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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

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Eight-Thirty PM

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader (from It Had To Be You series)

Summary: Steve returns after a long business trip.

Warnings for smut. Yeah, it's not rocket science. They bang in the office. Yes, of course, on the desk. Yeah, up against the window, too. And a chair. And the floor. Look, it's just smut (with very light bondage, consensually unprotected sex, hint of marking kink, dirty talk, and the ever-expected fact that I'm going to hell). WC 3k

MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY. There's plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this work is not for you!

“Why are you still here?”

Your head shoots up from your tablet. You didn’t think he’d come back to the office. Steve’s plane landed only an hour ago, and after a grueling two weeks of flying around the world to five different countries, you thought you’d see him tomorrow after he’s slept off the jet lag.

Overnight bag in hand, your co-CEO and boyfriend is still wearing an overcoat and work suit from meetings on the other side of the Atlantic just twelve hours ago.

You’ve been in this office just as long, finishing up the odds and ends from new contracts.

Giving a quick shrug, you answer, “You know damn well I don’t leave until the day is done.”

He sighs dramatically in your doorway, giving a pointed glare to the clear night that has fallen outside. If he’s brought his bag all the way up though, Steve planned to work, too, the hypocrite.

“What’s left?” He drops his bag in the corner, the door automatically swinging shut, and walks to your side, planting one hand by your elbow and one on the back of your chair to peer at your screen.

For the last fifteen minutes, you’ve been scrolling mindlessly through news articles, dreading going to your empty apartment for one more night. You’d hoped Steve would call when he landed, ask you out to dinner, or immediately back to his place, so you waited and zoned out.

“Ah yes, pressing stuff,” he grumbles at your social media feed. “How dare I interrupt this?”

You drop your hands to your lap and spin toward him.

“How else am I supposed to keep you supplied with soothing yet hilarious animal memes?”

Steve hasn’t changed his lean over you, so his face is just there, within reach, but you hold firm.

He lifts the hand from the desk to stroke your cheek, voice like warm honey tea. “Of course. That makes sense.”

Like a magnetic dance of alignment, he shifts and so do you, forcing you to rise from your chair. Words don’t come to mind while Steve crowds your space, hands deftly finding your hips and petting—pushing, rather—you back towards your office window.

“Is this new? I like it.”

The blouse you bought in Japan, the perfectly tailored pencil skirt is from Italy, and your ability to resist his presence was on loan. Time just expired.

His long fingers bunch the thick fabric of your bottoms higher and higher until your thinly veiled ass presses against the window for the whole world to see. Not that anyway cares; not that anyone can look in when you have an unobstructed view out to the water. You couldn’t care less when Steve is back.

He’s back, back here, back by your side, back against your body, a thin, reinforced pane of glass separating you both from a thirty-story, sheer drop. If you could shift your feet six inches farther, you’d be flying like a superhero above New York City.

That’s ridiculous. There aren’t people who can fly. Superheros don’t exist…but if they did…

Steve Rogers would be a prime specimen. He and his broad, stabilizing hands—the ones anchoring your hips to that precariously invisible wall, the ones suspending you between ecstasy and terror—would definitely classify as hero-level marvelous.

Your skin buzzes, alive and anticipating. Your mind drowns in the wave of rich, comforted by the scent flooding the air around you.

That damn soap.

Those broad hands move up your sides, gripping so firm and hot your blouse wrinkles in their wake until his fingers finally reach the column of your neck. He replaces the grounding effect of pinning you with a deliberate thrust of his hips. His breath rolls between his fingers at your throat. The sensation brings you back from truly floating.

“Precious…”

Your leaden eyelids struggle to open. You hadn’t realized they were even closed. When he fills every sense, what’s lack of sight? He’s just so wonderful to feel, and he’s almost too glorious to behold: dark, blown pupils; tongue striping across his bottom lip; pristinely coifed hair slightly out of place in his rush to corner you.

You missed him. You missed this because this is Steve in your space, and he doesn’t invade. No. Steve enlightens the world around you. He lifts your work-weary soul up another thirty stories high and makes you believe that thing he’s always saying to you.

You’re amazing.

You sure as shit feel amazing when the first prickles of his beard scuttle across your jaw, the distance between you so minuscule now that you’re left with a void of all else but him and his oh-so-smooth, plush lips grazing yours.

With a shaky, deep breath and a sensual rasp to his voice, Steve starts, “So about the Cloutman contract…”

You almost laugh, but you almost slap him, too.

He just won’t quit. It really is so marvelously irritating.

“Shut up,” you huff into his mouth before taking hold of his lapels and making him.

You offer your best reciprocation of hot hands all over him, sliding beneath his coat and blazer to wrap his heaving chest and cling while he shrugs the layers off. Your tongues dance and slow. Your mouths suck and nibble. Your lips touch and tease.

You could not go on like this all night. You need each other after this long apart.

“Got any condoms in your office,” you ask during one break for air.

Steve freezes.

You didn’t actually anticipate the answer would be ‘no.’ Somehow, though he’s never dated much, though he’s rarely even touched you in the office these last two months of dating, you expected him to have…some sort of manly stash everywhere.

“Not in your bag?” you try.

Steve looks horrified, huffing, “You weren’t on the trip with me.” Why would he need condoms without you? his look continues silently.

You bite your lip and try not to laugh.

Door to door, the office to his place is over half an hour, the office to your place takes forty-five minutes on the best day, and to a drug store and back here would cost both twenty minutes and your dignity. You would never send a driver on that kind of errand, so you keep mulling over your options

Steve’s so disappointed, in mourning for his last moments before even more travel, running his fingers along the silky fabric of your blouse, the supple leather of your skirt, and the soft cotton of your panties.

“Maybe we should sit,” you suggest, thinking he’ll walk you over to one of the three chairs in the room, but Steve plunks his ass down right on his coat pooled atop the carpet.

He pulls you into his lap, hands still roaming your clothing. He seems resigned to staring at the sliver of your décolleté beyond your collar, and it’s natural to tease him by starting to unbutton it. Two weeks is too long to go without seeing that slack-jawed look of envy for the fabrics that are allowed to kiss your skin all day. He’s as ravenous as an addict before they fall right back off the wagon.

“Okay,” you say finally.

Steve absently repeats you, but you’re solid in your decision.

Last week was your period, there are no fluctuations in your cycle to concern you, and you even thought that was a lucky break while your new-ish boyfriend was away. Then the word’s meaning seems to dawn on Steve.

“Okay-okay?” He swallows thickly.

Your top is undone, so you start on his, pulling the Windsor knot loose from his neck and moving slowly.

“Oh-kay,” you repeat, button by button.

Steve inhales sharply through his nose. “Like okay we don’t have one?” His face exposes his thoughts tentatively, a spark of something akin to hope here, a flicker of darker desire there. “You want me to…” he puffs out his chest “…and then I’ll just—“

“—come inside me.”

“—pull out,” he finishes. “What?!” It’s the world’s smallest exclamation. All the air rushes out of him. His blue eyes shadow as if dusk hit the harbor in a sudden eclipse.

You push the crisp white shirt over his broad shoulders.

“Precious,” Steve breathes, “are you sure?” Once the sleeves are off his arms, he pets down his beard. “You…”

“Uh-huh.” You nod, sliding off the navy tie.

“You’re sure,” he says again, unconvinced, short-circuiting. “I never…”

You understand his hesitation, you really do, but Steve doesn’t have to become a broken record questioning your choices. It’s a reasonable call in your monogamous relationship, and if he fucking ruins this for you after waiting half a month for his return, you’re gonna…you’re gonna…get ideas.

Ideas like this one.

You take Steve’s hands in yours and start wrapping the tie around his wrists.

He says nothing. He doesn’t even look down. He just stares at your face as you concentrate on tying a couple of knots on the makeshift binding and glance back up at him. He keeps his hands together, suspended between your bodies, unwilling to move yet.

So you keep working.

You undo his belt and unzip his pants, watching his lips fall open and the thoughts racing behind his eyes slow down. It’s a hard reset—one making Steve harder and harder beneath your touch.

“Hey, Captain,” you husk, leaning into his paralyzed hands only to have him recoil in alarm, “whatcha thinking?”

His long fingers grip gently at your face, face close to yours. Steve licks across his lips excruciatingly slow. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me.”

He growls, sweeping his arms over your head and pinning you to his chest. With ease, Steve rolls onto his knees and rises, carrying you until your ass hits the chilly wood of your desk. He drags his body between your wide legs.

“Say it again.”

He bends forward, forcing you to lay back with his bound hands cradling your head, heat surging down your body when his warm skin sits flush down your torso.

With his lips latched just below your ear, you whisper in his, “I want you to come inside me.”

You feel his teeth graze your throat as Steve grunts involuntarily, ripping his hands out from under you and shoving down his pants and boxer briefs. He orders you to remove your panties, demands you unhook the front clasp of your bra, and presses his erection to your core. He praises your exposed beauty while shushing your incoherent whimpers. His arms push past your shoulders and settle beneath the small of your back, angling you perfectly for his cock to slide back and forth through your folds, his hips nudging that too-long neglected bundle of nerves.

No more long, solo business trips, you think before your mind blurs in the low lamp light, you won’t survive another absence.

He spreads your arousal between you for an agonizing eternity, swipe after swipe, making you cry out every time the head of him notches in just the right spot. He could be in you right now. He could be fucking your brains out. At least that would give you reason to be this stupidly cock-crazed already.

“Didn’t use to need it like this,” Steve mutters into the valley of your breasts. “Went so long without. Can’t now.” He nips at the swell of you. “Not a day—not a night without…wanting this.”

He’s slow to push the head in, having foregone stretching you on his fingers, but he lavishes your nipples with attention enough to have you mewling for more.

“…wanting you…”

You gasp as his edging progression throbs across your whole body. His thick length and dextrous tongue coax every thrill back to the side of pleasure that curls your toes and shakes your thighs around him. He thrusts shallowly before pressing deeper, bullying a nipple with strong suction as he struggles to control himself.

“Missed you. Missed you so much.”

It makes you soar to hear him so broken, unable to separate his need for your company from his need to bury himself in you, unable to rein in his raw, animalistic desire to fill you in any way.

Steve fights this nature.

He fights to be respectful. He fights to be appreciative. He fights to ensure you always feel seen as more than just a woman, but right at this moment, it is the greatest accomplishment of your career to override the genius mind of Steve Rogers and make him crumble in worship of your pussy.

When he’s fully seated within your walls, you shiver straight into his embrace.

“I love you,” you breathe, pulling your arms out from beneath his to card through his hair.

Steve whines at the intimacy, muttering how good you feel into your neck before finding you for a kiss.

“I love you, too.”

Your spit-slicked nipples graze his rough chest hair with every bounce of Steve’s frantic and increasingly wild thrusts. His excitement fuels yours, his moans turning to groans while your core heats up like a kettle on the cusp of whistling.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but he sounds so wrecked, so incapable of any rational thought that isn’t pure praise of you.

His huge hands cling to your shoulder blades. The bite of short fingernails barely registers on your sweating skin. All you can do is scream in warning.

Your body clamps down, fluttering a strong and desperate rhythm of its own against him.

“Oh fuck, precious,” Steve pants, hustling to move his arms back around to your front, pressing into your tight stomach, imagining the glide of his cock beneath his palms as he holds you still.

He’s lost and lust-drunk, focused on pumping you full of his cum and relishing the new sensation. His eyes shut, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his head lolls back in one last choked shout.

It’s so much wetter combined with you, so much nastier and possessive.

He kneads gently at your belly, still pushed in as deep as he can be, and lets out a breathy chuckle in utter, debauched bliss.

A second later, Steve easily twists out of the looped tie, tossing it in a heap beside you on the desk and petting every inch of you he can reach as he comes down.

His descending calm only sends you reeling.

You watch the corruption of man in 4K high definition as Steve succumbs to this new, greedy delight. You see the very moment it dawns on him that he’s a righteously common man—replete with vice he’s unlikely to recover from. His downfall keeps you floating on shockwaves like you’re in a mosh pit, his every expression pushing you back into the fog of orgasm.

You did this. You did this to him as much as he did this to you.

Eyes glazed and dark, Steve’s fingertips finally trace the joint of your hip.

The tickle makes you buck against him, knocking him back a little, and slowly, Steve does pull out entirely. He never lets go of you though.

His thumb finds your clit and starts up another leisurely pace. He sits his bare ass on your office chair and looks directly at your exposed sex, staring as the stimulation makes you clench.

You hear the powerful man between your legs roll forward for a better view.

You feel him leaking out of you and know he’s holding that gaze for a moment longer before yanking out a few tissues from the box in your drawer and wiping up what he can. He’s gentle, but he doesn’t have to be so slow to clean you.

You expect that to be it.

He’s brought you back down—albeit teasingly,—returned from his trip to some feral, nomad land, and that’s likely the end of your romp at work with straight-laced, kind Steve Rogers.

But his hot hand finds your calf, lifting your leg to drape over his shoulder. He doesn’t even wait until the other leg is moved into place before his lips lock around that sensitive nub still aching from attention.

He goes to town, particularly ravenous for more noise, pausing for long periods to caress and nuzzle the plush skin of your thighs. He whispers how he likes the smell of you two together, how it’s stronger, maybe because he’s been away, how you smell potent and ready for him, and he didn’t hurt you, did he? He just wanted you so bad. Needed you.

You lean into his new-found obsession, steadily rising high again, body and soul.

Did he like marking you? you ask. Will he keep thinking about it?

Will he want to keep you full and watch it overflow from you?

Is he ready to fuck you again already?

Your words don’t even shame the golden boy begging to suffocate between your legs; they only encourage him. He has you gushing again in minutes. It takes longer for the sparking electricity of your high to dissipate than it did to build the charge.

He simply watches with a smile on his face and his lips sliding across the tender back of your knee.

Eventually, you sit up, gasping for air, blouse and bra still trapped on your elbows, skirt still hiked up to your waist. No more words pass between you. You hold each other in an adoring gaze, giggling when he has to help you put your feet back on the ground.

You fluff your destroyed hair and step onto wobbly legs. Steve races to help, but you only move to straddle him in the chair, your hand finding his still-slick cock that’s well on its way to hard. His eyes meet yours and never falter, his hands steady beside your arms in case you need his strength but untouching while you jerk and toy with him. He unabashedly shows you the full mess of him you’ve made, like you let him see of you.

You look over to the clock near the door.

8:30.

The night is still young, and you missed your boyfriend. He’s full of surprises and you want to explore at least one more before breaking to head home.

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602 @patzammit @royalwritersoftheuniverses @supraveng @1950schick @yiiiikesmish

A/N: Hey gang, so I'm in a phase of this emotional cluster-fuck that I honestly cannot tell if my work reads well? Normally, I have a decent radar for the quality I'm looking for/proud of, but lately, absolutely nothing makes par. I'm kinda relying on you guys to tell me if and when we get to a point that it's bad and maybe I need to take a real break. I PROMISED SINFUL SUNDAY THOUGH, so I do hope it was at least passable as entertainment! 💚💜

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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ambassadorarlert · 1 year

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HEAT WAVES... (Armin Arlert x afab!reader)

.04 BOARDWALK (main menu | spotify ) 18+ MDNI NSFW ↳ summary: ...armin comes out of his shell. ↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, swearing, implied depression, anxiety ↳ genre: hurt/comfort, comedy, ↳ word count: 11k (my bad)

No one really had an answer. It was as if Eren had vanished into thin air, like he erased himself from the face of the planet and it was just you eight who remembered his existence. All of his belongings stayed just where he left them. Eren’s suitcase was barely unpacked. A glass of water sat half full on his nightstand. There wasn’t a single thing that seemed odd or unusual.

Missing in action for a few hours turned into a few days. Which, eventually, turned into weeks. All of the Survey Corps plans to set up a base in Marley had to be put on hold, and it raised more questions about what to do next. Should the mission be considered a failure and go home to Paradise? Or, wait it out and continue as coordinated once Eren eventually returns?

There was also the looming danger of being busted by Marleyan officials as Eldian’s from Paradise, a special group of people in which the entire country agreed that they hated. Was staying on Marley a minute longer than necessary a risk worth taking?

You didn’t want to think about any of that now. All you wanted was some breakfast.

You quietly open the door to the dining hall, not surprised to see Hange and Levi sitting at the table. They stopped talking to each other as you entered and greeted them for the morning.

They seemed to be having a particularly serious discussion. Hange was sitting on the edge of their seat, their face painted with that determined look that you found inspirational and also frightening-- depending on the situation. Levi was sitting back in his chair, an arm rested around the supportive backrest.

“Make a cup of tea for me.” Levi said.

Anyone else would have taken his tone for rudeness, and his request as a direct order. However, you knew this was Levi’s way of being polite, as his articulation was softer and rounder around the edges. A change of speech he only reserved for you.

It was a recurring joke that you were Levi’s favorite. Levi spoke to you in different tones than he does to anyone else. For you he is always a pinch nicer. He usually said yes to any of your requests, agreed with most of your ideas, and no one could recall a time where Levi had to whack you upside the head for saying something stupid. On top of all that, you were the only one who was allowed to make Levi his tea. Eren made it taste bitter. Jean serves it too hot while Armin serves it too cold. Sasha adds too much sugar, and Connie makes too much of a mess for a single cup. Hange somehow makes it taste like dirt. You were the only one who could brew and sweeten it the exact way Levi liked.

“Yes, sir.” You complied.

It was routine now that you would make a cup for Levi before yourself whenever you happened to be awake at the same time. He hardly needed to ask at this point.

As you approached the table to prepare tea, you took notice of the heavy silence between the three of you. Levi definitely added an ominous element to whatever room he was in, but the tension was too thick. Perhaps you really had walked in on a heated conversation. Being the awkward interruption made you nervous. You kept your head down as you sorted through the teabags to find one Levi would enjoy.

“So, since it’s just the three of us. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Y/N.” Hange spoke up, clearing their throat as they did so. You paused.

“Okay.” You agreed, trying not to sound as anxious as you had suddenly become.

“How has Mikasa been holding up since Eren has been gone?” Hange questioned.

“And be honest.” Levi interjected.

If you were going to be completely honest, Mikasa had been having a difficult time. Just as anyone would imagine. For the first few days of Eren’s absence, she had been inconsolable. Mikasa spent most of those days confined in her hotel room, crying to a point where she would exhaust herself, fall asleep, wake up, repeat. Then, her despair took a turn and transformed into unwavering hope that Eren couldn’t be gone much longer, and that he would return. It was a last minute coping mechanism.

“She’s.. doing her best.” You answered, pouring hot water over the teabag in the cup.

You voted to keep it simple and true as you could without divulging too many details. Mikasa was heartbroken, but she did less crying every day. You figured that Mikasa wouldn’t appreciate you giving out too much personal information, especially to Levi.

