide in the kitchen at parties,” Lucius winked. “Me too. That’s where all the best people are.” 

Hard to argue that. A few minutes later Lucius had cleared out. Izzy cleaned up, then walked home. The smell of basil lingered in his nose until he fell asleep that night. 

Over the next few weeks, Izzy’s hunch about flirtatious bartenders was proven correct. Lucius wasn’t the fastest worker Izzy had ever seen (understatement, but that was Eddy’s problem), but everyone who sat at the bar didn’t seem to care. He flirted, he gently teased, sometimes less gently insulted everyone in the vicinity. Apparently, there was a boyfriend (of course there was) named Pete, who came in once a week like clockwork and sat at the bar, apparently not at all ruffled by the flirtations.  Not that Izzy got to witness any of that first hand, just got word from the waiters as they breezed in and out, and Eddy’s own tickled report. 

“I think he’s a fucking terror,” she confided as they shared one of their now rare cigarettes out back. 

“Yeah? We need to dump him?” 

“We run on terror. He fits right in,” they laughed. “Hey, we should do a thing for the re-opening.” 

“We’ve been open for a month,” Izzy pointed out, taking a drag and then passing it back to her.

“Gotta celebrate though. Maybe do a staff thing. Invite a few people. You know, music and whatever.” 

Izzy gave them the side-eye. “What’s this about?” 

“Celebrating,” Eddy said firmly. “We made it, Iz. Got to stop and enjoy that at some point or what are we even doing, you know?” 

Izzy didn’t know. Every day that he stepped into the kitchen and knew it was his was a goddamn celebration. But fine. Party it was. 

They were usually closed on Mondays, but Izzy came in at noon and made finger foods, set them up around the place, so no one would have to run back and forth to serve. When he brought out the last tray, he was surprised to see Lucius behind the bar. 

“Eddy mentioned what you’d be up to,” Lucius waved when he spotted him. “It’s smart. Figured I’d make some pitchers of things now. By the time those are gone, people will be happy with shots. Like we’re all definitely getting obliterated right?” 

“Most likely,” Izzy agreed. “Made things that won’t rip out your throat if you puke.” 

“How thoughtful,” Lucius grinned. “You’re a real gentleman.” 

“Take that back, motherfucker.” 

Lucius’ laugh was deep and rippled over Izzy’s skin.  “Sorry, chef. You’re a raging asshole.” 

“Damn right,” Izzy nodded. “My prep is done. You need anything?” 

“Want to show off your insane knife skills and do some orange slices? Thinner the better.” 

It wasn’t hard to slice them fine, nearly translucent. Lucius moved around him, to grab something at one point and reached out, gripping Izzy’s shoulder for just a second for balance. The touch seared through him. 

“You know I was kidding about the knife skills, but holy shit!” Lucius plucked up one of the slices. “That’s amazing.” 

“What’re you putting it in?” 

“Rum punch.” But that slice went right into Lucius’ mouth as he set down the glass. “Use up some of the fruit we’d have to toss otherwise and it tastes better the longer it sits.  If you didn’t go to culinary school, where’d you learn to cut like that?” 

“Worked in a fancy ass kitchen for a couple of years. Picked up things there. Rest is just time and practice.” 

“Guess you do practically live back there. Jim says you’re the last to leave, always there when they get in.” 

“There’s a lot to do,” he said vaguely. “You...settling in?” 

“Sure, it’s great here,” Lucius said with apparent sincerity. “Way better than catering gigs.” 

The back door opened, Jim and Oluwande’s voices spilling through the space and that was the end of any quiet. Everyone trickled in and the main room was soon heaving with staff, a few regulars, and some people Izzy wasn’t sure he’d ever met before. Eddy was presiding over all of it with an enormous smile that fully reached her eyes. Music poured out of the speakers and a cleared space in the middle of the room had enticed some people to dance. Or maybe that was Lucius’ punch. 

Izzy had had a glass or two, but stopped there, unwilling to unwind so much in that large a group. So he was the only one with a clear enough mind to notice someone knocking on the door. 

A tall guy with a shock of blond waves and a fancy suit was fidgeting a little outside.  Izzy opened the door reluctantly, 

“We’re closed. Private party.”

“Oh, you must be Iggy!” The guy said with a fumbling smile. 

“Izzy,” he corrected. 

“I’m Stede! Eddy invited me.” 

This was Stede? The guy that Eddy had mentioned like he was a mad genius? Izzy stared blankly at him, then took a step back to let him in. 

“Stede!” Eddy called out delightedly. “Come here and dance with me.” 

“Coming!” Stede’s face transformed with a brilliant smile. He left Izzy behind, still holding the door open like a fool. He locked it back up with a grimace. 

When he got close enough, he could see Eddy clinging to Stede in a messy attempt at ballroom dancing to a song that was far too fast while nearly crashing into Frenchie and his enormous friend.  For about a minute, Izzy watched them. Then he stalked off into the kitchen and gave some serious consideration to locking himself into the walk-in freezer and letting the night go where it would. 

Instead he poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly.  The door creaked open just as he finished. Another body slipped inside and pressed back up against it, expelling a long breath. 

“You okay?” Lucius asked, stepping towards him. 

“Are you?” 

“Busy out there,” he shrugged. “And the best people hang out in the kitchen.” 

“Don’t have to keep me company.” 

“You ran away pretty fast. Did Stede say something stupid to you? He does that sometimes. His mouth and brain aren’t always sync up.” 

“No.” Izzy watched him warily. “Just done, I think. I don’t do parties.” 

“This is my shocked face,” Lucius said dryly and extended his hand. Izzy registered he was holding two glasses. “Take it.” 

“What is it?” 

“Just a vodka tonic. Well, I did put a little ginger simple syrup in it. You’ve got a thing for ginger, I noticed.” 

“...what?” Izzy took it and had a sip. The ginger was very present, sizzling pleasantly on his tongue. 

“I like that you don’t over use it, but it’s obviously your favorite. When you make staff dinner,  you use it when you’re in a good mood.” 

‘I don’t have good moods.” 

“Lies,” Lucius leaned against the counter next to him. “You know Eddy kind of threw this party for you?” 

“I know,” he took another sip. It was really fucking good, goddammit. 

“So...” 

“So what?” Izzy sighed. 

“Just saying. It’s your party and you can cry if you want to,” Lucius sing-songed. 

“Fuck off,” Izzy barked a laugh. “I’m not crying.” 

“But you’re not thrilled.” 

“Eddy and me...it’s old news. But it’s hard sometimes seeing them with someone else.” 

“Oh. Oh shit, really?” Lucius’ eyes went wide. “You and Eddy? But you guys are like siblings most of the time....or. Or old marrieds. Oh my fucking god, that makes so much more sense.” 

“We weren’t married,” Izzy denied. “And it’s not like that anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. But yeah. Once.” 

“Fuck. You know she and Stede aren’t actually together.”

“Yet,” he said tiredly. 

“Yet,” Lucius conceded. “Are you guys going to like...implode or something? Because I was serious about liking this job.” 

“No. It was going to happen. Surprised it took this long. Eddy’s magic,” Izzy stared into the drink. He should be angrier, he realized. Or worse somehow. Certainly he shouldn’t be talking this way. Maybe Lucius’ could mix truth potions. “Been waiting for someone else to come along and notice.” 

“And you’ve been looking for someone?” Lucius asked like the question might detonate. 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Freedom is what I want. I don’t have room for anything else.” 

“Yikes. I don’t think that’s true. Plenty of fish in the sea who wouldn’t mind swimming around a grim workaholic, you know.” 

“Endorsement like that, I should let you write my dating profile.” 

“Would you let me?” 

“Fuck no.” 

“Aw,” Lucius elbowed him. “C’mon, give me another chance. How about ‘talented and chiseled chef with a phone-sex hotline voice seeks flexible in the schedule and the bedroom partner’?” 

“Lucius...” 

“Oh! How about ‘killer forearms, wicked knife skills, and probably not a serial killer’?” 

“What?” Izzy blinked. “I’m not a serial killer.” 

“You have a lot of knives. Just saying.” 

“I’m a chef, we all have a lot of knives. You should...stop. Whatever this is.” 

“Having a conversation?” 

“I don’t need a consolation flirt or whatever you think you’re doing.” 

“It’s a pretty honest flirt,” Lucius said calmly.  

“I’m not...I don’t do that.” 

“Have fun?” 

“Flirt,” Izzy clung to the drink. “I don’t mess around. I don’t play.” 

“Okay, but I’m not playing.” Lucius turned, catching his gaze. “I’d go home with you if you asked.” 

“What about the boyfriend?” 

“What about him? We’re open. Pete knows I’m interested in you.” 

“We work together.” 

“We do,” Lucius agreed. “But Eddy is my boss, right?” 

“Technically.” Definitely. Izzy never messed with the front-facing staff just like Eddy never did shit about his people. 

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” Lucius even took a slight step back. “And if you tell me to fuck off, that’s fine. But I figured I’d let you know that I’m an interested and flexible fish.” 

Izzy backed off an insane desire to ask what kind of fish. That was an Eddy question, her voice loud in his ear right now. Mostly screaming ‘for the love god, man, jump on that’. But he spent a lot of time saying ‘no’ to the very real Eddy. He could certainly do the imaginary version for her. 

“Fine,” he took as sip of his drink. “You told me. Go back to the party and leave me alone.” 

For some reason, Lucius smiled like Izzy had offered him a compliment. 

“Leaving,” he said cheerily. 

It was only once he was actually gone that Izzy realized that he hadn’t actually rejected the interest. He should probably go fix that. Instead, he finished his drink, cleaned the glass, and walked back into the party. He didn’t join in the dancing, but he sat along the perimeter. Let Jim sit next to him and strike up a conversation about mushroom varieties that they got through with remarkable clarity considering they were clearly drunk as a skunk. 