Levi and Hange glanced at each other as you kept your back turned. They mutually and silently agreed to not push further about Mikasa. Still, there was another person they were concerned about.

“And Armin?”

The sudden mention of his name falling off of Levi’s lips casually and innocently sent goosebumps down your spine. You shivered as if a chill had brushed right through you. You even dropped the spoon you were using to stir sugar in Levi’s tea directly onto the floor. It fell with a muted clunk against the carpet.

Your mind began to race. As far as you and Armin could tell, no one suspected anything about either of you. You both kept a respectable distance from each other around the group but by default your interactions with each other increased. No one seemed to notice how your eyes lingered on each other from across the room. Sasha, who had been wholeheartedly invested in your infatuation with Armin from the beginning, didn’t even realize that he fixed you a cup of tea every morning since landing in Marley. Jean, who was Armin’s assigned partner for the mission and only slept a few doors down, paid no attention that Armin’s door would squeak open and shut at odd hours of the night from you slipping in and out. Mikasa, who was Armin’s very best friend, seemed oblivious as well. Then again, her mind was elsewhere these days.

There wasn’t much to be said about what Connie knew, because it was usually nothing.

If anyone was going to notice anything, it was Levi. And if Levi knew then Hange most definitely did as well. Levi was omniscient, all-seeing, all knowing, nothing got past him without him hearing about it. You were sure that you and Armin’s jig was up. You’d have to break down and tell Levi everything he wanted to know, as you couldn’t imagine lying to your captain and commander.

You bit your lip as you reached for a new spoon. You began to sweat under your arms and your stomach felt as if it would drop right out of your ass. As quickly as your anxiety had been sprung, a new idea came to mind.

Telling Levi the truth was your best option. However, you didn’t need to reveal all of it.

It was generally easier to tell if Armin was upset, afraid, happy, or sad. In the context of Eren, he was a tougher nut to crack than you suspected. When Eren first disappeared, Armin remained positive that Eren would return as he had no real connections or resources in Marley. He stayed up most nights as a watch guard, ready to welcome Eren back with open arms and a jillion questions. Coffee was his newfound hyperfixation. It gave him the energy he needed to stay up through the night. Apart from the stray glasses of water that you insisted he chug, coffee was all he drank.

When it was becoming apparent that Eren qualified as missing in action, Armin’s decline began. He crash-napped at strange times during the day. Whenever he was awake, his nose was buried in the journals he brought along with him from Paradis, flipping through pages and notes and personal diary entries he had taken on Eren, his memories from his father, and information on the Attack Titan. Armin hardly ate anyway, but he held no real appetite. Armin slept in later and later, often letting the small plates of food you brought him run cold.

You straighten your posture.

“Actually, Captain, I’m glad you asked.” You said.

Hange and Levi shared another look at each other as they also sat up to listen. Just as they predicted, Eren’s two dearest and longest friends would be struggling with him being gone. Everyone knew that the trio never really had a single day without each other. Anyway they could help, they absolutely would.

Levi’s tea was at the perfect temperature and just the right amount of sugar had been added. You walked across the room and lightly placed the saucer and cup in front of him. For a second, Levi watched the steam rise from the rim and eyed the deep brown liquid. You stepped back and stood at full ease.

“Armin hardly comes out of his room these days. I don’t think he eats, or sleeps, he’s too occupied overanalyzing and prophesying. We all know that Armin is more… perceptive than others. I-I think a day outside would do him some good. Only for a few hours just to get his mind off of things.” You submitted your idea, looking between Levi and Hange for any kind of reaction.

Instead of taking the cup by the handle, Levi hovered his hand across the entire rim and sipped through a gap in his fingers, louder than usual. He held his eyes on Hange, who actually had the final say. Hange’s stare was fixated on the table as you explained the situation. They nodded slowly as they listened.

Of course, there was more you wanted to say. But, just as you wanted to respect Mikasa’s emotional privacy, you wanted to do the same for Armin, and not lead on too much. Levi and Hange eyed each other down, quietly debating as if they could read each other’s minds. Your eyes darted between the two of them, eager to hear their thoughts. You felt like you were asking both of your parents for a favor.

“You think we’re going to let you two out and about unchaperoned, in enemy territory, after the shit you all pulled at the refugee camp?” Levi questioned, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. He didn’t look at you as he spoke.

Good point. Quickly, you came up with a counter argument to blame Eren for the sake of the conversation, but Hange intervened before you could propose it.

“Eren took full responsibility for that, and I said we’d just forget about it and move on. That was weeks ago at this point.” Hange removed their glasses to wipe a lens on the corner of their shirt.

“Armin and Y/N are responsible, and are the ones we would have to worry about the least if they were out by themselves.. We shouldn’t let Armin rot in his thoughts alone. Don’t you agree, Levi?” Hange hinted.

Levi took another large slurp out of his cup. With the loud sipping and little complaint as he drank, you figured you once again hit the nail on the head. Hopefully, that would add extra leverage to your proposal. Levi licked his lips and sat his cup in the saucer with an uncomfortable clink.

Levi’s silver-grey eyes weren’t cold, but still just as unnerving, as he finally made eye contact with you. You swallowed as he looked you directly into your soul, and a few yards beyond. He pointed a finger as he spoke.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Levi said. Now, that was an order.

Your mind had drawn to a blank. You had prepared yourself to defend your case. However, you were not expecting the conversation to go as simply as it did. Once the tide of relief had washed away, you thanked them generously and prepared to leave and make plans. It was better to accept a yes and leave, than to waste another second and give them room to change their minds.

“Hold on,” Levi called after you before you could fully make it out the door.

He dug around in his pocket, and simply chucked whatever he had towards you. You caught it with ease, opening your hand to see that he had thrown a singular Marleyan coin. A string had been tugged in your chest.

“Thank you, Captain.” You smiled greatly and genuinely, giving a respectful salute out of gratitude. Levi waved his hand, dismissing you. You turned on your heel and let the door fall closed behind you.

“Hmm.” Hange relaxed in their seat. Their lips pressed into a sarcastic frown. Levi glared.

“What?” He wanted to know.

“I didn’t hear you say you wanted reimbursement. But I always have to pay you back.” Hange commented.

Levi sucked his teeth and reached for his tea.

“I’ll just add it to your tab.”

A cloudy heaviness floated around in the dark and gloomy room. A few stray pieces of clothing laid across the floor. Dishes had piled on top of the bedside table as neatly as they could be stacked. A few mugs have been collected over the course of a few nights, dried and evaporated rings of coffee remained in the bottoms. The only light source in the room was the lamp in the corner that gave off a sickly yellow hue. It made Armin’s eyes and head ache, but he didn’t want to have the curtains open. Each rise and fall of the sun was just another day without Eren.

Armin took a gulp out of a mug that had been sitting near him as he rummaged through various journals and notebooks. His coffee that he had been cradling was brewed a few hours ago and had long been cold. Armin didn’t care about the stale taste it left in his mouth. He didn’t feel like going to get a fresh cup.

The only audible noise in Armin’s room was the annoying ticking of the clock on the wall. No one likes listening to the time pass by, and it was quite easy to tune out. However, all Armin wanted to do in this particular moment was concentrate on his own research. With each tick tick tick, Armin’s head pounded. His stomach also began to bubble as he had not eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. Food and water would make the hunger and oncoming migraine go away, but he was too engrossed in his writings to get up and do anything else.

Armin was hyper focused on trying to find a clue as to why Eren would disappear. He had been awake since the night before editing, studying, rewriting and scribbling over notes he had taken months and months ago. Something, somewhere, had to be an answer. He could taste it. Armin’s mind buzzed with thoughts and theories. Each assumption was laced over the other, intertwining in his brain all at once. They rattled against his skull.

A soft knock on the door was all that was needed to annoy Armin to the fullest extent, breaking his concentration on trying to keep his ideas sorted. Reality shifted around him now that he had been distracted. The hangry smog wiped from his eyes as he blinked himself to the present. Armin balled his fists, refraining from smacking them down on the table out of frustration

Armin turned in his seat and stood up. His head swam for a second as the blood pooled back into his legs and feet. He realized he had been sitting in that chair for quite a while. He spotted the shadow of two feet under the crack of the door and, suddenly, a piece of paper slid across the floor. The feet disappeared quickly as they appeared, muted footsteps trotted down the hall and away.

It was a note. Armin quickly reached to pick it up and unfolded it.

“Armin, would you please meet me at the pier by 12pm?”

There in black ink, written in your handwriting, was your name signing off. Armin stared at it for a moment to admire how the letters formed the sound of you. He also noticed that the i in his name was dotted with a small heart. Armin’s own heart fluttered. No one has ever written his name that way.

Armin turned the note over in his hand, not expecting anything to be written anywhere else. There was very little context. The pier? He didn’t quite understand. Whatever it is you needed to meet about had to be important if it was outside of the hotel. Armin checked the time. He had thirty minutes.

With haste, he assembled an outfit. Brown slacks, a white button up shirt, and a beige vest to match. Armin splashed some cold water on his face and scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled. All the while his thoughts ran a mile a minute. Armin could feel the adrenaline flow under his skin at the anticipation of seeing you for the first time today. He did a brief breath check before grabbing a cap to conceal his insubordinate hair. Usually it would lay flat but of course it wouldn’t do what Armin wanted right now.

He was out the door with fifteen minutes left to spare. As Armin was just leaving, Jean was walking into his own room.

“Oh, ‘sup Armin?” Jean threw his hand up in acknowledgement. Armin paused, a breath of air being startled out of his lungs.

“Hi, Jean. Bye, Jean!” Armin greeted him breathlessly.

Perhaps if he appeared to be in a rush, Jean wouldn’t question where he was going without him. Armin didn’t need Jean holding him up and asking questions.

“Wait, hang on a second! Where are you going?” Jean stammered. His face was screwed up with confusion.

Suddenly, Armin's hands were beginning to sweat. Anxiety began to pool in his chest. Armin needed to navigate his way out of the hotel and to the pier. The pier was close, a block or two away. Armin could still be on time if he kept his talk with Jean short.

“I’m going to the pier for a while. To look for Eren.” Armin said plainly as it was the entire truth. He put his hands in his pockets and swallowed.

“I can go with you.” Jean offered. He had his hand on the door handle, ready to leave if Armin said yes.

Armin upheld his promise to keep your relationship under the table. He figured one of you would tell Jean eventually. Armin did find it quite funny that Jean was the one who gave him the small boost he needed at the camp that night, but was so far gone that he couldn’t even remember his drunken words of encouragement. Perhaps at some point Armin would thank him for his unsolicited help. With time, of course. For now, Armin was enjoying having you all to himself.

There was an awkward pause as he waited for Armin’s answer.

“No, I-I can go alone.” Armin politely denied.

“Alright,” Jean hunched his shoulders, slightly disappointed. He was about to go back into his room before he abruptly turned back on his heel.

“Y’know Connie and I stay up pretty late most of the time. You can come kick it with us if you want… If you get too lonely.” Jean gently suggested.

This was the first time he and Armin had spoken to each other in days. Armin was Jean’s buddy, and he missed hanging out with him and Connie together. Every other night or so, Jean would tip down the hall to see what Armin was up to. Most of the time his lights were off and everything was quiet. Jean figured Armin would be a little lonesome. Leave it to a jerk like Eren to abandon his best friends.

Armin lips turned to the side in a shy, reserved smile.

“Thanks Jean.”

Jean nodded his head again. He decided to let Armin go his separate way. He couldn’t help but wonder if letting Armin out alone was a good idea or not, given the circumstances. He shook the thought away, having more faith in Armin coming back than Eren at this point. Jean held out his fist for Armin to pound. With no hesitation, Armin approached Jean and met his fist with his.

On that note, Jean went back into his room. Armin rounded the corner like a bat out of hell, and made a break for the exit.

The day was surprisingly warm and sunny. It was the middle of the week, and not many people seemed to be out today. It was nowhere near as crowded, as it was when you all first came to Marley. The pier was bright, full of life, loud, and busy. Now, it was pretty vacant and boring regardless of the lovely weather. There were a few people wandering around. Their shoes clunked loudly on the wood of the pier, echoing loudly into the open sea air. Even though the temperature was slightly high, the wind blowing off of the ocean just a few steps away provided a refreshing breeze. You could even taste the salt.

You checked your small wrist watch for the time again. The day was growing dangerously close to noon. Armin would have been here by now, but he was nowhere in sight. You had picked a perfect spot right in front of the pier's welcoming entrance. In big iron letters erected over its archway read Libero Pier Amusement. You sat patiently on a bench. Sitting in a public space and looking around anxiously was a perfect way to draw attention to yourself, so you kept calm and collected.

The anticipation was driving you crazy. You didn’t bring anything to distract yourself with while you waited, so you resorted to picking at whatever hangnail you could find. You bit at one, wondering what could possibly be taking Armin so long? What if something had happened to him? It was unlike Armin to be tardy for anything. What if he just didn’t want to come? You glanced at your watch again.

“Chewing on your nails again?”

You jumped. As if you manifested him out of thin air, he was there. You didn’t even hear him coming. You looked up at him, relieved that he was finally here and in one piece. But your heart fell at the sight of him in the daylight. It was obvious that he had not been getting enough sleep, if any at all. The area around and under Armin’s eyes were darker than the rest of his face. His outfit, however, was pretty fly. Marleyan fashion suited him well.

“Yeah.” You admitted timidly.

“I got your note, obviously.” Armin stated as he helped himself to sit next to you, thigh to thigh.

He leaned into your space, his hands resting politely in his lap. You had his full attention, eyes wide and dotting across your face. His eyes, the water in the distance, and the sky were all a miracle shade of blue.

“What is this about?”

“I wanted to go on a date.” You introduced your idea, motioning to the nautical environment around you. You gave Armin a flirtatious side eye.

“A date?” Armin sputtered incredulously. You hummed in response.

A strange crack accidentally escaped Armin’s throat. A date, of course! How stupid of him to not realize that sooner. Would you be upset if he didn’t realize this is what you had planned? Had he known, he would have gone out of his way to bring you something nice.

You pressed your lips together, hiding a smile and hoping that Armin would be okay with this. If not, you both could simply go back to HQ and spend time together there. Although, that wouldn’t be as fun.

“Unless you’re uncomfortable! We can go back--” You started to bargain. Armin interrupted you promptly.

“No, please! I-I definitely want to be here with you.” Armin pleaded. His reassurance made your stomach twist.

“I must ask though, how did you get past Hange and Levi?” Armin wanted to know.

He was more than positive that you did not waltz right up to them and say you wanted to go on a date with Armin. And, no matter what way you put it, there was absolutely no way they could have ever agreed to let you venture out alone without Mikasa.

You playfully shrugged. You hardly broke a sweat trying to reason with your superiors, but Armin didn’t need to know that. You did, however, want Armin to know that Levi had given you money. Armin’s jaw dropped. He almost didn’t believe it until you pulled out the copper coin allowance out of your pocket, chuckling maniacally. Armin scoffed.

“I guess that little boy didn’t take all of it.” You lightly teased.

“He’s never given me money.” Armin fake pouted.

He thought back to all of the times that he had gone into town to get things for Levi, and it was always out of his own pocket. He genuinely did not mind at all. That, and he also dared not to ask otherwise.

You laughed. His mood already seemed to be changing. You grabbed Armin’s hand and stood up on your feet. He followed.

“So. What should we do first?” You asked.

Armin held his shoulder out for you to take. You wrapped your arms around his bicep and gave it a very firm hug. A warmth had gone through him, starting from the top of his head and sliding its way down into his toes. He could feel his cheeks flush just by you touching him. It sent his heart thumping and mind racing. This would be your first outing together as a couple. Maybe if Armin remained collected and chivalrous, while staying sharp and alert of his surroundings, he might not fuck anything up.

Like he did last time.

It did not matter where the starting point was, as long as Armin got to spend time with you. After a few weeks of beginning to get used to sneaking around in dark hallways at strange and ungodly hours of the night, it was refreshing to see you in a rather normal romantic environment. A beautiful day, you on his arm, out and about in a place neither of you had explored before. Armin’s stomach gurgled. He suggested food first.

Although this was your plan, Armin seemed to lead the way. He specifically wanted ice cream again and he looked for the trolly. Unfortunately, he didn’t spot the gentleman anywhere so he settled for something else. So, you both made way towards the only open food stand. There was a bit of a line, but you waited your turn. You stood behind a man with a baby resting on his shoulder.

The first thing you noticed besides the huge bald head, were their big green eyes. Their cheeks were fat and round, perfect for pinching. Just as you appeared, the infant kept their eye on you. You smiled and gave a little wave, and made a few funny faces. Your new friend, with their little fist in their mouth, smiled and giggled in return. A bit of drool had rolled down their bottom lip.

“Aw,” Armin chortled at you.

“I like babies.” You mentioned to him matter of factly. The line moved forward a few feet.

The parent must have caught a whisper of your comment. He barely turned to the side and glared at you through the corner of his sight. You could tell he gave you a quick up and down examination. The man's concentration circled on your left arm, which remained at your side since Armin was intertwined on your right. Then, he gave an awkward and unfriendly fold of his lips, and promptly turned back around. It was always disappointing when a cute baby had rude parents.

The menu for street food in Marley was insane. You and Armin collectively have never had so many choices for food in your lives, and it was quite obvious to the vendor by the way you both gawked at the menu. You recognized a few items, such as Mikasa’s popcorn and Sasha’s funnel cake. But you weren’t too sure what a hot dog was exactly…

You and Armin both opted for a pretzel, to try something new.

Once you had gotten your twisted snack and paid, you pointed back to the pier. From where you were standing, you scouted out a perfect spot to sit, eat, and talk. One section of the pier was lined with wooden benches. It was built to stand a few yards beyond the shore line and farther into the ocean. You both sat closer to the end, wanting to be as close to the water as possible, and ate in a comfortable silence.

Seagulls called overhead. The sound of the water sloshing against the wood of the pier echoed under your feet. You snuck a glance at Armin as he munched. His hair blew against the warm wind. He was amazing to look at.

“I’ve missed seeing you during the day.” You confided in a soft voice.

“Yeah…” Armin dragged out. “My sleep schedule has been kind of messed up…”

It was obvious that Armin desperately needed sleep. Even though the bags under his eyes were plain as day, he was still good looking. In your personal biased opinion, Armin was always an attractive guy. The lack of sleep gave him a tragically beautiful aesthetic.

“I stay up most nights just… thinking.” Armin lowly stated.

Armin focused on the half eaten pretzel in his hand. There was something nipping at the back of his mind, something that you could see but not put a name to. You took a bite out of your food to fill some of the silence.

“About what?” You asked.