After that night, two things started happening. 

The first was that Eddy actually took her day off. Used to be it was more of a theoretical thing where she’d wind up at the restaurant anyway, holed up in her office and working because she’d gotten bored at home. Now, he’d go in to ask her something and find the room empty. It was unsettling, but her general demeanor was unarguably better the rest of the week.  Like someone had re-lit the flame in her that he hadn’t noticed had gone out. 

The second was that Lucius started finding reasons to be in the kitchen. He wasn’t helping, wasn’t actually bartending for all that was his excuse (‘Ran out of cocktail onions!’ ‘Do you have any cinnamon sticks?’). He just seemed to buzz around for a few minutes, then go back out with whatever item he claimed to be fetching. When he used to say he didn’t need the staff dinner, he was suddenly hungry every night. 

Reasonably, Izzy should never be making staff dinner, a job for a more junior person, but reality was that he worked efficiently and his people were well-trained enough these days that it was easy to break for a few minutes and put together something for himself and the rest of them. 

“What happened to ‘I ate at home’?” Izzy demanded after the fourth day in a row that Lucius appeared to scoop up some bacon mac and cheese. 

“That was when I was under the impression that the staff meal was leftovers, not first dibs Izzy originals,” Lucius grabbed a fork and stabbed into his plate with vigor. “On catering jobs it was always like dried out and cold stuff.” 

“And you just suddenly realized that I wouldn’t feed anyone cold shit?” Izzy asked, affronted. 

“Eddy mentioned you were making those chicken wings the other night and it clicked,” Lucius made one of his obscene noises at the pasta. “I’m never eating a twinkie before work again.” 

“Those aren't actual food,” Izzy informed him. "They're barely edible."

“Yeah, but they are delicious. Not as good as this though. Fuck me running.” 

“He does burgers on Friday nights,” Jim informed him, edging Izzy out of the way to get their own dinner. “Onion jam.” 

“You can make onion jam.” Izzy contended. 

“It’s boring to make, good to eat,” Jim volleyed back.  

“I’m working this Friday,” Lucius said giddily. 

So now Izzy had to deal with Lucius invading his kitchen, and eating his food with lavish compliments and all his little sounds, almost every night. It was enough to drive a man to the brink.

“Are you complaining that he likes your food?” Eddy asked incredulously, when Izzy finally had to tell someone about it.  The dumpster out back absolutely reeked in the summer sun. 

“He makes sex noises at it!” 

“Yeah, some people do that out front. I never tell you about it because it’s fucking weird.” 

“Wait, really?” Izzy narrowed his eyes at them. 

“Yeah, man. Not a lot, but every few months or so. Didn’t figure Lucius for a moaner, but there you have it.” 

“I have a tall annoyance is what I have,” Izzy grumbled. 

“He’s just eating dinner.” 

“And talking to me. Asking questions. Being nosy.” 

“Like...he’s trying to get to know you?” Eddy’s lips twitched. “Be friendly? Oh no. Run, Iz, run.” 

“He told me he was interested in me,” Izzy confessed. 

“Oh, shit,” Eddy’s eyebrows flew up. “Is he bothering you or something?” 

“No, not like that. He just told me the night of the party.  Now he’s just chattering at me all the time.” 

“Uh huh. What are we complaining about?” Eddy rolled her eyes. “Hot cute guy propositions you. You say no. He pulls back, but tries to stay friendly because you work together?” 

“I maybe didn’t say no,” Izzy told the ground. Fuck, he should’ve grabbed the cigarettes before dragging Eddy out there. Would’ve been something to do with his hands. 

Eddy didn’t say anything and finally, Izzy looked up to find her staring at him. There was a wry twist to her mouth, something contemplative in her eyes. He waited her out until she finally said, 

“Plenty of reasons to say no, but....if you said yes, it’d be okay, you know that, right?” 

Because Eddy had Stede now. Or was close to having him. Or close to telling Izzy that she had him anyway. Eddy took days off now. Eddy whistled again while she did orders. Eddy wore lipstick sometimes in a way she hadn’t in years. 

“What if it isn’t? He’ll still work here.” 

“Then it’ll be awkward for a while. We’ve survived worse than awkward.” 

“It’s not appropriate.” 

“Since when has that stopped us? Hearing a lot of reasons for you to say no that have nothing to do with Lucius, so probably you want to say yes, huh?” 

“Shit.” 

“Time to put on your big boy pants,” Eddy slapped his shoulder. “Tell me how it goes!” 

“I will absolutely not.” 

The words don’t come to Izzy though. Partially because every time Lucius was in the kitchen, everyone else was there too. Partially because they were genuinely busy, news of their expanded dining area finally catching fire. 

One night, Lucius doesn’t come back for staff dinner. 

“Slammed out there!” Oluwande came in for his own serving. “You’d think we’re giving it away. I don’t think I can take more than five minutes, please tell me there’s a plate already.” 

Izzy handed it to him. If the tables were that busy, the bar would be packed in deep and Eddy was probably snowed under. Some of the waitstaff had passed around a cold and called out on top of that.  They all had to keep moving, but Izzy started to assemble something in his head.

Even as busy as he was, he could take up one burner on the stove, tossing in this and that and letting it cook low. It would keep as long as it needed to, would be better for sitting. After all, one of Lucius’ favorite ingredients was time. 

At ten, Lucius burst into the kitchen eyes wild. 

“Someone feed me,” he begged. “I almost gnawed off a customer’s arm.” 

“That’d be good for business,” Roach cackled. “At least put some garnish on it first.” 

“I’ve got a plate,” Izzy gestured him over and Lucius crossed to him quickly. “Just needs a minute.” 

“Might not have a minute,” Lucius told him mournfully. “I might die.” 

“You want pasta or not?” 

“Wait, the handmade stuff?” 

“What else do we have here?” 

He tossed the pasta into the waiting boiling water. No timer required, but the one that ran in his head. Drained it off, centered it on the plate, then carefully ladled the ragu over it. It was the perfect color, dark and rich. Perfect if you’d gone hungry for a few hours. 

“Here,” Izzy handed it over. “Go sit in the corner. We’re still winding down.” 

“Yeah, fine,” Lucius all, but grabbed it and got out of the way as the kitchen ticked onward into the last few plates. It was only when the very final one went out the door that Izzy turned back to the tiny table they kept crammed by the back door for breaks. Lucius was still eating, but he wasn’t looking at his food. He was looking at Izzy. 

With a deep breath and long exhalation. Izzy crossed over and sat in the other chair. 

“Oluwande said dinner was meatloaf tonight,” Lucius said quietly. 

“It was,” Izzy rubbed the back of his neck. 

“This isn’t meatloaf. This is...it’s fucking amazing. Why isn’t it on the menu?” 

“First time making it. Made ragu before, but not like this specifically,” he mumbled. 

“What makes it specific?” Lucius asked, twirling his fork through the noodles. 

“Heavy on the basil, used vodka instead of wine. Added some heat.” 

Lucius ate his next bite slowly, eyes never leaving Izzy’s face. He swallowed and finally said, “You made this for me. Specifically.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Because....” 

“Because I like to cook for someone. Specific. For one person, sometimes.” Izzy wished he’d thought of the words as carefully as the dish. 

“Why?” 

Izzy forced himself to meet Lucius’ eyes. They were beautiful, those warm pools of brown. There was no smile on his face, wry, playful or otherwise. Izzy sucked in a breath and summoned his courage, 

“So you’ll let me do it again for breakfast tomorrow morning.” 

“Chef,” Lucius reached across the table and took his hand. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.” 

It had been a long time since Izzy served someone wearing only a knowing grin, but he thought he could easily get used to it again. Especially when the review came in the form of a long hot kiss, hand tangling in his hair and a return to the rumpled bed they’d barely managed to vacate. 

Eddy: you coming in today? 

Izzy: no, it’s my fucking day off, isn’t it?

Eddy: hell yeah it is. Details later. I

zzy: absolutely not.

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #that's fic length #goblin king and the pup #bottle of red bottle of white

[revvywevvy]

I finished redesigning my Mario S/I!!!! She's gonna go by Basil now! ^^

[Her full name being Basil Chervil Clemens. Only Peach is allowed to call her Chervil though-]

More info abt how she gets to the Mushroom Kingdom under the cut plus a sketchy comic <3

Okay so- after seeing stuff abt the Mario Movie and how they're going the isekai route, I thought it'd be a fun route for Basil! So, Basil's a bit of a paranoid loner who lives alone, making a living off of graphic design for companies, as well as commissions for fun on the side. She's just chilling at home one day, drawing, when out of nowhere a loud commotion occurs.

She goes to investigate it, and upon entering the bathroom, her jaw just fuckin drops.

Lo and behold, there's a whole-ass warp pipe in her bathroom. Thing demolished her toilet and water pipes and has her left completely confused, mind-boggled, angry and extremely anxious. In a panic she runs to her phone book, flipping through it trying to find a number for emergency plumbing services while also searching on google for advice. Eventually she finds a number for 'Mario Bros. Plumbing Service' and seeing as they are listed as sometimes being available for emergency appointments, she takes a shot and calls them.

Upon connecting with one of the brothers, Luigi, she explains her situation in a panic, rambling and almost in tears because 'holy fuck the bathroom's completely ruined and I have no idea what to do help-'. Luigi is sympathetic to her situation and gets his brother, and they go to her home to check out the damages. Basil scrambles to get dressed and be presentable for the company, all the while having a bit of a breakdown over this giant pipe in her flooding bathroom. She lives in an apartment complex in New Donk City, on the bottom floor, so luckily she's the only one effected by the warp pipe's presence.