He paused for a moment. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

Armin thought everything was going well so far. He didn’t want to ruin the mood by being sad and talking about his feelings. Although, it was only a matter of time before you broke the ice and brought up Eren. He noticed how you tiptoed around it, how your exterior around him had softened. Since Levi didn’t bother to do bed checks anymore, only because the main reason for reinstating them for the time being had gone, you pushed the envelope on how late you would stay in Armin’s room. Sometimes, you’d fall asleep for a while. He guessed that you just wanted to keep him company.

“You can tell me anything.” You reassured him. You lightly knocked your knee against his to get his attention.

You were completely right. You were an excellent listener, and quite easy to talk to. Having deeper and more meaningful conversations with you was simpler than he thought. After understanding that you liked to talk as much as he did, Armin realized that he had psyched himself out for years. Being too intimidated and shy to initiate anything beyond banter as comrades, and vague compliments.

He often found himself spewing embarrassing facts and stories. You knew that Armin does not like to sleep with socks on because he hates the way his toes feel when they’re confined together, and he likes when it rains because everything feels cleaner. If he could confide in you that he enjoys a romance novel every now and then, he could be honest about his latest dilemma.

“I know, I just…” He inhaled sharply.

The pout on your lips was involuntary. Armin’s shoulders fell. He still kept his eyes on his lap. His bottom lip was taken in between his teeth, chewing on the supple skin.

“I thought at first that maybe being in Marley triggered some kind of memory, that Eren got lost or confused and would find his way back. I read my notes a thousand and one times. He hardly ever spoke about his fathers memories, aside from killing the Reiss family, so I couldn’t even piece together an idea of where in Marley he could have gone”

“And then I remembered the ‘see you later.’ It made me think he changed his mind at some point, but why? Maybe it was something I had done, something I didn’t understand… That’s kind of where I’m at now, I guess…”

You left your pretzel unattended as you listened. A sinking sensation fell in your abdomen. It was without question that Armin missed Eren and, honestly, so did you. He wasn’t your closest friend, but you enjoyed kicking him under the table when he joined in on Connie and Jean’s teasing. You constantly remind Eren to mind his business whenever he commented about Mikasa’s hair getting too long, and that she can keep it anyway she wants. Being the last person to see Eren seemed like a cruel joke. You felt as if anyone would see him for the final time, it should have been Armin.

You slid closer to him, hips touching together. Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder. Your eyes were locked on to him. He couldn’t avoid eye contact if he tried.

“I don’t think it had anything to do with you.” You hushed.

Armin offered a weak smile. You had spoken so tenderly, he almost believed that was true. All of a sudden, his mouth had gone dry. He felt as if you had him by the throat. A ringing sound in his ears as he zoned in on your lips. They always turned to a smile, no matter the occasion.

“Stand up. Face me. ” You demanded.

Without question, Armin did as you said. You plucked his pretzel from his hand and sat it down where he was sitting, and took both of his hands in yours. They were warm and a little sweaty. You gave them a squeeze. You instructed him to take a deep breath in and a deep breath out, following along with him.

“Let’s still try to have fun here while we can. Okay?”

Armin sighed. He could not deny to himself that the sunshine and fresh air had restored a piece of his mind. He was never going to stop wondering about Eren, thinking of the smallest technical detail, until he showed up again. For now, perhaps he could let his guard down for a moment…

“Okay.” Armin effortlessly agreed.

From that point on, he managed to put all of his Eren thoughts to the back of his mind, and enjoy your company. It had actually been about two or three days since you both had spent time together. He realized he hadn’t seen anyone for a while, which must have been why Jean was so surprised. Armin missed hearing you laugh and reaching to touch him anyway you could as you did so, how you could make a conversation about anything, and you definitely had gotten prettier somehow.

You both took one long, slow stroll around the pier. Mainly just talking, bouncing off of each other's ideas and random thoughts. You noticed a few things about him as you walked and talked. Armin spoke fluently with his hands. In casual conversation, he waved and moved them around. When he was being bashful, he rubbed them together. Armin also put his hands in his pockets sometimes. You hadn’t figured out what that meant yet. He apparently had a lot on his chest.

It was about to be your second turn around when you noticed a few people walking along the shoreline and under the pier. Immediately, you wanted to go there.

You and Armin rolled your pants legs up to the shin, took off your socks and shoes, and walked through the water under the pier. You held your footwear in one hand, while holding hands with the other. They swung in between while you casually strolled.

It was apparent that Armin was in a better mood. He skipped through the water, splashing himself and you as he kicked his feet around. He let his mind and his mouth run a mile a minute. Armin spoke on seemingly every thought that had came to his brain. You couldn’t help but to smile and laugh as he did. One day out and away from everything was just what he needed.

“Look at this,” Your eyes glanced at one of the pier legs.

You both stopped and approached to read and admire the handwriting that was etched into the wood. They were messages, notes, love declarations and promises. It was romantic to see how many couples had been in this very spot before you and Armin. He awed at some of the sentimental carvings. You had an idea.

You reached into your back pocket, pulling out a small knife you kept for last resort defense. You flipped it open and pointed the blade into the wood.

“What are you doing!” Armin exclaimed.

“Writing our names.” You stated, quirking an eyebrow. You thought it was obvious.

“You can’t do that, that’s vandalism!” Armin insisted.

He placed two hands on your shoulder, peering over as you were spelling your own name.

“Vandalism, really? Look how many people have been here before us!” You chortled as you moved on to sketch his name underneath yours.

Armin wasn’t the type to willingly bend the rules, which is what made it so fun to break them around him.

“Just because other people did it, doesn’t mean it’s right!” Armin hollered over the sound of the water moving and crashing. A subtle salty mist dusted the air as the wind blew from the ocean.

Armin’s face had turned a bashful red. He anxiously looked around. If you were both caught by Marleyan authorities and discovered to be from Paradis, it would be game over for the both of you as well as everyone else.

“Ta-da!” You cheered. You slid your knife back into your pocket and stepped back to admire your handiwork.

There, permanently drawn into Liberio’s pier were your names together, enclosed with a heart. Carving curves was more difficult than you thought it would be but the shape came out all the same. Armin noticed that you dotted the i in his name with a heart as well. He reached out to run his finger over the fresh carving.

“Nice little touch.” He complimented. The serious line of Armin’s lips twitched into a smile.

A quick gust of ocean breeze flew past, misting the sides of your bodies as you stood face to face. He had realized many things about you at once. Armin liked the way the wind had blown your hair back from your face, and the way your lips were drawn into a cheeky smile. He suddenly couldn’t feel his feet. The feeling of the cold water around his knees faded into the background as you had become the center of his attention.

Being in your presence was always a surreal experience. Even more so now that Armin got to have you all to himself. The era of Armin yearning from a distance was, for the most part, over. He no longer had the underlying anxiety of wondering if you would ever like him the same way. Even though you’ve said it, it was clearer now that you truly cared for him. He could feel it in the way you held his hand, pointing out the finer details of the world around you. You literally carved your names in wood, and it would be there forever for others to know that you both stood in this very same spot. It felt official, as if a contract had been signed. Armin’s heart pumped doubletime.

A switch had been flipped. A layer of Armin’s adoration towards you had been stripped, and a new fresh wound lay underneath. It seemed to run deeper into Armin’s chest than he anticipated.

“I owe you an apology.” Armin blurted out. You turned to look at him.

“Why?” You questioned.

He inhaled. The words weren’t easy to come off his tongue. Armin wanted to shrug and say he didn’t know, to spare you the bore of him talking. But, you said he could tell you anything…

“I… don’t think I’ve given you the attention you deserve.” He confessed, pulling on his fingers.

You helped yourself to wrap your arms around his middle, giving him the most genuine and warm hug he had ever gotten. The water that you stood in was cold, but your touch had him just about sizzling.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” You stated.

Armin gulped at your comment. You resting on him eased his spirit, as if he was forgiven for a sin. He laid his cheek on the top of your head, snuggling into you for the moment. His eyes began to throb, tears threatening to pick behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he was about to cry for. Armin’s psyche felt a hue brighter. Suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter to him than you did in this current moment. Armin did not want to taint this memory with tears, so he quickly blinked them back.

You played under the pier for a few hours, as long as it took for mid-afternoon to turn into late evening. You kept reading other names drawn onto the pier leg, trying to find things to pick up and maybe keep as souvenirs, but you didn’t find much. Armin brought it upon himself to start throwing water. You splashed him back. This was maybe the happiest you had ever seen him be.

A weird creepy feeling hit you in the back of the neck. Suddenly, something was off. The hairs on your arm stood up. You got the sensation that you were being watched, stalked from behind. You stopped running around the pier legs, playing into Armin’s silly tag game. You took a sly peak from the corner of your eye before turning completely around.

There was indeed someone behind you, a few feet away. It was unclear what they were doing exactly. They stood still as if you couldn’t see them at all.

“What’s wrong? Are you tired?” Armin asked.

You had become distracted by his voice. In the split second you turned to look at Armin and back at the person, they had already gone. They were there plain as day, Armin must not have seen them before they took off.

“Nothing is wrong.” You said.

Armin approached you slowly, careful not to splash around as much anymore. He wrapped an arm around your back, enclosing you around him in a light hug. He looked in the direction you were staring into, not understanding what had distracted you all of a sudden.

“Let’s go back.” He offered.

—

Armin didn’t let go of your hand once. He held it from the pier all the way back to HQ. His grip tightened when you made it inside and snuck through the halls like two lovestruck shadows. The hallways were clear and quiet. There wasn’t a single person in sight.

“Are you tired?” You hushed.

“No, are you?” Armin asked.

“No…” You trailed off.

Since the hallway was so empty, now seemed to be a perfect time to slip in either of your rooms. You typically snuck off to Armin’s room, which was farther down the hall and had loud door hinges. Your room was closer, only around the corner. “Do you want to come to my room?” You suggested.

A bell had gone off in Armin’s head. He’s never been in your room before, neither here nor on Paradise. He couldn’t begin to imagine what your personal bedroom looked like, although he wondered. Armin nodded his head in agreement. The lump in his throat had formed in seconds, and hindered his speech. The dry mouth didn’t help either.

You promptly grabbed your room key out of your bag, so you wouldn’t have to fumble at the door. You and Armin promptly rounded the corner. You stuck your key in the lock and with just your luck, the key did not turn. You moaned in frustration.

“Sorry. This sticks sometimes.” You explained.

You quietly jiggled the key in the hole, hoping to dislodge the mechanism inside. Of course it would happen now that you’re in a rush. Armin stood close behind you. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck, which only further distracted you. It sent goosebumps down your spine.

He couldn’t help his eyes but to wonder up and down your backside. Armin began to anticipate what possibly could happen once he got inside your room. Anyway he put it in his mind seemed perverted, which isn’t the energy he wanted to give off. He couldn’t wait to hold you close to him and unwind under your sheets. Armin’s head began to pound at the thought of things escalating further.

Armin fumbled with his hands anxiously as you struggled to unlock the door. You shook the handle again, more aggressively this time. Mikasa’s room was catty-cornered from yours, and would definitely see what was going on if she caught wind of suspicious noises in the hall. Armin wasn’t sure how Mikasa felt about you and Armin being together. It never had a chance to be brought up.

And, sometimes, he really disliked being on the same brainwave as Mikasa. They were always very close. At one point in their childhood, Mikasa tested Armin extensively to see if they could read each other's minds. It felt like just as Armin began to worry about being caught by her, Armin happened to notice her door was cracked enough to peek out of. The tip of her red scarf lazily hung through the crack, an eye just barely visible.

Armin quickly glanced between you still trying to break into your room, and Mikasa, who was staring directly into his soul.

“What?” Armin mouthed to her.

She looked Armin up and down once. Her eye squinted. She was definitely judging him. Quietly, she closed her door back.

You managed to successfully turn the key, after spewing swears. The door swung open and you went inside. Armin followed and closed the door behind him.

Armin didn’t allow a second to pass before he had his lips on yours. He held them there for a moment. You were quite surprised, standing in a short jolt of shock. When the familiarity that was Armin as you knew him sunk in, you kissed him back. Both of your lips laced in between each other. He laid his hands on your hips. His fingers lightly dug into your skin. You placed your arms around his shoulders, giving him support as he leaned in most of his body's presence into you.

Your room was still dark. You hadn’t even turned the lights on yet.

Armin took a step forward, causing you to take a step back. Walking while kissing made you miss a few steps. The back of your legs collided with your mattress and you fell backwards, dragging Armin down along with you. He exclaimed when his feet were suddenly taken out from under him, and quickly braced himself so he didn’t completely squish you.

You chuckled rather awkwardly as you were slightly embarrassed for some reason. Your heart thumped in your chest, even your ear drums were feeling the beat. Of course you and Armin were often this close to each other. It was obvious that physical touch was his main method of affection. Both of you were usually staying up extremely late, embracing one another, talking and getting to know each other better. Armin especially liked to fiddle and toy with your hands and fingers, and leave kisses anywhere he was allowed.

Armin giggled as well. You smiled up at him, eyes glowing brightly. Armin lowered his face to yours. He lightly rubbed the tip of his button nose against yours, and then helped himself to another kiss. You gently added your tongue to the equation. Armin melted instantly. Comfortable moans slipped through the both of you. Time seemed to no longer exist. Armin felt like he had been kissing you for ages, but still was not getting enough. His blood started to work harder to flush through his veins.

He wanted more. Armin itched to feel your skin on his, soft and delicate. He remembered how good you felt inside. Not that he ever stopped thinking about it, and how being inside of you felt so right. He never stopped thinking about you. The way you held him, moaned his name and mewed for more, squirming under his touch. With his eyes closed, he could almost taste you again.

Armin broke himself away to collect air.

“Do you want to..? Y’know…” Armin struggled to find his words. He spoke them softly into your jawline as he walked his lips there to leave kisses.

Armin resisted the urge to suck on a perfect spot where his lips grazed your neck, just below your ear. If he left any marks, someone would definitely put the pieces together and know that it was him. Armin most definitely wanted to leave his love bites and bruises on you. His secondary thoughts spun as they thought of all the other places he could freely bite and suck on.

Asking before proceeding was always the right thing to do, but Armin didn’t know why he was blushing harder or how it was possible. He could feel a bashful heat rise in his face.

You knew what he was asking. You wanted to excuse yourself so you could hide your face in a pillow and scream into the down feathers to hide how hot and bothered you had suddenly become. This would be the first time you and Armin would have sex sober.

How would it be different?

The blue in his eyes poured into you inquisitively. They changed from a light cyan to a deep, amorous phthalo. Perhaps it was the trick of the light. His eyelids appeared heavy, no longer staying wide with wonder. He focused on you as if you were a target he was aiming for. Armin’s cheeks were strawberry red, as well as the tip of his nose and ears. He held a small piece of his bottom lip in between his teeth as he patiently waited for an answer.

You wouldn’t ever turn Armin down.

“Yeah, I want to.” You confirmed.

There was zero time to react. Armin sighed in relief and reattached his lips to yours. He was still on top. To make himself more comfortable, Armin put one leg on each side of your hips to straddle you. You could feel how hard he had gotten, making a shiver go from the bottom of your neck and straight down. Your hands went to entangle themselves in his hair that was so soft, it felt as if you were touching nothing. Your nails accidentally scraped the skin of his scalp as you did so. A miniscule whine left Armin’s lungs as he helped himself to kiss at the pulse of your neck.

“I promise I won’t cum before you this time.” Armin stated. The both of you chuckled, smiling into each other.

Both of you began to strip each other of your top layers. Armin’s shirt had been removed, as well as yours and your bra. You took into account how toned he actually was. He was definitely on the leaner side, shoulders and biceps defined with muscle. His abdomen was divided into faint sections of four. Armin wasn’t necessarily gung-ho about training and being physically fit, but it was clear that whatever work he was putting in was paying off.

Bare from the chest down, Armin moved from kissing the sensitive spots on your neck to your collarbone. Then, he moved to give attention to each one of your breasts. He kissed one as he held the other, giving your nipples each an equal amount of pinches and gentle sucking. Armin made his way down your sternum, down your stomach, and met a dead end at your waistline. You still had your pants on.

“Can I taste you again?” He wanted to know. His fingers had already hooked into your belt loops.

You nodded your head in agreement, not even having to think about it. Armin’s lungs filled with excitement. He bit his lip to keep himself from smiling too much while he unbuttoned your pants and took them off for you. He began to tremble slightly from the anticipation of pleasuring you with something he knew you liked, something he was supposedly good at.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch Armin make himself comfortable between your thighs. He was on his stomach with his feet hanging off the side of the bed. Just for a moment, Armin paused to look back up at you. He wanted to see if there was any hesitation behind your eyes. If there was, that would be okay. But he was practically praying that there wasn’t. He gently wrapped his arms around your tights.

Armin took the kind smile you laid on your lips to be a go ahead, reading your mind perfectly. He helped himself down to give your clit two clear kisses, and began to lick ever so gently. The last thing you saw was the top of Armin’s blonde hair, his face tucked away. You closed your eyes and laid back to let Armin do his thing.

Armin’s hands dug into the meat of your thighs and his arms had tightened into a gentle hug once you began to wiggle and whimper under his tongue. He changed from giving your clit smooth licks, to licking through your pussy. He lapped at everything you had to offer like a pup to water on a hot day. Armin removed one hand to dip a single finger into you, leaving nothing untouched.

“So good.” He whispered.

Using his tongue and fingers, Armin created a rhythm that he could keep up with. He managed to work his way up to two fingers inside of you, teasing at the spot inside that had his name written all over it. Armin focused his tongue back to your clit, sucking and licking them interchangeably.

You were on cloud nine. This time around was better than the first. It would technically be Armin’s second time going down on anyone, but he performed like he knew what he was doing. You didn’t quite understand it, but if he was doing it this well then did it actually matter? You kept your noises to a minimum out of courtesy. A hand had made root in Armin’s hair, tugging at his locks. Armin’s one free hand reached for yours.

Enthralled in the pleasure he was giving, you had your eyes closed shut. Armin kept his wide open, unable to look at anything else. His vision tunneled from his job between your legs, to the sight of you squirming and huffing under his touch. Even before that fateful night in the tent, he had fantasized about pleasuring you in any way he could in any way you liked. Besides knowing what was outside of the walls, all Armin ever wanted was you.

A cord in your abdomen began to tighten and tighten. You knew you were coming close to an orgasm, but you didn’t want to just yet. You let Armin finger until you couldn’t take anymore. You tapped his shoulder.

“Stop, I-I don’t want to come yet.” You puffed.

Armin halted without comment. The corner of his mouth drew upwards in a shy smile. His eyes were swimming with lust, pupils blown out and dark. He used the back of his hand to quickly wipe his lips before glossing them back up your body. Armin kissed you. You could taste the faint tinge of yourself on his face and on his tongue.