When Mario and Luigi get there, they're let in by a frazzled Basil, who's fiddling with her tablet pen. She leads them to the bathroom, and they're both baffled and confused at the presence of this pipe, as well as the destruction caused by it. Neither brother knows where that pipe could have come from, or what it was for. All they knew was it was causing major problems for her plumbing and water. They got to work inspecting the damages, asking for Basil's input every once in a while since, well, it was her bathroom after all. She knew the layout best. At one point, Basil put her pen back in the pocket of her top, before approaching the pipe as the brothers inspected it.

She asked a few questions about their theories about the pipes, but the three of them hadn't a clue what this pipe's purpose could've been. Curiously she propped herself up on some of the rubble of her bathroom, peeking into the pipe. She waved the brothers over, pointing out how spick and span it was... it was spotless! Shiny, spotless, no imperfections in sight. They were all confused, but that confusion quickly turned to panic and terror when Basil leaned just a little too far forward. Suddenly, the pipe sucked her arm in. She shrieked, horrified, but before she could further react, the pipe pulled her entire body into it. Mario and Luigi freaked out as well. Mario was quick to grab hold of Basil's ankle before she was fully taken by it, and Luigi held onto Mario for dear life, trying to keep him steady so they could try to get her out safely. It was for nothing, though, because not only was Basil sucked into the pipe; but Mario and Luigi were yanked inside of it as well!

After what felt like forever of them all screaming in panic whilst being warped through the green pipe, they were finally spat out on the other side. The brothers helped Basil up, and they all looked around. They had no idea where they were, and they were all a panicked mess. Well, okay, just Basil and Luigi. Mario seemed a bit more composed, at least. He began to investigate the place, Luigi and Basil quickly following behind him lest they be left behind. They would soon discover what strange new land was upon them now: The Mushroom Kingdom. At first they just wanted to try and get home. Instead, an adventure would await them, hindering their ability to get home. There were much more important things that would happen soon.

One thing after another happened, and before they knew it, Luigi was kidnapped by some giant beast of a man, who called himself Bowser, King of the Koopas. He initially attempted to take the Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom, Peach, but she fought him off. Bowser opted to take Luigi instead, planning to blackmail the Princess with his safety. The Power Stars would be handed over, or the green man would get it.

At that point, one thing was certain: he needed to be stopped. So, Mario, Basil, Princess Peach, and one of the many Toads from the kingdom who'd offered to assist, all departed to rescue Luigi from King Bowser.

Quickly in, Basil realized her tablet pen was still in her pocket. Upon pulling it out, she realized that the warp had changed it. It had become some sort of wand. She could draw on the air with it, creating strokes with different textures, elements, and powers. All of which could be effected by a number of Power-Ups scattered about the Mushroom Kingdom. Basil didn't see herself as the heroic type, but with this new realization, she decided to give herself a chance. She'd use this newfound ability to help Mario, Peach, and Toad. All four of them together would save Luigi, they were certain of it.

#913's art #cw fire #ok to rb #digital art #medibang paint pro #♡ princess peach #Princess Peach #f/o art #romantic f/o #wlw selfship #self shipping community #super mario oc #self insert #self insert community #//oh yeah and this tag is a very important add-on to everything i've written but: this adventure'll end with bowluigi stuff thats for sure #//i've been sucked into the bowluigi bandwagon and I LOVE IT. anyways yeah that's all i've got for now #//mario yelling 'wahoo gay rights!' after its all said and done with peasil and bowluigi kissing in the background BAHAHA-

[bitegore]

💙

an au I made up and never wrote: (okay listen i've written one story set in there but it only pays basic lip service to the idea and basically nothing else. trust me. it counts its fine)

okay! this is "humanformers", but actually it's androids in disguise featuring "everyone is a pretender now" and "we only transform a little bit". i'm debating adding a magical girl element where they jump and spin and out come GIANT FUCKOFF CANNONS and MAGIC ARMOR. (all my beloved friends and followers who know more about magical girl anime than me can boo and hiss as they see fit about that but you can't tell me Megatron jumping into the air and getting a chainmail armor cape and metal stompy boots and his giant gun and a scale armor skirt wouldn't go hard. i do not believe you it would be very cool and also sexy)

We start out from the POV of our FAVORITE HUMAN SIDEKICK (FHS for short, because they don't have a name), meeting a very weird stranger. This stranger is SOUNDWAVE, walking computer bank and wireless hacking donglebrain extraordinaire. He is also Extraordinarily Fucking Weird.

Soundwave: Hello. Take me to your satellite dish array.

FSH, just a random person: ??????? bro r u lost?????? what the fuck

Soundwave: [pulls out a gun] Hello. Take me to your satellite dish array.

FSH: ?????????????????????

Soundwave: Hurry Up.

FSH: i don't Have a satellite dish array. I don't even have cable.