A brief make out distracted Armin long enough for you to slip your hand in between your bodies and start messing with the button and zipper of his pants, which he had kept on. Armin gasped when your chilly hand found it’s way inside and around his cock. His mouth fell open with shaky sighs and moans as you began to work your hand up and down his shaft.

Armin was hard as stone. He was of decent thickness and length. Your core fluttered at the memory of how he filled and stretched you out so wonderfully. His cock flexed and twitched in your hand. You had only worked your wrist a few times up and a few times down, Armin was already panting and sweating.

“I wanna be inside you,” he huffed in your ear. You smiled into his shoulder. He almost sounded as if he was begging.

You released your grip to give Armin space so he could shimmy out of his pants. Once they were tossed to the side and he had settled comfortably on top of you, Armin gave you one deep kiss. His breath hitched inside his throat as he sunk himself inside of you. His whine grasped your attention. Your eyes flipped open to check on him. Your vision was met with the top of Armin’s blonde hair. His face looked down to where you both were connected.

“Are you okay?” You question.

Armin nodded. With his eyes closed, he took in a giant gulp of oxygen as he lowered himself onto his forearms. He was cautious not to put all of his weight onto you. Armin buried his face in the spot between your shoulder and neck. He spoke low, his voice sizzling in your ear.

“Forgot how tight you were.” He quietly confessed.

A little laugh escaped your lungs as he laid on top of you, chest to chest, as he pushed himself deeper. Your body recalled the way Armin filled you up. The stretch of him felt nice, a perfect fit and balance of length and size as if he had been molded just for you. Armin stayed still for a moment after making himself comfortable. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingertips pressing into his skin.

He moved his head so his nose touched yours. He wanted to be as close to you as he possibly could. Being literally inside of you almost wasn’t enough. You being sheathed around him was as close as he could ever get, so warm and so snug. Armin kept his composure, as he tried not to climax upon impact. He worked his hips slowly against you, impossible to restrain his breaths of satisfaction.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

With the compliment rolling off his tongue, Armin met his lips to yours. You embraced him tightly, holding him against you as you felt like you were floating. He took your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, his moans spilling into your mouth. They were low and breathless, just loud enough for only you to hear. His thrust increased, still slow and loving, but more emphasis was added as he pushed back up side of you.

As he did so, Armin realized that your bed was slightly unsteady. It rocked as he did. And somewhere in the screws of the frame was a rather annoying squeaking sound. It might have just been his ears playing tricks, but he swore it got louder as he kept going.

“Your bed is very noisy.” Armin commented, chuckling and slowing down his pace to cease the squeaking. You swallowed.

“No one will hear, I promise.” You said.

Armin had to catch his breath over what you were saying. He inhaled deeply again, getting a good whiff of your hair. Armin let his hips have a break, staying still at his last thrust upward. You felt the tip of his dick touching the particular spot you liked. Armin put his forehead to yours and looked you straight in the eye.

“Are you sure?” He asked. Armin looked deep into you, scanning for any amount of uncertainty.

A shiver went through your spine. Armin stared at you with an erotic gloss coating his eyes. It must be a signature of his. However, there was an icy focus to his irises. You saw an idea fly into his mind. His tone had changed, as did the rest of his aura. Everything had gone a shade darker, Armin being the only one taking up your entire vision. The world seemed to not exist outside of him being on top of you.

“Yes.” You cautiously replied. Whatever he was about to challenge you with, you accepted it.

Armin believed you. If there was no chance anyone would hear, then he didn’t see a point in trying to keep quiet. There was more privacy in a hotel room than there was behind a tapestry.

He leaned in for another kiss. Armin’s lips fell onto yours, haphazardly kissing you with no real pattern. Your tongues moved around each other recklessly. Armin pulled his hips all the way back, and snapped forward with little mercy. He repeated the same motion again, and again, and again. Your eyes clamped shut, seeing strange sparks of colors and shapes.

“Does this feel good? Hmm?” Armin panted in your ear, desperation entangled in his question. His breath was warm and rumbled as low as his voice could go. You nodded your head.

“K-Keep going. Don’t stop.” You confirmed, swallowing your encouraging words as Armin continued.

It was all Armin really needed to hear. He snaked both of his hands down your arms and to your hands, locking his fingers in between yours. Without a single que, your hands flopped to the top of your head, being pinned down by a weight on your palms. Armin melodically sighed. Lewd moans were exchanged in between each other as Armin began to fuck you threefold.

“I won’t stop, baby. I-I… I can’t stop.” Armin huffed pathetically.

Right now, his main focus was how well he fit buried deep inside of you. Armin swore he never had a stronger sense of belonging than here in this moment. He could feel the tip of his cock prodding at your soft walls. The way you squeezed around him had Armin crumbling around you. You smelled nice, as per usual. Armin could still smell traces of the ocean salt in your hair and on your skin, which was soft and supple as it rubbed up against him. Armin’s hands gripped yours tighter.

The sound of bodies hitting together could almost drown out the bothersome squeaking of your bed frame. You hardly paid attention to it. You were too consumed in the ecstasy Armin was putting down. You drank in every word he spoke. His trimmed hair below his beltline made perfect friction on your clit as Armin bore down hard when he thrusted into you. You were so full of him, anymore might be too much. You were already sensitive from his tongue lapping at you moments before. This was just enough to send you over the edge.

Armin freed your hands from above your head. Blood started to circulate back into your wrists. He then placed both of his hands on each side of your face, cradling you softly. Both of your eyes flipped open at the same time, directly looking at each other. Armin sheepishly smiled. It was impossible to look anywhere else. He held your face exactly where he wanted, maintaining eye contact as you fell closer and closer to coming undone. You held onto his shoulders, digging your nails into his warm skin.

You could feel your stomach tighten and the muscles in your core swell. You whispered how you were close, so close, so so close while Armin kept his fast pace. He let his hips go as they naturally could, not really having a specific rhythm.

“I’m gonna come,” You smaller voice was swept in the wave of Armin’s moans. He put his forehead to yours.

“I won’t until you do…” Armin exhaled.

Just a few more pumps into you, and Armin had you splintering from reality. A wash of relief finally crashed down. You throbbed around him. You knew he could feel you coming to orgasm. Armin’s hips wobble for one single second, a rather delirious laugh cracked from his throat. He could feel you drowning in your orgasm. You clenched around him, sucking and pulling under the waves with you.

Armin removed himself posthaste. Your head was still spinning and your consciousness was jaded. You sat up again on your elbows in time to watch Armin relieve himself right onto your stomach. Some white ropes had jumped all the way to your chest. His eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw hung open while he worked his wrist around his dick until he was satisfied.

Then, he flopped next to you on his back, his shoulder slightly over yours. You laid together in a thick fog of post-sex silence, catching your breaths and letting your brains reset. Your first coherent thought that came to mind was to clean Armin’s mess from your skin. Second, perhaps to bring Armin a glass of water. His face was beaten with red splotches as if he had run laps around the world. There was a thin shine of sweat to his forehead. You twisted the knob on your bedside lamp, and got up to do so.

“Where are you going?” Armin asked. Like a frog to a fly, his reflexes were quick. Before you could get too far, he lightly grabbed your hand.

“I’m going to clean up, and then bring you some water.” You stated with a smile, giving his hand a little squeeze.

Armin’s heart pinged. He smiled back at you, only because he was still too loopy to form a proper sentence. He watched you sashay away to your private bathroom, admiring the view of your naked backside. Once you had disappeared, Armin fell back onto your mattress. A puff of your smell wafted around him like an amorous security blanket. He inhaled deeply. If he snuggled into your blankets enough, perhaps your smell would rub on him too.

Armin nestled under your blanket and made himself comfortable. While he did so, he realized that there was still a significant amount of space left, even if you were laying down next to him. In Armin’s hotel bed, there was barely enough room to fit the both of you but you still managed to make it work.

“You know, your bed is a lot bigger than mine.” He commented.

You snorted from your spot in the bathroom. You had cleaned yourself off and thrown on a shirt you had. Then, you filled up a glass of water in the sink, took a few sips for yourself, and filled it back up again.

“Yeah, it’s bigger than my bed back home too. Actually, this entire room is about three times the size of my actual bedroom. I don’t even have a…”

You stopped talking at the sight of Armin completely passed out in your bed. He was literally awake and talking two seconds ago. His face was still flushed with pink, not as red anymore, and his breathing was still heavy. Armin was curled up on his side.

As quietly and as carefully as possible, you crawled up next to him and turned the light back out. Your vision adjusted to the darkness. You swore you could feel his heartbeat bang through the sheets. Holding onto that sound, you fell asleep not long after he did. -- thank you. reblogs and feedback are appreciated! arlertwitch © 2023. all rights reserved. do not translate or repost any works by @ambassadorarlert on any other platforms. violators will be prosecuted in accordance within the law.

#bye this took so long #armin imagine #armin arlert #armin arlert x reader #armin x y/n #armin x fem reader #armin x you #armin x reader #armin x afab reader #armin fic #armin smut #armin one shot #armin oneshot #attack on titan #heat waves #my writing

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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prev chapter

———

“Okay,” Will says, when they’re comfortably on the road. This early in the morning, Highway 17 is practically empty; nothing but sunny skies and clear air rushing through the open roof. The emptiness may also be attributed to the fact that it is a random Tuesday. “Pick a number between one and nine.”

“Uh, five.”

“Good choice, good choice.”

He opens the centre console, digging around Nico’s – well, and his, at this point – collection of CDs to find the right one. He makes a little noise of triumph when he finds it, blowing on the back and wiping it on his shirt before sliding it into the port.

“One half-assed polish isn’t gonna fix those scratches, Solace,” he teases.

“If you weren’t such an emo fuck, Playlist Five wouldn’t be so scratched.”

Nico laughs, conceding this round. Will looks inordinately pleased, nose scrunching along with his tiny smile even as Linkin Park starts blasting through the speakers, which he hates.

“Three songs ‘til Britney,” he grouches as Nico starts hollering along to Points of Authority. Nico shakes his head, still grinning – as if he didn’t make these playlists. If he is truly so miserable, he wouldn’t have put the song on at all.

(Nico knows, in the very back of his mind, that Will actually and truly cannot stand Linkin Park. To him, it’s not music at all. He has never been able to get into it, as much as he truly likes music of every genre. If Linkin Park is on this playlist, and they’re on more than one of the playlists Will has made specifically for their shared car rides, it’s because he cares about Nico more than he hates the band. Nico shoves this knowledge deep into the dustiest corners of his mind, because that’s more than he can afford to think about.)

The next couple hours pass by comfortably. There isn’t much to remark on the side of the road except the odd fruit stand, or farm advertising eggs and honey, so onward Nico drives. He keeps an eye on the odometer, but mostly trusts Will’s calculations. If he says they won’t need gas ‘til Anthony, wherever the hell that is, Nico believes him.

“Highway changes to the 98 through here,” Will says, nodding to the tiny sign that boasts nothing except Ft. Meade CITY LIMITS, right next to the giant banner half the size of the church it's attached to that reads, REPENT OR BURN.

Ah, Florida. Please one day change.

“Do I need to exit?”

“Nope, the road just changes to a different number.”

He eases off the gas as they approach the tiny town, watching carefully for state troopers. And, like, children, probably. So far he’s passed twelve gun ranges and one school, but whatever. He can have priorities, even if this garbage state doesn’t.

“Hm. 98 is a better number.”

“Absolutely not,” Will tells him, aghast. “17 is a prime number!”

“Ninety-eight is more fun to say. Also, prime numbers suck.”

“You take that back –”

Nico slides up his sunglasses, shaking his head fondly. Nerdiest nerd to ever nerd. He would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so endeared.

He presses back on the accelerator as they exit the town, turning up the music as Will’s rant ends. He shucks off his shoes – Feet off my goddamn dash, Solace – and curls up into his seat, burying himself in a book. Nico glances away from the road to try and read the title, but quickly gives up since the font is bright fucking purple, for some reason, and in some horrible looping shape that he knows will give him a migraine. All graphic designers should be in prison.

“Hey, there’s apparently a gator reserve forty-five minutes ahead.” Nico squints again at the book. Barely, he can make out “roadside” and “weird”. “‘Weird American Roadside Attractions’,” Will reads aloud, noticing Nico looking. “Such as a very nice and highly rated gator reserve –”

“No.”

“Road trip, Nico. Adventure.”

“I’m super happy to adventure away from living fucking dinosaurs, Solace.”

“Aw, come on, they’re kinda cute –”

“Two thousand pounds per square inch of jaw strength! You are the one who told me that!”

“You don’t think you could take one in a fight?”

Nico stares at his best friend incredulously. He’s got a thoughtful little frown on his face, looking at the sky as he contemplates. Nico notices, vaguely, that the shade of his irises is the exact same colour.

“No, I do not. Obviously.” He pauses. “You think you could take a fuckin’ gator?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“See, that’s crazy, because fifteen seconds ago I genuinely believed you were an intelligent person.”

“Do not lie to me and tell me you don’t have a list of animals you know you could take in a fight,” Will says, instead of rising to the bait. He waits, meeting Nico’s glare, eyebrows raised.

“An ostrich,” Nico admits, begrudgingly. “I feel like – one good punch to the throat –”

Will smiles smugly at him. “That’s what I thought.” He turns back to his book, fiddling with the corner of a page. “Also, ostriches are more closely related to dinosaurs than alligators. So. Check and mate, motherfucker.”

They pull into Anthony at around eleven, at pretty much exactly a quarter tank – just like Will predicted. He looks inordinately pleased about it, so Nico shoots off a quick prayer to the karma gods.

He trips on his way out of the Jeep. Nico smirks.

“I’m gonna go stretch my legs,” he says, unaware of Nico’s hand in his humbling. Nico waves him off, attention turned to the gas pump.

Annoyingly, as he pulls out his card and handles the pump, he remembers Will’s scrunched nose and pursed lips as he’d explained, when they were 16, how gas station pumps were frequently more germy than their toilets, and cleaned approximately one hundred percent less. Suddenly, his hand begins to feel grimey.

Twelve bags of chips, a gas station slushie, and a pair of clean hands later, Will is still nowhere to be found. Nico frowns, craning his neck to look around the tiny parking lot as if he somehow missed Will’s neon orange shirt the first time he looked. Still not catching sight of him, he walks hesitantly back to the Jeep, tucking his snacks away and biting his lip, contemplating. Will is both very fast and very easily distracted, but he has enough sense not to go too far in a random town five hours from home. If he sticks by the car and waits, Will’ll be back soon.

But, on the other hand, waiting is torture.

Easy decision, really.

He locks the door, hopes that no one will show up with a pair of wire cutters and a flathead screw driver, and sets off. The first thing he notices, and he adds it to his mental list of things to loudly complain about when Will is locked in the car with him, is that it is fucking sweltering. In the hours approaching the afternoon, the day has gone to pleasantly warm to so hot the air is actually thick with it, and he doesn’t have wind ripping through the open windows to cool him down. Plus, he’s wearing jeans, and for the first, and hopefully only, time in his life, he envies his friend’s cargo shorts.

The second thing he notices is that Anthony, Florida, is empty as shit. All the love in his heart to the people who call it home, but also, move, maybe. He’s hesitant to stray too far from the gas station, in case Will comes back and finds him gone, but there are no hills or anything. He can see quite far down the road. The only thing he sees is a possum starting a fight with a poor random guy – which, actually, is kind of fun to watch.

Perhaps he has judged Anthony too harshly.

“Nico!” shouts a voice, startling him. He whips around and finds Will, standing in the goddamn centre of the road, the dumbass, waving like a lunatic.

“There is no possible way I was going to miss you,” Nico informs him when he’s close enough. “You are approximately the height of the Washington monument. I could not miss you if I tried.”

“I wasn’t waving to get your attention, I was waving to shoo away the eagles that mistook you for a mouse.”

Nico kicks him in the shin. Will, well used to his violence, dodges, grinning, except in the act of hopping away from Nico’s dangerously hardy boots, he somehow wraps his foot around his own ankle and goes sprawling.

Nico smirks. “Who’s the short one now.”

Faster than he can even follow, Will’s hand darts out, wrapping around his ankle, and tugs, yanking him yelping on the asphalt next to him.

“Foul!”

“All’s fair in love and war, Neeks.”

Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up, Nico screams at the alarm bells blaring in his brain, he doesn’t mean it like that and you know it oh shit he’s looking this way quick look normal look normal –

“I can do war if that’s what you want, Solace,” he manages, honestly quite proud of himself for managing speech with approximately fourteen percent of his brain still functioning. Damn.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway.” He crawls to his feet, offering Nico a hand. He takes it, dutifully fighting the urge to pull Will down again, just to be an asshole. He’s cool like that, and most definitely being normal about the scrape of Will’s callused fingers against the inside of his forearm. “I found maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, and I need you to come look at it immediately.”

“Sick,” Nico says, immediately intrigued. He and Will have their differences, sure, but if there’s one thing they can agree on it’s their sense of humour.

He follows will down the road, passing the gas station again. (His car, thankfully, remains in one piece and beautifully not-robbed.) They dark across an empty intersection, walking across a yellowed lawn as they approach a run-down, patchy, one-storey bungalow with a rusted sign that reads: The Iron Works.

“Behold,” says Will gleefully, “the Abstract Iron Centaur.”

And behold, Nico does.

Gaping, he observes the structure standing proudly under the sign. Striding proudly, rather, its front legs bent to simulate movement, its human arms poised as if ready to strike. It wears a medieval knight’s helmet, and holds a rusted axe. The entire structure is a little taller than Will, and made of, presumably, iron, rusted into a light roan red.

“Abstract Iron Centaur,” Nico repeats, after several minutes of silence.

Will still looks delighted. “It was in my book. I had no idea what to expect and also I didn’t believe it was real. Isn’t it the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s…something.”

“We gotta take a picture, Neeks. I never want to forget this thing.”

Nico allows himself to be pulled, still somewhat bewildered. It’s not even the oddest thing he’s ever seen, it’s just – he has many questions, like, for example, why? How long has this creature existed? How long will it persist? Who created it? Why is it in Will’s dorky book? Does it house a soul?

“Okay, squish in, this camera is older than your elderly ass and doesn’t have a timer.”

The familiar jab breaks him out of his stupor. “Seven months older than you, fucker.”

“Geriatric.”

Without warning, Will crowds them under the Abstract Iron Centaur’s lifted arm, and then presses his widely grinning cheek right flush to Nico’s, raising his beat-up camera to the air.

Nico’s brain goes static.

“Say cheese!”

“Hnngh,” says Nico, as the camera blinds him.

Luckily for his continuously worsening blood pressure, Will pulls away the second he hears the click, shaking the ejected negative to help it develop, and Nico has a second to remind his lungs that they have a function, actually, get your shit together, I am not dying in fucking Anthony, Florida.

“You look like a dork!” Will says, delighted. “Look!”