Soundwave, faceblind: So you mean you are not Secretary Of Defense of the United States Namey Namename?

FSH, trying to activate "emergency call" inside their coat pocket because they're pretty sure (correctly) Soundwave is a domestic terrorist: Uh. No. I work at a Target.

Emergency services: "This is 911, what is your emergency?"

Soundwave, hearing of a bat: Stranger. Hang up immediately.

FSH, not hanging up immediately: uhuh yup hanging up immediately. please don't shoot me. did you hear that, i said you have a gun, please do not shoot me, i am hanging up the phone now, aren't we lucky that they can't trace a call to a location, ha, ha, ha, ha

Soundwave: why are you speaking so loudly

FSH: idk sometimes people do that when they're stressed. please stop pointing a gun at me unless you're going to mug me or something

Soundwave: Why should I want to mug you.

FSH: ........for money? I mean, not that I-

Soundwave: Rest assured that if I wanted to have more money there are more efficient ways for me to get it than taking the wallets of strangers.

FSH: ....that is actually strangely reassuring but you are still pointing the gun at me. can i go home.

Soundwave: you are Certain that you are not Namey Namename of the Department of Defense. Give me your ID.

FSH: IS this a mugging?

Soundwave: no. now give me your wallet.

anyway after this happens Soundwave eventually is frightened off by the sirens, FSH speaks to the Authorities, and one Authority Cop Pig is like. hm. i am going to take you for further questioning off the record

and FSH goes OH SHIT WHERES MY LAWYER

and Pig Rude Officer Why-are-you-doing-this Loser (shortened PROWL) is like "you do not need a lawyer, this is off the record". FSH who knows their rights is like "NO NO NO i DEFINITELY need a lawyer wtf is this shit" and Prowl is like. Um. Please do not involve any more outsiders this is a domestic terrorism thing. FSH goes "I AM NOT A TERRORIST" loud enough to attract the attention of Bad Asshole Rude R-... fuck it i cant do this again. Barricade. Who is also there. Prowl and Barricade are both aware there's someone from either team in the building but they do not know who it is. You don't either. You're like "HEY. HELLO. HI. I NEED A LAWYER"

barricade, who barely believes in due process and thinks lawyers are for losers who dont believe in police brutality, makes eye contact with Prowl and pointedly walks away.

asshole.

Prowl eventually finally gets FSH to chill out by offering to bring in an attorney. He calls Jazz, who is not at all an attorney. FSH is convinced by his fake business card and is like "yeah this weird guy pointed a gun at me on the street and wanted to know if i was Namelike Namesomething from the Department of Homeland Security or something like that, i don't know."

"You mean Namey Namename?" says Prowl, who knows everyone in the entire upper government and has files on all of them. "You do look remarkably similar." He is also faceblind as fuck because i think it's funny to make all the data analysis people struggle to differentiate between faces irl.

Jazz, about 2.5 seconds to look them up later: Prowl bro what the fuck are you talking about no they do not

FSH, a genius: ....your.... name is Prowl? What kind of name is that?

Prowl: Nickname.

Jazz: Nickname.

FSH: weird nickname. what are you, like, supposed to be batman or something?

Prowl: ......I like cats. What did Soundwave want?

FSH: ???soundwave???

Prowl: .....code...name. codename.

FSH: is that the guy i ran into???

Prowl: yes obviously keep up.

FSH: uh. a sattellite array? or something

Prowl and Jazz, in unison: OH NO, NOT THE SATELLITE ARRAY!!!

now we never see FSH again because their role in the story is OVER AND DONE. instead we have Prowl and Jazz fuck off out of the station really fast. Barricade, whomst we all know is a decepticon, is like "hm. suspicious behavior. better call my boss" and he calls Soundwave. He sends Soundwave their pictures. Soundwave, faceblind, is like "these resemble every single autobot and also everyone at your job. let me send them off to buzzsaw for analysis"

buzzsaw has wings. no one questions this because buzzsaw also has the emo fringe haircut and wears a silly looking jacket and as such looks at all times like he's trying to cosplay an anime character. he does this on purpose because it entertains him. buzzsaw is also really good at recognizing faces

"oh shit" says buzzsaw "thems autobots"

ANYWAY i havent got much past that but essentially the bots and cons are on earth, HAVE been on earth, and are in a race to the bottom for magical crystals (energon. legit just energon) that they use to power themselves and their augmentations. They're in a secret shadow war, and the government is not aware they exist but constantly trying to catch them because it's obvious something is up, they're just incompetents. multiple characters have removable boobs. drag strip cannot buy groceries without committing murder (written here, the only thing ive ever actually done in this au outside of draw vortex irritating motormaster on purpose once). thank you for listening to my ted talk now i need to turn off my computer and turn it back on again lmao

#red replies #jeegoo #au ive never written game

[lilnasxvevo]

I feel like the conversation, if we can call it that, on “wearing headphones/earbuds in public” has gotten a little confused, because now it feels like the only two viewpoints that are being acknowledged are “my version of utopia has everyone blaring shitty tinny music from their devices at all times, I simply love it” and the apparent opposing viewpoint of “I think making me listen to your music should be a criminal felony.”