Blinking at the photo shoved one sixteenth of an inch from his eyeballs, Nico indeed looks. The Abstract Iron Centaur looks more foreboding on camera, somehow, but Nico barely notices it – instead, he finds his gaze drawn to the beam so wide it forces Will’s eyes shut, and the dazed, dopey look on his own face; eyes wide, mouth dropped, slightly, and posture undeniably leaning into Will’s magnetism.

Humming to himself, Will slips his wallet out of (one of) the (many) pocket(s) of his shorts, tucking the photo inside it. Nico melts into a puddle of goo on the dead grass. His mortal soul escapes his body, descending rapidly. His atoms return to star dust. Et cetera.

“Oh, shit, we gotta go if we want to reach Georgia in good time.”

“Right,” says Nico, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “Let’s go.”

He absolutely does not haul ass to his car. He walks at a normal pace, for normal reasons, thoughts in a normal place.

“Back on the 75,” Will instructs as they peel out, sliding sunglasses on his nose. “We gotta scoot around town a bit to get to the entrance, but it won’t take long.”

“D’you know this place?” Nico asks, even though he doubts it. As far as he knows, Will was outside of Sarasota one time: in the move from Austin. He supposes his mother might have had a concert up here, or something, and unusually, let him tag along, but he doubts it.

“Nah, just memorised the map.”

Nico hides a smile. “Oh, of course.”

It’s all too easy to tease Will, but there was a reason he was valedictorian. There’s a reason for his many shining scholarship offers, his endless well of ridiculous facts pulled from nowhere. He is, genuinely, the smartest person Nico has ever met.

Even if he genuinely believes he can fight an alligator and win.

“Two hours ‘til we cross state lines,” Will says brightly, shouting slightly over the wind as they merge onto the highway. “And then on to infinity!”

“Onto infinity,” Nico agrees, matching his smile.

Already, he’s proved Nico wrong. They’re farther now than Will has been since he was seven, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he wants to slow down.

Privately, and quietly, Nico lets himself start to hope.

———

next chapter

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thefandomenchantress · 10 days

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So I know I’m a little late to the party on this one, but I wanna talk about the David MV.

I finally decided to watch that nearly three hour video on the Literature Girl Insane MV, (by @/1moreff-creator) and HOLY SHIT IT’S SO GOOD. I wish I watched it sooner and wonder why I didn’t, I watch almost exclusively 1+ hour videos about random topics I know nothing about, and now there’s one for something I care a lot about! Why didn’t I watch immediately?!?

But my lapse in sanity aside, it finally got me motivated enough to talk about the David MV!

…Except only the part about Ace because of course that’s all I want to talk about. 9 out of 10 of my posts are either about him or have him involved somehow.

Anyways! Here’s the part I find very interesting!

This is arguably where Ace is most relevant, and therefore it makes sense I want to talk about it today.

Now, first things first, the Roman numeral. V (five) is Ace’s Roman numeral, as assigned by the crossword. The line attached is:

“Right now, why do you go insane?”

Which definitely fits. Ace could easily be framed as going insane, because he has mental breakdowns at a worryingly high frequency. Him and Veronika (who this might also be referring to if color theory is to be believed) are basically assigned the role of being seen as mentally unhinged within the class.

(…Ever think about how weird it is that the title is Literature Girl Insane, implying the star of the MV, David, is going insane, yet Ace is the one getting called insane, possibly by David? I think that’s interesting. But let’s get back on track.)

As established by other Roman numerals, the words in the background when a numeral shows itself also apply the character attached to said numeral. This is most obviously shown in the line near the top of the photo.

“A cat has 9 additional lives”

This is also easily applicable to Ace, since he survived Nico’s murder attempt against all odds. If Eden and Teruko hadn’t just so happened to be on the 2nd floor and walked into the gym when they did, he would’ve died. While the actual methodology of Nico’s murder attempt is unknown, it’s also possible that him even surviving long enough for Teruko and Eden to find them was a miracle. Either way, it fits.

The last quote on-screen intrigues me the most. It’s a quote from Hamlet.

“I am but mad north-northwest. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hand saw.”

Now, first let’s look at just those words, without further context. It’s important we know what the words themselves mean before we do anything else. Let’s start with the definition of north-northwest, since that word is pretty important to the quote.

I’m sure most are familiar with north, east, south, and west. The four main directions on a compass. As well as Northeast, Southeast, Southwest, and Northwest. That splits the compass into eight directions, splitting the sections of north, east, south, and west in half.

Similarly, north-northwest is a direction that comes from splitting the compass into sixteen parts. It’s the half of the northwest section that’s closer to north.

Next, what the hell does “I know a hawk from a handsaw” mean? It’s almost half the quote, so it’s important we know.

Well…*extremely loud sigh* Shakespeare, as you know, was alive a very long time ago. As such, he writes in old-time-y English that’s hard to understand. And this quote has the misfortune of being something people argue over the translation of, at least as far as I could tell while researching.

Some people think Shakespeare meant a heronsaw, a type of bird, not a handsaw. Others think that no, he meant handsaw, but heron, in his time period, was also a common word for a tool that holds plaster/mortar/etc..

Either way, Shakespeare was probably referring to two types of birds, or two types of tools, which have key differences from one and other. I don’t think which one the DRDTdev thought was right really matters in this instance, since the quote makes sense either way. 15/16s of the time, Hamlet (the speaker of the quote) is sane and can tell two birds/tools apart.

The quote is, in summary, saying that Hamlet is mad only when it’s north-northwest, aka 1/16th of the time (I’m not sure if that somehow connects to there being 16 participants in the killing game, but I’m going to assume it doesn’t). The other 15/16s of the time, Hamlet is perfectly sane, thank you very much.

So, without context, this quote is saying that Ace is only insane 1/16th of the time. The rest of the time he’s sane.

Next, I think another important thing we have to do is take into account the whole screenshot as a whole. By that I mean we should not only look at each line individually, but how they relate to each other. In bold is the “why do you go insane?” Line, and to the left, in a font that blends more into the background, is the Hamlet line.

There is a contradiction of opinions here. One person says, “Why do you go insane?” while the other insists they’re only a little bit insane.

This could be referring to the opinions of David and Ace. After all, one could argue it was David underestimating Ace that led to his secret being revealed. David doesn’t bother being careful around Ace in the trial, despite Ace’s volatile nature. He piles suspicion onto Ace by saying it’s weird he didn’t see him on the second floor the night before the murder, even though it isn’t. After all:

Ace was in the gym. David was in the relaxation room. Those are on opposite sides of the floor, so of course David wouldn’t have seen Ace. He didn’t even have to walk anywhere close to the room Ace was in. But David saying this information like it’s weird and suspicious makes everyone else think it is.

David thinks: But what’s Ace gonna do about it? Somehow get the whole class on his side, even though almost everyone likes me more? Is everyone really going to trust the mentally unstable (one could say insane), dumb, cowardly jockey over me?

Yes, yes they will.

All this is to say, David, in the grand scheme of things, doesn’t really care about Ace throughout chapter two. He steals Nico’s secret from him, antagonizes him in the trial, and doesn’t care. Ace doesn’t matter. Ace, of all people, can’t be the one to ruin him. So who cares if Ace dislikes him? Ace is of no use to David, and Ace certainly isn’t smart enough to figure out David’s scheme. This is what David believes.

However, this leads to him not taking Ace’s volatile nature seriously enough, believing he is above the harm of someone like him. But hey, even a pawn can play a vital part in checkmating a king.

When David pisses off Ace, believing Ace can’t do anything besides get angry, yell, and make himself look more suspicious…That turns out to be a crucial mistake that ruins everything.

…Y’know, the irony of the class idiot being the one to beat the so-called master manipulator will never not be funny to me.

Anyways, we can sort of apply this to Hamlet, too. If Ace is Hamlet, since this is Hamlet’s line, and David is Claudius, his father-in-law, we do have a pretty good parallel.

Claudius, who secretly killed Hamlet’s father and then took his throne, is secretly not as righteous as he seems. However, Hamlet finds out about Claudius being the one who killed his father and seeks revenge. Claudius thinks Hamlet to be mad, but when Claudius isn’t around, Hamlet says, “But my uncle-father (Claudius) [is] deceived. I am but mad north-northwest. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hand saw.” Eventually, Hamlet kills Claudius. So in DRDT terms, Ace finds out about David’s manipulation, David is unaware of this, and Ace eventually kills David’s public persona. Obviously this is an extreme simplification of the plot, but still.

…Of course, there’s also a chance this contradiction of opinions isn’t about Ace and David specifically. After all, David isn’t the only one to boil Ace down to his core traits of “dumb, angry, overall not a well-adjusted individual”. The whole class does this, at least for the most part. This Hamlet quote could just be trying to say what Ace has been saying. That everyone sees him as a loudmouth, stupid, cowardly and nothing more, when in reality there’s more to him than that.

I might have gone a little overboard with this part…I got excited…Hopefully this all actually makes sense, I had to revise some of this post because it got ramble-y and overall pretty cluttered.

So yeah. Here’s my (very late) contribution to the David MV discussion. Here’s what I think Ace’s part means. If you want me to elaborate anywhere, feel free to tell me, or if you want to tell me your thoughts, I’d love to see that!

#danganronpa despair time #drdt #drdt spoilers #david chiem #ace markey #David MV #fun fact: i was originally going to make a post about how maybe ace could be the red in color theory #…before realizing HOW MUCH RED THERE IS #not so sure i could justify him being that prominent even if he did play a major part in david’s reveal

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intheorangebedroom · 1 year

Text

Pleased to meet you, chapter 15

Summary: You eventually made up your mind, but acting on it is a whole different story. Time is ticking on you. An afternoon at the museum with Will precipitates everything.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: So yeah, Plainsong became Flaming June... Don't ask! You'll see. If you'd like a song to go with this one, may I suggest Maps, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs? And if ever you're interested, @deadmantis (my favourite enabler) sent me an ask (thank you 🧡) that has allowed me to ramble discuss Reader & Benny's relationship further.

A million thank you Fanna my darling for making this gorgeous gif of those two kings. I am still giggly from it and I promise next time I won't ask on such short notice 🧡

@meandorla I don't know where I'd be without you... Thank you for your time, your help, your enthusiasm, your sharp understanding of them and their story. For bearing with me, and helping me find my way as I'm approaching the end of this story 🧡 Ily 🧡

Word count: 5.7k

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Chapter 15: Flaming June

Time is such an odd thing. A social construct, as they say.

And you have spent so much of it reading on the subject, from nebulous scientific essays in specialised publications that left you questioning your intellectual abilities, to popular articles in mainstream media, trying to understand how two days and three nights in an orange bedroom could have contained all of your past and your entire future.

How the fifteen years that followed could have lasted longer than ten life sentences.

How it violently collapsed in on itself as you walked into a dingy New Jersey bar, only to be propelled into an ascending spiral, gathering speed and momentum, yet still endlessly stretching on.

Monday morning finds you rested. With the heavy curtains blocking the early morning sun, for the first time in months, you’ve slept soundly until your alarm rung.

Benny snoring lightly next to you.

Rested but restless, hating yourself because you couldn’t find it in you to say “no” when he asked if he could stay the night at your place. It took his massive presence in your small apartment for you to realise you own only one pillow.

But he didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. In appearance unfazed, undeterred, cheerful and patient as always, even when you pushed away his hands under the sheets with a bullshit excuse.

How you’d wanted him to call you out on the obvious lies, confront you about your distance, the fact that you hardly ever let him fuck you anymore when you two used to get down to it in his brother’s pick-up parked on the side of the road.

Are your lies so expertly hidden, or is Benny so well-trained to your recurrent distance? The persistence of his affection just another blemish on your conscience, another blame for you to carry on your own. Besides, you have no right to wish for him to make this any easier for you, anyway.

When you set off for work, he left with you, to swing by his house before his morning run and when he pulled you in for one last hug, holding you flush against his firm, wide chest, you let him. You strengthened your hold, threading your fingers through his thick blond hair, incapable of holding back your words, laced with guilt and regret. “You’re so good, Benjamin.”

Time is ticking on you. As loud as the clock back in Rosie’s kitchen when you got up to leave. Relentless, no matter how hard you dig in your heels, how desperately you try to stall for more. One more day. One more night. One last kiss, one last fuck.

And now it’s 10am again. Forty-eight hours since you’d sat in Frankie’s truck with the unreasoned, remorseless desire to let him know that you’ve never stopped waiting, that you have always cared. That to you, he’s still the same. You could swear it’s been forty-eight years.

Twenty-four hours since you opened your door and let him in. Twenty-two since you’ve felt his lips on your neck, his skin etching your skin.

And how long exactly until you can’t pretend any longer that it never happened? That your thoughts are only of him; your sole concern the fate that awaits him when he goes back to work today?

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week.

And in the meantime, you hide in the cracks, seeking physical discomfort to lull your sadness to sleep.

The noise of the bookstore metallic shutters winding up that fills your brain like boulders made of lead tumbling down a cliff.

The sweltering atmosphere in the small, quaint shop when you get inside. The drop of sweat that rolls down your spine with every ample movement, until Suzanne walks in after lunch and turns on the antique AC unit that has only two positions: cold and freezing.

The rasp in your throat from the frigid, artificial air.

The unpleasant customers, the chatty ones and the obnoxious, the ones you hope will never visit again.

The burn in your lungs when you draw another drag, Fayçal’s words adding a guilty flavour to the tar aroma of the nicotine. “Tu fumes trop, cousine.”

The proximity of hot and smelly strangers' bodies on the 7pm bus.

And when you finally make it home, well, another day has passed. Time your unlikely ally. Monday an unexpected truce.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll act.

The plastic handles of your heavy grocery bag is cutting off the blood circulation in your fingers and your key jams in the front door when you try to unlock it, winded from the four floor climb.

The muffled ringtone of your phone has you cursing loudly at first, before your body stiffens at a sudden thought.

Rosie. Could it be Rosie? Tomorrow is Tuesday. Could she be reaching out to you? Hope rattles your heart in your chest, the grocery bag dropping to the floor when you grab your phone from the back pocket of your short denim overalls, your other hand frantically jiggling the key.

The lock gives as you read the caller ID on the screen.

Ironhead

Will doesn’t text. He calls. You hate it, speaking on the phone makes you uncomfortable, you need time to think over your words. But where Benny can be flexible, Will never caves. You text, he calls. And that’s the end of it.

However, you don’t hesitate before picking up, kicking the bag inside your apartment, groceries scattered and rolling on the carpeted floor.

“Allô?” you answer in French, locking the door behind you.

“I thought you were going to send me to voicemail there for a second,” he taunts. “How are you?”

“No, no, I’m only just getting home. What’s up?”

Will marks a pause, and you grimace at your poorly performed deflection.

“Right,” he answers in his measured drawl. “Calling about tomorrow. Shall we meet over there, or should I come to pick you up? Did you finally buy that car?”

Tomorrow.

Fuck.

—

The GPS promises an hour’s drive from your place to 1 East 70th Street, but you’ve lived here long enough to know that the constant traffic will nearly double that, even on an early Tuesday afternoon. Reaching the destination is only the first part of the adventure; finding a parking spot there is always the real challenge.

You’d be fine riding the subway but Will systematically insists that it’s faster this way. Deep down, you don’t really mind the drive. The New York City skyline appearing on the horizon of the New Jersey Turnpike is a spectacle you have yet to tire of. Growing up in Paris meant learning early on to make the best out of the busy, stressful capital, in particular by preserving your ability to marvel at its postcard landmarks.

Despite the increasing tension running through you since early April winding you up like a power line, you welcome this opportunity to spend the afternoon with Will, certain that his self-possessed, even demeanour will soothe and balance your own.

As the car takes the last U-turn before entering the Lincoln Tunnel, where more traffic awaits, you offer to give him cash for the toll, knowing full well he will turn it down.

“I choose the route, I pay the toll,” he tells you with a half smile. “You can pay for the first round.”

The midnight blue, tight polo he’s wearing darkens his eyes. Your gaze lingers affectionately on the large tattoos adorning his brawny forearms, before you become aware that you are trying to memorise them, and you push back the nagging thought that this might be the last time the two of you hang out together.

The tickets have been booked months in advance, Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection. One of your favourite pieces by Frederic Leighton, whose work you’ve only seen printed in books or badly reproduced on postcards, save for a painting in Orsay and one in the Tate Gallery in London.

Booked before your world was tipped off its axis, and you completely forgot about the exhibition.

Now, there’s a spring in your step when you get out of the car. You got dolled up, and enjoyed doing so, for the first time in what feels like a long while. Red lipstick and loose hair, you even put on a dress, sleeveless with a deep V-cut in the front and in the back, pretty knots tied over your shoulders. If this is a funeral, let it be one worth remembering.

You can barely pace yourself as you make your way through the mixed crowd of tourists and art enthusiasts across the Garden Court of the Frick. Will’s heavy boots resound on the marble flooring as he lengthens his strides to catch up with you. You step into the Oval Room like others walk into churches for mass, with reverent apprehension, devotion, and respect.

And then, it’s there.

Leighton’s masterpiece punches the air out of your lungs. You stare at it in stricken silence, mouth agape, Will standing behind you to your right, arms folded on his chest.

There’s a small, wistful smile on his lips, as he lets the painting bring him back to his college years and resurfacing lessons on academic style, Victorian era, aesthetic considerations and concepts. Seemingly unproductive yet essential hours spent debating perspectives and artists’ intents, the reminiscence an indulgence only you and your friendship can provide. A futile and necessary contentment only you can share with him.

You two have discussed it in the past, early in your relationship, when you had asked him if he had any regrets. He had none, he claimed with dignified resignation, save perhaps for the lack of recognition for what he had sacrificed to accomplish his duty.

After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he takes a step closer to you, and he’s about to share his thoughts when your absent expression stops him in his tracks. You’re standing a few inches from him, yet you are miles, or rather years away from the Oval Room.

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky.

The gown leaps out of its frame to grip at your throat, its colour louder than any copy you’ve ever seen in art catalogues, Wikipedia page or websites, and you recognise it instantly. This particular shade has been seared into your flesh and your soul. It’s your past and a lost promise. It is love and safety. It is desire and trust. It’s two worlds colliding on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July.

There’s a prickling sensation at the corner of your eyes. Will sucks his teeth in and his stare sharpens. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes another step closer to you, and whispers, “You alright, there?”

You run your hands over your arms to hide the shivers that won’t leave your skin. When you speak, it’s in a distant voice, your eyes locked on the rumpled gown hugging the model’s figure.

“You know, my grandparents had curtains just like that in their living-room,” you start. “My grandma was a seamstress. She had made them herself.”

Will nods in silence.

“Why couldn’t you stay with your grandfather, after she died?” he asks bluntly, albeit in a soft tone.

You love his forthrightness and have always appreciated his lack of pretence. It puts you at ease, and grants you the freedom to provide him, or not, with an answer.

“I did, for a couple of months, but he was too overwhelmed with grief. It was as though he couldn’t function anymore, without her. He got very depressed, very quickly, and, well, you know what happened next.”

Will knows, if not in the darkest details, about your difficult relationship with your mother, and your grandfather’s passing within two years of your grandmother’s death.

“What about your father? You never talk about him.”

“Ah yes,” you can’t keep the bitterness out of your scoff, “him. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father. Then went on and married another woman, who got pregnant, like, fifteen minutes later.”

You keep facing the painting, your spine a rigid metal rod, because you don’t think yourself capable of withholding his astonishment and the question you know he’ll ask next.

“You mean you have siblings?”

“No,” you reply a little too fiercely. “As far as I’m concerned I’m an only child. These people are not my family. I found out about my father’s death two weeks after they’d buried him.”

Behind you, Will exhales slowly, deeply, and you realise he’s standing closer to you than you thought.

“My father loved art,” he says, eventually. “His parents wanted him to learn what they called a ‘real trade’, but he never stopped reading and learning about it. Pretty sure I got it from him. And he certainly never objected when I said I wanted to study it.”

In turn, you sigh and let your hands fall to your sides.

You stand in silence side by side for a while longer, before he asks again. “So? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“It’s more,” you murmur.

“McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s,” you reply with a nod, drawing away from Flaming June.

—

Ever since you had landed in Newark, you’d been more than conflicted regarding the transient nature of your stay here. The part of you that hated to be away from Paris for longer than a summer vacation considered the move transitory. An internal countdown was permanently ticking in the back of your head towards the end of your three-year sabbatical, and you had failed - if not refused - to adjust to your new home in more ways than one. Your stubborn use of the metric system being just the comedic tip of the iceberg.

Yet you had had all your books and belongings shipped to your new address the very day you got the keys to your apartment. You had never even raised the subject with Rosie, let alone with Will or Benny, instead slipping deliberately into a comfortable routine to neutralise your homesickness.

Will had first taken you to the historical ale house, an East Village institution, after you had confided in him that you missed Europe as a whole. “It’s not that I feel French when I’m here,” you’d said, “I feel European. I can’t explain.” The Irish pub had been his answer, his own vision of good ol’ Europe, and the bar had quickly become a mandatory stop whenever you visited the city together.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the pub when you follow him in, but the wood chips on the floor, catching on the leather sole of your huaraches sandals, feel comfortingly familiar.

Will places the order at the bar while you take a sit at one of the round tables, glancing at the hanging wishbones covered in a hundred years worth of greasy dust, wondering, as always, if any of them belonged to a pilot, only this time you know yours has returned from his wars, if not entirely sound and safe.

Once the waiter has brought in four half pints of McSorley’s ale, you start sharing your impressions on the exhibition, digressing to the importance of the pre-Raphaelites avant-garde in the Victorian Era before the conversation naturally dies.

The strong ale has given you a pleasant buzz, you’re light-headed, but nicely so, and you prop your elbow on the thick wooden table to rest your face in your hand. Staring emptily at the floor, you’re unaware of Will’s gaze fixed on you. The man is twice your mass and it takes more than a pint of beer to get him remotely tipsy. His next question falls on your neck like a guillotine.

“So, where do you know Frankie from?”

Your cheek glued to your palm, you pivot your head on your arm to face him, eyes as wide as saucers giving away your alarm.

He leans back against the back of his chair, his forearms on his thighs, impassive, his steely blue eyes plunged into yours, and you feel like a field mouse that fell prey to a hawk.

You want to answer, you really do, but your teeth are stuck together and all you can do is frown, conceal the panic beneath pretend outrage, knowing all too well he will not let go. Sure enough, he seems to rethink and tilts his head to the side, sits up and leans forward over the table.

“Wait… maybe the better question is, when do you know Frankie from?”

Would it be so bad if it ended here? With Will? The man already knows more about you than his brother does, would the damage be greater if he knew it all? Panic turns to capitulation, and capitulation reshapes into relief.

The dead weight of weeks of dissimulation slowly slides off your shoulders. You straighten up, eventually, and look your friend in the eyes when you answer, in a flat tone, “1999.”

Whether he didn’t expect such an easy win or didn’t suspect such a long time, Will is visibly taken aback, and you ponder if you should speak first or wait for him to question you further. The man has been trained in interrogation techniques, you might want to take the lead in that conversation. Is he still your friend?

Your voice is hoarse, and the prickling sensation is swelling again under your eyelids, but your mind is clear. Deep inside your chest, a foreign feeling flares up, one that you fail to identity at first.

“We met at a party I went to with Rosie. It was in July. Just before he joined the Army. We-” your words get stuck in your dry throat, your eyes flicking down to your empty glasses, fuck this is harder than anything, “we spent the weekend together.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek, that you only register when it reaches your jaw and hangs there before it falls on your forearm. Anger. What you feel is anger.

“So it was just a one-off thing?” he prods.

More tears threaten to spill and you look upward to try to hold them back, breathing in through your nose and exhaling shakily through parted lips. When you look at him again, your face conveys so much pain and disillusion, he falls back against his chair, as if to avoid the ripples of your sadness.

“What do you think, William? Would you be here, asking me those questions, if it was just a one-off thing?”

You take in the embarrassment on his face when he hangs his head, running his tongue other his teeth.

“Yes,” he concedes. “So what happened?”

“We got separated by dumb fucking bad luck, is what happened. I lost his number, that’s the short version.” You let the implications sink in. “Does Benny… suspect anything?” you add in a small voice, hoping you don’t sound as despicable as you feel.

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Will answers slowly. “But he’s worried. Said you were growing distant.”

Tears are freely rolling down your cheeks, now, but your brow remains knitted in anger. You can’t shake that off, nor do you want to, because it might be the last thing keeping you upright.

Will’s voice is considerably softer when he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” you reply aggressively, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Oh you’re gonna hurt him,” he shoots back matter-of-factly, “I know you don’t want to, I believe you. But you will. I don’t know what you…” he trails off and reaches across the table to cover your hand with his, encircling your wrist with his strong fingers, giving it a hard squeeze as he continues in a tone of confidence.

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

A repressed sob shakes your chest and you pull your arm back to free your hand from his grip, so you can blow your nose, dry your cheeks, anything to give the illusion of composure, but he doesn’t let you.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but I can’t imagine you staying with my brother, now. So whether you leave him for his best friend, or you just leave him, he’s gonna hurt.”

Letting go of your hand, he leans back again, shrugging his bulky shoulders, “It’s gonna be rough, probably on all of us but, I mean, that’s life. It’s not on you. This clown is lucky he didn’t get his heart broken earlier.”

It’s not on you.

A couple of days ago, his words would have triggered the imperious need to go home and give up, once more take it out on yourself, smoke a pack of lung cancer sticks, get shitfaced and blackout.

So that you can keep soldiering on and show the world that you haven’t let your traumas and your losses define you.

Will moves to stop you from digging your nails in your forearm, but you recoil from his touch, angry tears spilling out.

“Hey,” he calls, his palm extended toward you, his brow knitted in concern, “hey, I mean it. It’s not your fault. It’s a shitty situation. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The image of Frankie’s cap on your countertop flashes through your mind, the ghost sensation of his hand spanning your body raising a new trail of goosebumps on your skin.

“I’m gonna need you to tell me that you’re hearing this,” he tries again. “It is not your fault.”

Slowly, his right hand reaches your forearm, grabbing it and pulling it gently away from your other arm. His grip on you is almost tender, and after a few seconds, you register the little circles his thumb is tracing on your skin.

“I hear you,” you articulate, eyes closed, before swallowing thickly, “I hear you,” you repeat, giving him the reassurance of eye contact.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re gonna do?”

The depth of his insightfulness causes your head to spin a little. Around you, the bar has filled up, people stepping in for drinks after a day of work, tourists with thick annotated guides on their tables, happy chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls covered with framed pictures of patrons from yesteryears, their solemn faces looking down on you.

“Yes,” you start, aware that speaking your plan out loud will give it substance and compel you to put it into motion, “I’m going to leave Benny.”

He gives you an encouraging nod, but his expression remains neutral, enabling you to continue, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I have to see Frankie, first, make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend.”

Will folds his arms on his chest and remains silent for an excruciatingly long moment, visibly weighing his next words. You know him well enough to understand that your willingness to shoulder the blame on your own forces his admiration. You’re not being entirely honest, however. Benny’s not really the one you want to protect. So when he speaks next, his words shoot through your body like a stray bullet.

“And where does that leave us?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper inaudibly under the cacophony of the pub, your throat closing up, and you clench your eyes shut to hold back a new wave of tears, hiding your face in your hand.

His heavy sigh sounds like defeat. He leans forward, hesitant, reaching for your hand once more, before changing his mind and sliding his napkin towards you across the table.

“Ok, let’s go, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, standing up and placing his hand on your shoulder.

“I need you to give me Frankie’s address, Will,” you say, dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tissue, removing small flakes of black mascara from your eyelids.

His grasp on your shoulder tightens.

“He’s up north. Come on, it’s late, I’ll drive you.”

—

Six months of probation, with weekly drug tests. Any refusal to comply and he’s welcome to seek employment elsewhere.

Frankie slams the front door of his house behind him and throws the keys onto the console table next to it. It’ll be six months until he can fly again, working as a mechanic under tech support supervision, with this asshole Giovanni who ratted him out bossing him around. Back to square one, and for what. A stupid, minor coke bust.

Storming into the open kitchen, he gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge, uncaps it and tosses the cap on the table, where it ricochets and falls on the tiled floor. The cold glass pressed against his right cheek does little to temper his mood, but he leaves it there for a minute, until the condensation runs down his hand and into his beard.

They had him drive over first thing Monday morning only to keep him waiting around all day, and have him come back again today to inform him of the conditions of his reinstatement, adding humiliation to injury. Well played.

He falls heavily on a kitchen chair, his blood boiling over the fast downward spin his life has recently taken, and the six months freshly added to his sixteen years of penance.

“You gotta get back on your game, pendejo. It stops now,” he mutters to the bottle in his hand.

Just because you’re not his doesn’t alter the fact that he doesn’t want you to bear witness to his fuck-ups. You’re here. You’re real.

Two days later, he has barely come down from the intoxicating sensation that came with the smoothness of your skin under his fingers, the weight of your breast in his hand, your scent between his lips, he could almost taste you as he ran his tongue over them, rushing back down the stairs.

And the elation, the vengeful rightfulness he felt, taking the passenger seat of the Mustang next to Benny. The thought ugly and rampant, stifling his lungs, envy, near hostility, as he glanced in his direction from under the brim of his hat with ill-concealed fury. Resentment over his happiness, simmering and threatening to choke him until he had to remind himself that he would never have found you again if it wasn’t for him. Wouldn’t even be alive, for that matter.

But fuck. You are his.

You chased his mouth with yours. He didn’t imagine that. Reached out for his skin, moved by the same frantic need that made him seek yours. Dug your nails in his arms and your scent on that pillow…

“FUCK!”

The chair crashes with a clatter onto the floor when he stands up.

The last time he experienced this level of irritation was on the field, calling out Pope for challenging Redfly’s orders while they were under enemy fire, and his fingers flex around nothing, around the ghost presence of a gun.

His doorbell jolts him out of the traumatic memory, his dark eyes flicking up to the front door. He’s in no mood to entertain visitors. He’ll sit this one out, he decides, falling still and silent, until your muffled voice comes in from outside, hesitant and apologetic.

“Frankie?”

He’s at the door in two steps and swings it open so forcefully your hair flies with the pull of air.

The first thing he sees is your dress, long, black and with a deep cleavage plunging down to your midriff, dragging his thoughts along the way, but when his eyes flicker back up to your face, dread flares up in his gut.

Small red spots linger tellingly around your swollen eyes, and there’s a shadow of wiped lipstick on your lips.

“What happened? Are you ok?” he rasps before noticing Will’s pickup doubled parked in the street behind you.

His frown deepens when his friend nods in his direction, starting the engine, and his puzzled gaze follows the vehicle until it turns right and disappears around the block.

You’re left standing here, on his doorstep, silently looking up at him, and he doesn’t know what to do with you.

“Come in,” he mumbles, stepping to the side to let you pass, but not enough that you won’t brush his arm with yours.

Seeing you in his home is disorienting, and guilt makes him wince, thinking about what he put you through two days ago.

You seem lost in the large open space, trying to decide between the living-room and the kitchen, so you turn around and face him, a few feet away from his standing, rigid figure. For a brief moment, he thinks you’ll ask him for help, but instead you take your purse and position it in front of you, so he takes a step back away from you.

“I have to talk to you,” you start in a breathy voice.

“What happened?” he asks again.

“Nothing happened, not like that,” you add. “Last Saturday I told Rosie I saw you again. And she won’t talk to me anymore,” you explain shakily. “And Will knows. We went to the city together today, and he asked… Well, anyway. He knows.“

“Surprised he didn’t find out before,” he grumbles.

“I think he’s suspected for a while.”

“Yea, sounds like him,” he agrees.

His understanding stands between you, an overwhelming reminder of their enduring friendship, of their history and their bond. You deflate, suddenly, fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag, averting your eyes when Frankie lifts off his cap and combs his fingers through his dark curls.

“Do you have any alcohol?” you ask.

He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?”

“Something strong. Whiskey. Do you have whiskey?”

“I’m not giving you alcohol. What do you want?”

His voice is loud and clear. It travels around every surface of the room until it comes crashing into your ears. It’s not a question, not really, it’s an injunction to decide, a desperate demand to set him on his next course, whatever it may be, and as your silence stretches between you, time slowly swirls into a million eternities.

“I want you,” you answer soberly, your shoulders sagging with the confession, and the sadness he had vowed to chase away forever ago in the orange bedroom dims your wide eyes. “I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

His frustration is palpable, it makes the air thrum around him. Everything in his body, in his posture, betrays his state of mind, from the nervous grind of his teeth to the hard grip of his fingers on his hip, from his corded neck to his glaring eyes.

He wants to tell you that it’s too late. That his fondness for Benny was irredeemably tarnished the minute you stepped into that bar with your hand wrapped in his, probably longer before that, at the very second Benny deluded himself into thinking he could ever give you what you needed.

That you are not to blame for his resentment. That your self-hatred and your culpability make him want to scream until his vocal cords snap. That he can shield you from it, if you only let him, please, let him protect you from it, and from the rest, from anything and everything.

“I wish you would let me decide,” he says as gently as he possibly can, but the restraint in his voice remains audible, and threatening.

And through it, you hear everything he cannot tell you. And you believe him, believe he would keep you safe, from the world and from yourself, that he holds that much power. But how can you possibly choose your own happiness over his?

Defeated, you let go of your bag, let it sway over your hip before it stills and hangs by your side.

“I am going to leave him. Tomorrow. I mean tonight,” you state. “And then I’ll go home.”

Frankie straightens up, raising to his full height, lips parted, hardly breathing, for the word has hit him in the chest.

“Home,” he repeats huskily.

“Home. Paris.” The familiar name catches in your throat like a large bone, and you clench your teeth with all of your strength, giving yourself the illusion of a will power you fear you don’t possess.

“No.”

You’ve never heard him speak this loud, and the determination in his voice makes you flinch, your bag falling on the tiles. What happens next unfolds so fast you don’t even think to recoil, your feet are riveted to the floor and all you do is watch, watch Frankie grab his cap and throw it in the room at random, watch him march towards you with heavy footsteps and stop abruptly, an inch short from your trembling body.

His right hand curls at his side, once, twice, before he reaches up and places it at the base of your neck, large and firm and burning. His thumb is on your pulse point, where your heart is leaping in a frantic, erratic thrum, the exposed expanse of your skin a siren song to his lips.

He stands so tall and solid, you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and times stills, at last, your whole world contained in the dark pools of his eyes. You feel so tiny under his palm, once again the urge to fit you inside him overthrows everything he has ever stood for.

“I’m so tired, Frankie,” you implore.

He lowers his face over yours, his lips brushing against your lips.

“Stay,” he says, and his entire life vacillates on the tip of his plea.

****

Bonus: Flaming June, Frederic, Lord Leighton (British, Scarborough 1830–1896 London), 1895. Oil on canvas, 119.1 × 119.1 cm. Museo de Arte de Ponce.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

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holdmecloser-gandydancer · 10 months

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It's happening again.

The one thing she'd hoped to prevent with her sacrifice, hoping to scrounge up enough time. The relics had all gone silent in past decade. Just as she had intended. She had been certain that she'd have enough time to find the relics, return the Light to its full power, enact her plan, and reunite with her family.

How foolish.

Her quest to obtain the Animus Bell was foolhardy at best. Taking a page out of Magnus's book. She knew it was a trap. The envelope appearing out of nowhere, dangling the relic over her head. It was a mistake going in. Now her joints hurt even more than they did when she was regularly running from the apocalypse and she has new nightmares to add to the rotation. Those technicolor freaks taunting her, telling her that someone in her memories, "That pudgy fellow in the blue jeans," personally handed them the relic, so doesn't this feel like he's the one punishing her and not them?

She'd done her best to wave those thoughts away. Buckle down, redouble her search efforts. Get help creating a floating base she can actually bring people to without frying their brains or broadcasting all her sins. But even that wasn't enough. She needed help, real help.

And she's getting it. But, even as the anticipation for their arrival makes it feel like she's got bees in her gut, she's haunted by the fact that the surface of the world is marred by another shiny, black pockmark.

It's happening again.

All the planning and merriment of the Midsummer Solstice, paired with the knowledge that now, thanks to the boys, she had three of the relics in her possession had put her at ease. Perhaps that was her biggest mistake, believing that somehow, someway, they'd be able to get the jump on the Hunger. But now they officially have a deadline.

Finding the Light in a year with all seven of them was hard enough most cycles. But after severing it in seven different ways, Lup gone, Davenport as good as gone, and Barry at odds with Lucretia, she has little confidence that they can do it. Half capacity and the boys don't even know what they're looking for. They don't know why.

Every single day she has to keep herself from fully inoculating them. It would make the process go so much faster.

It would stop the process because they would hate her.

It's happening again.

In the months before the redaction, everyone knew something was bothering her. She had reverted to her pre-mission self, holing up in her room for days on end, hardly talking to anyone. She took all her meals in her room, let dishes pile up. Everyone figured that, like all of them, she was taking the destruction of this plane, their new plane, hard. And she was. And by the time Lup went missing, it was already too late for anyone to try to stop her even if they had figured it out.

And she's isolating again. She can't hide it from anyone, but she does her best. If everyone is in training five and eight and ten hours a day, no one can notice she's hiding behind stacks and stacks of books in her office. Books that nobody on base could read anyway; the words would go swimming and she'd have to explain that.