When in reality. There are many many many opinions in between those two extremes. Such as mine, which is: I do not enjoy hearing other people’s music in public, especially because I have Brain Things going on that makes it difficult for me to block out or ignore sounds I don’t want to be hearing, but fucking obviously I’m not going to call the cops on someone playing their music too loud or do violence to them myself. I also recognize that people sometimes making noises I don’t like where I can hear them is part of living in a city, and that I chose to live in and be a part of this community. I consider blaring your music to be a little bit rude but I consider stalking up to someone and telling them to turn their music off or put earbuds in to be a hell of a lot ruder so I’m not going to fucking do that. I’m just whining a little bit on my blog. Like, I also jokingly complain about the sheer number of ambulances and fire trucks that go wailing past my apartment, but I’m not advocating that we stop having emergency services. I complain about construction noises near my apartment sometimes, but I’m not actually advocating for no construction to happen near wherever I happen to live because I’m such a special little guy.

Idk, being stuck around someone blaring their music to me is just, like, the equivalent of being stuck sitting next to someone who kinda smells bad, or having to be in the vicinity of someone wearing a t-shirt that I personally find cringy but not hurtful or offensive. Like I sure wish they weren’t doing that, but I’m not gonna try to make them stop, because other people don’t exist for my pleasure and aren’t obligated to change things about themselves because of MY feelings.

I’m literally just complaining online. That’s it.

[whileyoursleeping]

I don’t know if you’d feel comfortable talking about this in an ask (feel free to ignore this if you’re not!) but I was curious, what made you start to feel uninterested in 911? Some of the writing (and admittedly what I’m speculating for 6B) has me frustrated to the point where I’m losing interest and losing a desire to engage in the fandom, which makes me super sad bc I used to get such joy out of watching and engaging! I’m not even disappointed with the “pace” of Buddie getting together (or not even getting together) that’s frustrating to me, which feels like is most other people’s frustration, so I was just curious if there was something about the writing that made you feel disinterested?

heyooo! nonny asking the serious questions over here!

more than happy to answer actually :) i hope you don't mind a very long one lol

i made the mistake of joining twitter initially. honestly, a good 60 percent of the reason i started disliking the show and writing fic was because of the fans. and i know the loud obnoxious ones only make up a small portion of the fanbase but fuck ME are they loud. a few people tried to doxx me, i got mocked for the kitty buck fic and outright called an abuse apologist in my comments section (i've BEEN IN an abusive relationship, so... no) by a person who went on to plagiarise an entire fic from someone else, lie about having permission, and then disappear (yes i'm still mad about it no i will not let it go)

the other half is the writing (don't @ me for my math pls). i haven't watched a lot of season 5 or any of season 6 so far. i was done when athena slapped her kid. i'm one of those people that's in the "i don't think buddie will become canon because the writers are cowards but it's nice to write about" camp. some of it was done very well (eddie's PTSD) and some awfully (buck and whoever that lucy chick is? idk).

i was also diagnosed with CPTSD as a direct result of my own career in emergency services, and there were a lot of parts in the show that were very triggering for me and made it hard to watch. combine that with shitty, entitled fans and writing issues, it just hasn't been worth me trying to rewatch. i'm not sure i'll ever return to it the way i had been invested to begin with. i do want to finish tethers, because i know as a fic reader how frustrating it is to see things left unfinished, but uninspired doesn't even begin to cover how i feel about it right now.

sorry for the wall of text, and thank you very much for reaching out to ask! <3

#shut up nibbles

[philsmeatylegss]

Rae I’m going to be in college soon and I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I have a random roommate, I’m going to be 30 mins away from home and I hate my major

Honestly, I won’t lie to you. The first month-ish, especially the first two weeks, are gonna fucking suck. Anyone who followed me when I started last year will back that statement up. Same situation as you. No clue what to expect, had a roommate I never met as a socially anxious introvert, forty five minutes away from home, having no clue what I even wanted to study. So this is one of the few things I can confidently talk about.

Having a roommate was what really killing me. My school is really good with accommodating mental and physical health issues and I was able to transfer to a single. So one piece of advice is to see the reputation of the accommodations at your school. Depending the school, it can range from being awesome and super flexible like mine or just being slight assholes. Especially if you have a diagnosis, check to see if you’re eligible for a single. Idk if that’s like a really overwhelming problem you’re having, but it was for me. Tried it, wasn’t for me. I need my space. And that’s okay.

Kind of working off that point, every single movie you’ve ever seen about starting college is a lie. Every. Single. One. You don’t just show up and magically find a quirky diverse group of friends you perfectly fit in with. Especially if you’re introverted and anxious. You have to make that choice and put in effort to put yourself out there and talk to people. And you know what? Maybe that’s not for you. I was stuck in a place where I was beating myself up because I knew I should be talking to people but I just didn’t want to. But in reality, I’m someone who doesn’t need friends to be happy. They’re nice to have, but I don’t need to have them. So once I accepted this, it became a lot easier. There isn’t a right or wrong way to socialize, no “should”s or “shouldn’t”s. But a lot of people aren’t that way. So check in and see if that’s you. If it’s not, if you need friends to be happy, then just be prepared to put in that effort. Be prepared for the anxiety. But you’ll find your people, I promise.

The showers are always gross. Just a warning.

I go to a small school and one specific reason I picked this school is because it doesn’t have parties, it’s not a party school. At most, give friends drink in one dorm room and the music gets a bit too loud. Most colleges aren’t like this but I can’t really give advice because I haven’t experienced it. Cover your drinks and have a designated walker/driver home.

Also working off that, there will be alcohol and drugs (by that i mean weed, almost never anything more), but no one really cares if you do or don’t want to have it. For personal reasons, I don’t drink or smoke and it was never a problem. There’s an unspoken rule that weed is kind of chill at my school so I always smell it and people come to class high (DONT DO THAT). Don’t be a snitch unless someone gets hurt. Always call emergency services if someone is hurt. Even if you’re drinking/smoking!!!!!! Legally you won’t get in trouble if you call for help when you’re intoxicated.

Fucking show up to class. Out of two semesters, eight classes, only one professor would take attendance. And even then she didn’t do it every class. You technically don’t get in trouble, but you’ll quickly fall behind if you make it a habit. That’s another thing, don’t be afraid to take a day off. I had a few days where I was just spent and couldn’t get to class. Forcing yourself to class in that state will make everything worse. Allow a couple of days a semester to just recover if mentally you’re just out of battery. But don’t make a habit of it because i can promise, even if it’s a class you’re really good in, you will fall behind. I guarantee it.

Check the weather. If there’s even a small chance of rain, bring an umbrella. Trust me. It’s not fun walking back in the rain. Really not fun.

Join clubs!!!! They’re way more casual and it’s okay to not show up to every meeting. I sporadically went to club meetings and I would always have fun and talk to people.

My advice is to prepare for the worst. But that doesn’t mean the worst will happen. You may go and everything is fine. And that’s okay too! I’m just telling you it’s okay if it’s pure shit because I wasn’t prepared and no one around me seemed to be struggling (tons of them are, the reason you don’t see any is because they’re all in the shadows just like you).

Senior year I thought for a fact that I would major in psych and become a therapist. Now I’m in a program to become a history teacher. I got C’s in history when I was in high school. So regarding your major, keep an open mind. Talk to the career center or a teacher in your major. They can help guide you to a better major. If you’re being forced to take a specific major, still talk to staff about it. There’s programs and jobs you could join that may make it so there’s something you enjoy or you’re set up for a job you will like.

Wow I didn’t mean for this to be long

Tldr: the first month will probably suck balls if you’re introverted and anxious like me, check out your options for accommodations, decide if you want friends and if you want to put effort into doing so, be safe when intoxicated, and staff is super helpful.

#asks #college #positivity #tw drugs #tw alcohol mention

[saraminia]

Story time.

I just had to call 112 (the emergency number). I've been listening to my upstairs neighbor screaming at her kid for like six weeks now. I don't know these people, I just barely know what this woman looks like. I've seen her out walking with the baby in a pram and smoking out on her balcony. I think she lives alone with the baby. Every fucking night the baby cries from the top of their lungs and it sounds so inconsolable. And the mother screams even louder. She is raging, swearing and screaming "quiet!" and "I hate you!". Every time the baby starts crying, she stomps to the baby with such heavy steps, it feels like my ceiling is shaking (obviously it's not, but it sounds so loud and threatening). And sometimes I can hear other miscellaneous bumps and clatterings and stuff like that. I'm so scared for the baby. Just the screaming by itself is a form of violence but who knows what else she's doing in there. She could be shaking the baby or hitting it or I don't even want to think whatever else. I swear every time it becomes quiet, my first thought is "did she kill the baby?". It's horrible. So tonight I finally called the social services number for acute crisis and left a child welfare notification and then called emergency services because the screaming had been going on for like an hour at that point. Of course when the cops showed up it was already quiet up there. So they just interviewed me and then said that they'll just go and listen behind the neighbors door and that they don't want to wake anyone up at this hour 😒 They did say they'll make a child welfare notification too, but yeah.. nobody checked on the baby's welfare right now. I know the child protective services have to react. They'll have to contact the mother, but most likely she'll just say everything's fine and that'll be it. This is so frustrating. I really feel like that baby is in danger. If nothing else, the psychological violence is hurting the baby.

So that was my Tuesday night.😮‍💨 How are y'all doing?

#riikka talks