Just one more.

They can do it. She can save everyone this time.

It's happening again.

She's not too proud to admit just how angry she was when she was out voted. Just because she wasn't dripping with PhDs somehow meant that her knowledge on science wasn't as valuable. The whole ship was at each other's throats for a while after that.

That's the thing with scientists, they always think they know best. That's what got them all in this mess. Made Lup vanish. Turned Barry against her. Got Maureen Miller killed. Turned Lucas Miller into a death fugitive. If, perhaps, any one of them had listened to her, they could all be fine. But no, nobody wanted to listen to Lucretia so now the apocalypse is on their doorstep once more.

It finally happened.

If Lucretia is being honest, she never dreamed they'd actually be able to stop the Hunger for good. By the time next Midsummer rolls around, everyone is fairly scattered. But, by some divine act, they all reconvene.

Perhaps calling Merle personally inviting everyone to his new home is hardly a divine act. It's tenuous. Taako can barely be in the same room as her. Barry doesn't look at her. Lup looks scared of her, but graciously tries to hide it. Davenport radiates disappointment still. Magnus and Merle do their best to lighten the atmosphere. Everyone is tense as the eclipse passes overhead. They all wait for a horrible cacophony and billions of crawling eyes.

None come. The eclipse passes and each one of them exhale a century long breath.

There's a first time for everything. Lucretia hopes that extends to forgiveness.

#reese writes #taz balance #Lucretia #the adventure zone balance #balance #apologies for any wonkyness with the formatting im posting from my phone dnfnsjnd #this is something just to clear out some covwebs because im in a relisten and i was just thinking about that midsummer solstice for luce

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camusscigarette · 6 months

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Violets for Roses:

Chapter I: Bleed yourself out for your sins to leak through

(There's a Prologue before the chapter!!!)

TW: Mentions of Child death, mentions of past Torture, mentions of Cannibalism, mentions of religious guilt and trauma, mentions of blood.

❦

As the sunlight streamed through the navy blue curtains, he awoke with a groan. His hand coming to rub the back of his neck, as if a knot was tied in his muscles. He couldn't recall the events of yesterday. He couldn't recall how he ended up in Bedelia's bed. In his boxers to say the least but he knew that the two of them hadn't shared the bed in a way he'd much more prefer to have done so.

Dragging himself out of bed, he only now noticed how cold his side was. Bedelia wasn't here. Normally she wasn't a morning person, that he knew because she never took any early morning sessions with anyone. Everything must be past 11 or 12 PM. It was to be exact 8:02. Where could she be?

He picked up his neatly folded suit and went to Bedelia's bathroom, where he stripped himself of his boxers and stepped into the shower. Letting the cold water hit his body like little needles, pricking his skin ever so gently. His thoughts went back to the letter and the picture he stumbled upon yesterday..maybe if he shuffled through more books he'd be lucky enough to find something.

His thoughts wandered back to the picture. The woman who resembled Bedelia with the child in hand. ‘1928’. It didn't make sense. But then again.. nothing did. The mere thought of Bedelia being alive at that time, pregnant as well..was something out of a world of delusions.

But he couldn't help but think about it. Bedelia. Pregnant? Odd yet.. beautiful. Her belly rounded with the purpose of creating a life. Her already ample breasts fuller with milk to feed the child that she grows inside of her womb, her sacred temple. Her hair healthier. A pregnancy glow that she would bathe in for the next 9 months. She'd be soft to the touch. Sensitive and moody. And her taste, oh her divine taste would change as well. A taste he sought to taste again. The thought of her falling pregnant with his child, his seed that fertilized her ova. It excited him more than he'd like to admit, that even his body reacted to his thoughts.

Switching the water back onto the hot setting he lets those thoughts go with a heavy groan as he leaned his forehead against the marble emerald green walls of the shower. Reaching a pinnacle of ecstacy, a release but no answers and no dreams fulfilled...

°•୨☽♡☾୧•°

Holy Trinity Church was a Russian Orthodox church in Baltimore.

A church Bedelia preferred to attend when it is mainly empty, and the only sounds were the sound of her heels. Click clacking against the marble floor as she walked towards the altar and kneeled on the steps that lead to it.

Her knees pressing against the hard edge of the little steps, her pants making it easier to kneel on the ground though her heals were a different story. But then again, bit of discomfort was nothing to her. She was used to the long and exhausting hours of ballet, where her point shoes would leak red from the overtime spent on her tippy toes while the classical music plays in the background and Madame Boleslava told them to repeat the number over and over again till she felt. satisfied enough with it.

She found herself staring at the golden crucifix, taking in the details of the Orthodox design. A sense of familiarity filling her aching soul as she took in everything. It's been eight years since she last payed the church a visit. Yet her eyes never left the crucifix, a look of anger and betrayal always evident in her eyes as she came to the church and knelt at the altar, preparing herself for confession. Exactly eight years ago she came to confess. Drunk and heartbroken when she found out that one of her daughters killed her other daughter. Her poor Antonia..her poor Natalya..But she was the one to blame. She abandoned Antonia. Just like she Abandoned Yelena. Only Natalya escaped..but a Widow can only be pushed to a certain limit. Can't she? She has lived for far too long to fight off the cruelty she faced. Dreykov was getting bored of her and he was no longer interested in a body to use. He needed weapons and far to many weapons he had..Far too many weapons he had on hand that it became easier to slip out .And she did. But at what cost?

She remembers crying out her prayer, her confession to that very same golden crucifix like it was yesterday..

“My Dearest Father in Heaven,” She began her prayer, her tone wobbly and unsure.

“In this world, a tapestry of shadows, I stand before you, my heart heavy with the lament of my existence. I, Bedelia Du Maurier, confess my sins to you, the keeper of all our souls. I have served a wicked purpose, to seduce and to kill, to feast upon the very essence of those I ensnare. In this tragedy of life, I beg for your mercy, a baptism to cleanse my ledger, to wash away the crimson stain from my hands.” She could feel her joined hands trembled as well as her lowerlip, the familiar burning sensation in her eyes.

“Oh, Lord, grant salvation to sinners like me, who have walked the path of darkness. I yearn for a reprieve from the temptations that whisper in my ear, urging me to end it all. But now, Father, my soul is adrift, and I can no longer muster the strength to care. Your abandonment weighs upon me like a leaden shroud, your punishment, the life you've chosen for me, has been cruel and relentless.” She hated begging, yet here she was. She hated confessing to such weak emotions for she has let herself fall for the only thing she was taught to avoid. Love.

“I weep for my lost daughter, taken from me by the hand of death, and for the two others, not by the Reaper's scythe but by the cruel, twisted existence I lead. The anger and rage inside me now overpower any semblance of repentance, and my confession turns to accusation. You, God, have forsaken me, and my soul screams in torment.” It came out more like a sob, in her drunken state, mind in a haze of despair and desolation, she could no longer keep any of her growing rage in. She has kept it in for far too long.

“In this hour of darkness, Father, I beseech you, show me a glimmer of your grace. Spare me from the abyss that threatens to consume me, and grant me the strength to endure the relentless storm that rages within and around me. May your mercy shine upon me once more, and may I find solace in your divine embrace.”

The memory itself sent a chill down her spine as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her index, middle and thumb fingers joined, she drew the cross. Forehead, chest, right , left, right and joined her hands once again where a small rosary made out of crimson red beads was held in and she began..

"Notre père qui est aux cieux.."

#bedelia du maurier #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal the cannibal #bedannibal #live love toxic marrieds #natasha romanoff #yelena belova #red room #black widow #canon? what is that #fanfiction #violets for roses

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coolcattime · 5 months

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By Firelight [Mianite Oneshot]

Written for Day 6 (Sleep/Party) of MCYT Yuri Week created by @mcyt-yuri-week

Relationships: Captain Capsize/Sonja Firefoxx

Characters: Sonja Firefoxx, Captain Capsize

In the quiet of firelight, Sonja watches over the newly revived Capsize. Her nighttime vigil quickly turns into a conversation when the pirate awakes and finds herself concerned about the fox’s lack of rest.

AO3 Link

Sonja still couldn't believe that she had actually done it, she'd revived Capsize, she was alive sleeping a couple feet away from her. She'd call it a miracle if it weren't for all the work she put in, the hours and the sickness and the stress. It had all meant something, it hadn't been for nothing. There was a certain level of giddiness that still hadn't worn off about that, a level of excitement both that she had actually proven everyone that had doubted she could revive her wrong and beyond that an unending relief that she'd saved her, that she'd righted the failure of all those years ago. Those feelings were pretty much all that were keeping her awake right now, keeping her watching the campfire as her eyes all too often flickered over to the sleeping pirate as if needing to check she hadn't just disappeared.

She did feel the need to stay awake, kind of unfortunate as exhaustion was quite quickly setting in, but she needed to keep watch. Capsize was very much in and out of consciousness, completely fine when she was awake, but she was exhausted in a way that Sonja supposed made sense given that was unable to rest as a spirit. And she imagined that coming back from the dead for the second, possibly the third time (though Sonja had no idea if that memory had really been Capsize’s, or just a manifested figment of her own doubt), had its toll physically, though thankfully it seemed like she was going to be able to sleep it off. Sleeping off a decade of death, including a good couple years of constant wakefulness as a spirit, the fact she was recovering as quickly as she was something Sonja could only attribute to the woman's stubbornness. The only downside was it was making the journey a lot slower on the return, since riding with an exhausted woman was slow. Their ride out had taken three days, but currently the return journey had taken eight with herself and Capsize due to finally get back tomorrow. Spark should've already arrived back, the man having volunteered after the first day to ride ahead, to let the others know they were all alive and well, which was a bigger announcement than such words typically would be.

So, Sonja was keeping watch at night. She didn't technically need to, the fire would keep away any monsters and it wasn't going to go out, but she felt more like she should. She'd spent all this time bringing her back, it couldn't help but play on her mind all the things that could go wrong while they still weren't quite home yet. She couldn’t quell the anxiety that something was going to go wrong, that if she went to sleep, Capsize wouldn’t be okay when she woke up. She knew it wasn’t something she should logically fear, but she couldn’t take her mind off the terrible possibilities. So, she sat staring into the flames, trying to ignore the creeping pangs of tiredness.

“You’re still awake, Fox?” Capsize sat up with a quiet groan, glad though a little concerned to see the other woman still awake. She’d grown used to waking up to find Sonja already awake. However, given the fact that morning didn’t seem close to dawning, she knew that the other woman hadn’t simply awoken, but rather that she hadn’t slept yet. She frowned at that thought. In her odd memories of being a spirit, fractured memories atop different memories, she remembered her barely resting. It hadn’t bothered her as a spirit, she liked the interactions they had while alone late at night, but now she was alive again and had a more concrete train of thought, and she couldn’t help but worry that she hadn’t seen her resting at all yet. "I think tomorrow will be even slower if you don't get at least some sleep."

"Hmm, no, I'm fine. Really, I'm just not tired," She tried to reassure, though Capsize certainly wasn't convinced. She knew what tiredness looked like on her friends. Now she was aware that things had changed, she'd been told by Conway, the older Sparklez, that it'd been ten years. Ten years since the rescue of Ianite, ten years since she met an early end. Though she questioned this a little as Fox certainly didn't look a decade older, it had been briefly explained that nearly everyone had experienced a slightly different gap in time in terms of actually lived experience and whether or not they'd aged, an explanation that made little sense to her, but she nodded along to anyway to save time. Yet despite however much time had passed, she could still tell when Fox was waning, wanting to sleep but denying it to herself.

"At least lie down. Might trick your brain into resting," She said, being careful to make it sound like a suggestion not an order. It was an odd little tick in her brain, continuously reminding herself that she wasn't on a mission anymore. Her goal had long since been complete, not by herself but it was completed nonetheless, so there wasn't a mission. It was a lot less relaxing than she thought it would be, but it had technically only been a few days for her, she assumed, or more hoped, that her mind would settle into it. But for now, she decided to instead let her mind worry about something else and it wasn't like she was against worrying about Sonja.

Sonja hesitated. She saw furrowed brows betraying the worry behind her smile. It almost felt funny, the person who had been dead a decade was worried about her, but it also felt... nice? Was that the word she was looking for? It was like the universe confirming that this was all real. But at the same time, she didn't want to relax. Or rather she felt like she shouldn't. Because somehow being relaxed would lead to this all not being real despite how illogical such a thought was. But Capsize smiled, and Sonja felt herself unable to say no to her. Well, just because she was going to lie down didn’t mean she had to sleep, or even put her out of her sight. So, she pulled her own bedroll over, not quite next to Capsize though close to it, especially as there was nothing around but the two of them and the campfire.

They lay face to face, both looking towards each other as the fire crackled in the background. In the quiet of the night, both couldn’t help but take in the differences in the other. Capsize noticed the subtle differences in Sonja’s appearance. It was clear to her that that she was a few years only, certainly not ten, but definitely a couple. Though that came less from her actually looking older and more that she just looked happier, far surer of herself. There were some physical differences, she noticed that the fur on her eyes and tail now had some patches lightly tinted purple, but overall, it was mostly just that she seemed more confident and happier with herself. In comparison, it was impossible for Sonja to not notice the changes in Capsize’s appearance. There was a scar across her neck where Furia had originally killed her, not quite fresh but far from faded. The parts of her body that had been out of focus in her spirit form were now tinted blue like a drowned. But it was undeniably still her. Her bronze skin, her freckles, the smaller faded scars on her face, they were all still there, still as they ever had been. It was really her, here and alive like she should be.

As both stared at the other, they realised just how close they were. Far closer than any two friends maybe should be, but neither woman moved away. There wasn’t a feeling of awkwardness as there might be if the two were truly just friends, but there was something there. Neither had ever really confronted it, and definitely weren’t ready too, but it definitely lingered in the night air as they realised this would be the last night that they spent alone like this.

“I’m really glad you’re the one who revived me, Fox,” Capsize said, her voice low as her tiredness began to come back. She supposed it wasn’t really like she could’ve had a preference, but here and now she could say she was happy it was her here rather than any of the others. She liked Conway, but she was glad he went ahead instead of Fox. In a way, she wondered if her happiness at her being the first person she saw when she came back was a betrayal, that maybe she should have wanted it to be Ianite, but she was genuinely happy that it was Sonja. She was glad that this could be sorted away from Ianite, away from whatever their connection was and now was going to be, and glad that she was still here with someone that she… felt happy with? She wasn’t quite sure of the best to describe it, it just felt right to be here with her.

“I’m glad that it worked, that you’re here,” She was still almost in disbelief. She wanted to say that she never doubted her own abilities, but that just wouldn’t be true. She’d forced herself to not to, to not listen to Martha or any of her own doubtful thoughts, but now it had worked she could admit that there had been so many times where she questioned and doubted. But looking at Capsize, she couldn’t find any doubt, other than the lingering anxiety of it somehow being reversed. That feeling she couldn’t shift, even though she was so close to her, even when it was so clear how alive she was, because now she was here alive, she couldn’t lose her again. “You’re alive again.”

“Yeah… I am…”

There was a beat of silence.

“Things have changed a lot since I died,” She said, her drowsy thoughts thinking through her odd memories of being a ghost alongside what she’d been told by Fox and Conway. There was the obvious, that Ianite had been freed, that there were a host of new people that had come from a completely different world, and the fact that Tom and Jordan were missing. However, it was also like the whole landscape had changed, though it was still recognisable there were new plants and animals, the sky was higher, and the underground deeper. It was exciting, there was so much for her to explore, to figure out, but she also couldn’t hide but worry about where she fit in now. This was a different world than the one she'd left, and maybe that meant something, was some kind of bad omen. Though, some of the new elements had already spread to her as the drowned zombies hadn’t really existed back then. “It’s gonna take a while to get used to it all.”

“I’ll help you with that. We’re all kind of getting used to it,” Sonja said, hoping to quell any nerves she had. And Capsize felt comfort in her words, in her smile. “When you’re ready, we’ll explore anything you want.”

“I’d like that. I… I think I’d like a pet, maybe. You lot always had some, I think it’d be nice,” Her words were getting slower. She genuinely did feel drained. She was recovering slowly from the sheer exhaustion of being in a living body again, but it was a process, especially as she’d never been great at sleeping when she was alive. It led to moments like this, where her body was tired, and her thoughts were becoming more difficult for her to follow making it difficult to say everything she wanted to say. Right now, she was mostly focused on the fact that she liked seeing the smile growing on Sonja’s face.

“Yeah! We could find you a parrot, complete the look,” She laughed. She’d look right with a parrot on her shoulder, just imagining it made Sonja smile. Capsize, pretty much asleep again, shook her head.

“No… I think I…” She looked at the ears on top of her friend’s head. “I’d like a fox… They’re cute…”

Her last few words were barely heard by the other woman as she dropped into sleep. Still, Sonja flushed bright red, though she chastised herself for doing so. She wasn’t thinking about her, she was clearly talking about the animals. Obviously it was just about the animals, as a ghost she'd seemed fascinated by them. It was just an animal she liked. Of course, Spark hadn’t had any explanation for why she was so interested in foxes, and they hadn’t been around before her death, but Sonja wrote that off. They were probably something in a story she liked, or something important in Ianitee culture. She’d ask her sometime, when she was more settled. She’d help her find a fox too, because seeing her smile made her heart flutter. But that didn’t mean anything either.

Neither was ready to say their feelings out loud. Neither was really sure what she felt for the other at this point in time. However, as Sonja finally managed to relax into sleep, the two women were close. When Capsize awoke the following morning, they were even closer, the two having cuddled together in their sleep. She didn’t move for quite a while, and when she did it was careful to not disturb the other woman, a smile on her face. Maybe neither was quite ready to say anything but, there was something between them. It didn’t need to be said out loud though, not yet anyway.

#mcytyuriweek2023 #sonja firefoxx #captain capsize #foxxsize #sonja firefoxx/captain capsize #mianite #mianite fanfiction #cat's fanfiction #mianite post time

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ravencromwell · 5 months

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All right, Shades of Magic fandom, let's talk about the Lila and Holland in White London au possibilities. Because there are some visceral similarities between those two consummate survivors: compare Lila's coin to the beggar boy and pursuit of the street rats in her second pov to Holland's attempt in the first Athos pov to get Beloc out of the king's cross-hairs when Kell arrives at the court by asking if there's somewhere he should take the boy (which Athos shoots down with unholy glee and a comment about Holland's defiance.) No matter how much Lila doesn't realize it, they share a brusque kind of mercy. And then, then! there's that fascinating interchange between she and Kell where she talks about the power of killing her father—loathing the mess and the blood, but liking! the power of having used her blade to defend herself! She straight up asks him if this is what magic feels like, and he thinks perhaps in White London; fuck, the aus practically write themselves.

The Barren Tide is Holland Vosijk's respite in Grey London. Oh, he's pulled to the Stone's Throw as much as the spoiled princeling, but on those rare occasions the Danes put some slack into the leash of their pet Antari and don't order his return the instant his business is complete, he can do without Kell Maresh spoiling his solitude. (Astrid and Athos know their craft well: to let him tarry an hour in a world they do not taint makes the binding chafe all the more when he returns. But he can no more resist an hour of pretend than any other slave.)

On the first of these excursions, he discovered the Tide, following foreign sailors to find a place where none would care if he swore in Makt with the polyglot of languages on display. He returned when he realized men could die around them and never disturb these Grey-worlders fascination with their drinks—it's a practicality that reeks of his London, after all. And a year or two before the series, he's sitting on a stool when a girl with an impressive array of knives sits beside him. They say very little, but he notices—as Tieren did—the curious circumstance of her eye. Asks her how it happened, in those short, carefully clipped sentences of his (I love that the longest sentence we here him speak in English is eight words within this first book—this is a man who has learned to speak the language with precision because he won't have the Red Londoners looking down on White, but doesn't love it as the Maresh's do.) But of course, Lila knows nothing of the accident's origins, and he would leave it be when she departs save that when he looks in his pocket, she has taken his token.

Oh, the Danes will make merry over their Antari being robbed by a Grey Londoner. He had been so fixated on the ludicrous idea that an Antari might have sprung from this magicless place—on the odd shiver of something like power around this girl with her sharp-edged grin he had gotten careless. (As I said, I've only finished Darker, but if the clues aren't being laid for Antari Lila, I'll eat my hat—she appeared in different! places than Kell, for goodness sake Kell sweetie wake up and smell the magic.)

It's not hard to find her on the docks (Powell, after all, is a drunk and far less kind or discrete than Barron. So he waits for her a few hours later when she slips onto that wreck of a ship and he slits her throat, over and done before she can realize he is there. And then he waits for her to die so he can take back his token and go home. Only, it is very hard to kill an Antari.

When she lingers far longer than a mortal should, he knows he was right all along. So he whispers the command to heal and wraps both their fingers around the token and takes her home.

Once she is there—_two Antari in White London, a feat not seen in any London for generations!—, he explains this new reality in that low, even voice of his. They have to keep her mind intact—no unthinking soul can use the blood commands after all—but how much autonomy she has—whether the Danes use their bindings or not—depends on how willingly she serves. And Lila Bard, who always wanted to be a pirate, is a thief and a consummate liar, looks at that brand on his chest and how it goes all the way to his back and decides she will lie and lie through her teeth until she can find a way to. Not go back to Grey London, but red, red doesn't sound half bad at all. She'll slit all their throats, Holland Vosijk and the Danes because she is Lila Bard who prays to none but herself and lives on her wits.

Well, maybe not Vosijk. Maybe. He's a good teacher after all. (Holy shit y'all Holland legit loves! to teach. There's this passage in Darker where Kell is using air for an attack and he literally brings the whole proceeding to a halt to say that Kell should "choose your elements more precisely. Air cannot be made sharp. Here, watch." Man is not just goading Kell, he's in his _element, teaching about magic!) Just imagine him with "I am a fast learner." Lila Bard for a protege.

Oh, oh I have so many ideas for this! How she first meets Kell: when Holland is allowed to take her to Red London in the second or third month. He turns his back for _one _instant to flirt with Rhy, laying groundwork for the stone and she's _gone. She's slipped off to corner Kell, pushes him up against a palace wall and says: "So, magic boy. Tell me about soul bonds." And Kell, flustered cinnamon roll, can't decide if he should be unnerved or this's the hottest thing that's ever happened to him. They talk, for nearly an hour, about magic, the Danes, Holland. And when Holland finally finds her, with that slight furrowing of his brows that's the only signal of fury he'll give and asks her, still in that eerily even voice if she understands what the Danes will do if they learn she tried to run away, she looks up at him, shameless and unrepentant and says: "Then don't tell unless you're asked. Besides, I wasn't running away. Just seeing if you're a liar. But Magic Boy says soul bonds are real, and the guards really don't have a choice when their eyes go blank like that. He's bloody stupid you know. No one being mind-controlled's going to be inclined to go above and beyond their job."

And Holland wants a drink, because he can just see the heart eyes the spoiled princeling is giving this wild, mad girl he's stumbled upon—not _his girl, because everyone Holland cares for dies, but an Antari he likes a hell of a lot more than Kell Maresh. Oh, book 1 could go in some fascinating directions!

But mostly, I'm just imagining Holland having someone to talk to, as antagonism slowly! blooms into alliance. Someone to practice his English on, but more, someone with the kind of pragmatism to look at death and bleakness and shed her tears but then clear her throat and get on with the world. But also someone with _fire. It's so clear that by the beginning of Darker, Holland Vosijk is exhausted. Lila is so brash and brave and full of vibrancy—she picks Kell up at his lowest points—and fuck, Holland and White London deserve to have a taste of that hope, too. He deserves to have someone to tell the story of his king to (because yes, I know the vague back-story outlines from being unafraid of spoilers) , to tell the story of his world to who will actually give a damn.

#Holland Vosijk #Lila Bard #ADOSM #Shades of Magic #(honestly I can't believe the fandom isn't crawling with this particular AU.)

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dollarbin · 4 months

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Shakey Sundays #1:

Neil Young's Neil Young

My buddy Greg asked me last weekend, very earnestly, why Neil Young? Why is he your favorite artist? Why?

Greg likes Neil. But he doesn't own 38 different Neil records which are what he'd grab, along with his kids and, I guess, the cat, if the house was on fire; nor has he temporarily and blissfully lost all sense of hearing after seeing Neil in concert eight glorious times, once driving 7 hours each way on a work night to do so; nor did he sing each of his safe-from-the-fire kids to psychedelic sleep every night of their childhoods with a steady diet of Powderfinger (my son always insisted the first line was "look out Momma, there's a white bird coming up the river"; if I sang boat instead of bird he'd sit up in bed, his doll Carson cradled in his arms, and howl in indignation), Lost in Space and Little Wing.

(By the way, that fire scenario really happened: long ago, when the kids were still little and there was no room whatsoever left in our tiny home, all my records were stored in a family cabin in the woods; one time I watched the backside of the ridge behind that cabin going up in flames and then rushed home to get everyone, and all of my Neil, into the car so we could get the hell out of there. Everyone/thing made it out just fine.)

In other words, Greg's not me. Plus, he grew up a Pearl Jam guy so we were listening to Mirror Ball as a common ground of sorts when the question, Why Neil Young?, was asked. At that point Neil was hollering about the place called downtown, where the hippies all go, so my first, slightly inebriated, explanation - "dude, I don't know, he's just the best" - didn't really fly. After all, the hippies were dancing the Charleston; they were doing the limbo.

Greg's question is a good one. What attribute can you insert after the statement "Neil Young is the best _____" that adequately describes his odd and supreme genius?

"Poet" doesn't work. Sure, Neil can write about roads stretching out like healthy veins and wild gift horses that strain the reins, but he can also dedicate a ten minute song entirely to describing one person's surplus of mashed potatoes.

Nor can you get away with "he's the best songwriter" when he's released at least 6 different versions of the song Dance, Dance, Dance and much of his oeuvre from the past 10 years spews hot, Promise of the Real sized chunks.

Even Neil's newest robot will probably concur: there isn't any single thing that Young is the stand-alone-best at. (Well, maybe he is the best at screaming into his guitar's pickups...)

And yet, for me, the truth has never been in doubt since I first heard Side 2 of On the Beach over thirty years ago: Neil Young is, and always will be, my favorite musician.

So I think it's about time this blog started wrestling with Neil "Shakey" Young himself. That's why I'm kicking off this weekend with the first of many Shakey Sundays: I'm gonna write about every one of Neil's studio albums, in order.

Those of you who only show up to see if I have more to say about John Darnielle's cooking skills: relax. I'll continue to post Dollar Bin posts on other artists alongside this new project. I promise. But be warned, Young currently has 45 studio albums to his name and I have a ton to say about all of them. So this will take awhile.

I'm not making any promises of the real here: I'll surely take some Sundays off, these posts will often appear, like this one, in truly Shakey fashion, on the wrong day of the week, and I may keel over or get a life before I ever write about Storytone or Fork in the Road. But it's time to give this Neil Young thing a shot, a shot that will ring all around the border, like a venom in the sky. Will we make it? Hey, who knows where or when. But let the Dollar Bin's Shakey Sundays begin.

Here we go:

Neil Young did not yet know how to be NEIL YOUNG in 1968. When putting together his debut solo album he:

Overdubbed instruments and vocals alike instead of leaving everything as live and raw as an octopus that's just been tossed up On The Beach;

Brought in ace session musicians and back up vocalists instead of the wandering cast of reckless, drunken fools who he's been working with ever since;

Boxed up (nearly) every raggedy edge of his sound into tiny, bite-sized morsels instead of pummeling us into submission;

Bounced around from one real studio to the next over three months instead of doing it all in a barn or in front of a crackling fire in the night;

Waffled between, and deferred to, three different producers instead of ordering everyone around like they were his private army of Jawas; and finally,

He recorded while sober.

And yet the end result is a lovely, under-appreciated record, one you're fairly likely to pick up in any Dollar Bin to this day. I suspect a lot of casual collectors have bought Neil Young in the last 55 years based on the twin false assumptions that Joni Mitchell painted the cover (she didn't) and that it'll sound, you know, like Heart of Gold. Lucky for you, those buyers listened to the album once, understood none of it, then chucked it. So go get it already.

I remember picking up my own copy for a buck or two. It was the summer of 1992 and I had a bus ticket to take me from my grandmother's house in North San Diego all the way to my buddy Ned's parent's house in Coronado. I was 16 and had the day off from my summer camp job. Every cent of my huge $46/week salary was in my pocket and I had zero bills to pay nor any responsibilities to speak of. That sounds so awesome.

Anyway, there I was on the bus, feeling groovy. I'm not too spontaneous a guy but I saw a record store along the way and got out; there was yet another shop across the street. Encinitas, CA, was a cool place to be 30+ years ago; today I'm sure those store fronts are both dedicated to the kind of high end vegan yoga wear I'd need to take out a home loan to get into. But oh boy, just imagine how good I'd look...

Neil Young was included in my Dollar Bin haul from that afternoon, as was Time Fades Away. Who knows what else; who knows why I remember any of this.

Then again, I know exactly why I remember this: it was one of the funnest days of my life. I showed up at Ned's a few hours later and showed off my new records to a pretty big swath of 16 year old boys. No one was impressed; at that point Neil's only real claim to fame with grungy white kids was that Sonic Youth had opened for Neil the previous year. No one really cared about Sonic Youth; they only cared that Nirvana had once opened for Sonic Youth.

Poor Kurt was still alive and well at that point; he was the most famous musician on the planet. Everyone wanted to talk about him, not speculate with me about the fact that one single song seemed to take up nearly all of Neil Young's B Side.

So, instead of talking about Shakey, we spent the rest of the day, and night, driving from one 7-11 to another all over San Diego county, hunting for the most mythical of Slurpee flavors: Cinnabomb. That's a quest that I suspect a lot of 16 year old boys could still passionately get behind. Sadly, we never found Cinnabomb, but I did learn how to jump out of Ned's Vanagon with everyone else at red lights and make a lap around the car while screaming.

Good times. No, Great Times.

At that point I liked Neil but was still a year away from lifelong devotion. In a future post about Weld (uh oh, maybe I will need to do all the live records too?) I'll describe what it was like seeing him live for the first time a year earlier; I think it permanently altered the shape of my face. But I was too young to really know it yet.

After 31 years of pretty regular listening to Neil's debut, I'd argue that it demonstrates just how many different paths were open to him as he transitioned away from what was essentially a big deal boy band, Buffalo Springfield.

Neil Young opens with The Emperor of Wyoming, one of the most unique tracks Young's ever produced. As the strings play toss with Neil's slick guitars, opening a comfortable prairie scene to the sun, the wind and to our cheerful gazing eyes, we're given the immediate sense that Young could have wound up becoming a proper musician: scoring films, producing for others, you know, making music for normal people.

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Missing entirely from the track is any sense of underlying menace, and menace is always a hallmark of Young's best work. Rather, it sounds as though the fine people of Wyoming are all holding hands and working together to build their Emperor a lovely barn, a barn no one will ever convert into a recording studio. Rather, everyone will have access; the people's grain will be safe and the Emperor will bestow handfuls of flowers upon every last one.

It's an instrumental track, and how many of those are on all 45 of Neil's albums? There's all of Dead Man, of course, but that's a soundtrack album. Side 2 of Neil Young opens with another instrumental, as well, one that he seemingly had absolutely nothing to do with. And I think that's it! Neil put this great track together, then never made music like this ever again. Wow.

But there's a back story of course: I think The Emperor of Wyoming is a sequel of sorts to a track Young didn't release, in his classic, mercurial fashion, for another 40+ years. Take a listen to Slowly Burning, recorded under the Buffalo Springfield moniker a year earlier. In actuality it's Young in the studio with session musicians, teaching himself how to make beauty.

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Next up on Neil Young is The Loner, and we start to hear the Neil Young we know. There's plenty of that menace I was talking about in the song's titular character: this guy is watching you, probably right now, and if you get off the train at your station alone, he'll know that you are.

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But Neil wasn't ready to unleash such menace sonically: every sense of the chaos he'd tapped into on Mr Soul a year and half earlier is immediately strangled off on The Longer, leaving room for full strings. Young was ready to sing about creeps. But he had not yet decided to sound like one.

The drums suck on this track; the guy responsible would go off and found the band Poco, together with the album's primary bass player, Jim Messina, who is the sole member of Buffalo Springfield that Young welcomed into this project (and Messina was barely a member of the band, only playing on their last record). My famous brother will probably soon tell me that Poco is a a big deal band I ought to get into. He's wrong; I know this even though I have never listened to a Poco record; I simply have intuited that they are un poco terrible.

But back to Buffalo Springfield. I debated starting this entire project with their first record. After all, that's the first thing Neil properly released. That record is great for a lot of reasons. For one thing, it demonstrates that Stephen Stills, at least for a moment, didn't suck. But Neil Young is where we're starting!

The most important hold-over from the Springfield era on this record is producer and pianist Jack Nitzsche, one of Neil Young's three outside producers. Nitzsche is a figure of significant folklore: he's like Phil Spector's mini-me: almost as prolific, almost as genius, almost as nuts. There'll be more to say about Jack on future Shakey Sundays. For now, suffice it to say that he was once arrested for chasing his, and Neil's, former lady friend, Carrie Snodgrass, around her home with a handgun. And then, years later, he and Snodgrass got back together.

Nitzsche seems responsible for much of the greatness within the very best song on Neil Young, The Old Laughing Lady. Every version Neil's ever done of the song is wonderful. He hypnotized himself and every one else present with his coffee house version, busked it incognito on an Amsterdam street corner, rewrote it almost entirely for his 76 acoustic tour, complete with train effects, and laid it down in isolated, after hours perfection during the credits of his otherwise dull concert film Heart of Gold. Next up I hope there's a children's choir involved, singing through his vocoder.

Neil Young's studio take of Old Laughing Lady is a masterpiece. Nitzsche's piano lines are subtle and deft; his production corrects the amateur flourishes that undercut the previous year's Broken Arrow: everything is dense and sparse at once, and the backing vocals, led by the incomparable Merry Clayton a year before she laid down some of the best vocals in any rock song ever on Gimme Shelter, are a surging, moaning pulse that's, once again, unlike anything else Neil would ever put on tape.

But arguably the best thing of all on the song is the bass line. Take a listen.

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That's not Jim Messina. It's Carole Kaye, the only female member of Phil Spector's studio band, later known as The Wrecking Crew. Light years ahead of her time, Kaye is responsible for a bunch of the best notes in all the 60's. She's the bass player on Pet Sounds and Smile; her playing there reset the entire way Paul McCartney played bass. She's on La Bamba, I Hear a Symphony and Love's Forever Changes, plus hundreds of other songs we all know from the late 50's and 60's.

So why don't we talk about her all the time? Sexism people, sexism. The poor woman was abused by her music teacher when she was 13 years old and wound up marrying him and having his child at age 16. Somehow she rose above this all and broke just about every barrier you can imagine in the studio. And good for her: she bailed on the whole hideous scene two years after playing on Neil Young. Now the internet is filled with sweet images of her like this one:

But why doesn't she play on all of Neil Young? After all, she was in the sessions a year earlier that produced Expecting to Fly and Slowly Burning.

I'm guessing that a) she was too expensive for Neil (she once claimed, without bravado, that she made more as a session musician than she would if she were President of the United States), and b) Neil was already realizing that he's happiest and most successful when surrounded by lesser musicians. No offense Jim Messina, but you didn't freak Neil out with your mad skills. Carole Kaye did.

Much of the rest of the album is filler, stuff Young wrote to flesh out the record and stuff he largely has not returned to since. But most of that filler is great.

Take I've Been Waiting For You. If you set aside Young's uptight, anodyne vocals and the fact that this song is little more than a chorus and a guitar riff, you'll discover that Neil was well on his way to Prince-like studio skills. He stacks up his own organ, piano and guitars atop drums that don't suck. The whole thing, even the unfunny Ha's! in the intro, swings.

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But we've got to end this first Shakey Sunday by taking note of the most important relationship Young began during the record. Indeed he says it was one of the most important relationships in his entire life. Supposedly, Neil was hitchhiking in Topanga Canyon at some point in 68 when a guy even crazier than him, David Briggs, picked him up. I guess we'll buy into that story and wonder if we would have stopped for Neil in 1968. Before you jump to any conclusions, remember what he looked like at that point.

I don't know about you, but I'd have left his ass on the side of the road.

Briggs had no real qualifications for producing Young or anyone else at the time. But he quickly supplanted both Nitzsche and Ry Cooder in the production booth and helped Neil make more than half of Neil Young. Briggs had exactly what Neil was looking for at the time, and he's still looking for it now: sublime amateurism, both from himself and from his contributors.

Maybe Briggs taught Neil how to run around the car screaming at red lights during their first drive together; maybe not. But either way, he made Neil happy, and he started to get him truly comfortable in front of a microphone for the first time.

Thank God they found one another. Yes, some of what they made on Neil Young is mediocre for Young, and the album's never-ending final track, Last Trip To Tulsa, is one of my least favorite Neil Young songs (except when the Stray Gators are tearing it into wonderful pieces), but most of the best things we'll talk about in these upcoming posts came from the partnership between Young and Briggs.

And so I hope you're out there right now with a similarly sweet partner of any kind, digging your Shakey Sunday.

#Youtube #neil young #shakey sundays #stephen stills still sucks #carole kaye #paul mccartney #the beach boys #david briggs #jack nitzsche

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