#I think that’s why I’m so worked up over my fic’s title: just the anxiety from this impending appointment finding one otherwise tiny issue

[peaches2217]

Two things:

I FINALLY GOT AN ESTIMATE AND EVEN IF I HAVE TO PAY ENTIRELY OUT OF POCKET I CAN AFFORD AT LEAST THIS FIRST VISIT! Thank you Planned Parenthood 😭😭😭 (They knock a good chunk off of your total if you’re uninsured, so that’s the price that’s on display for me right now while they verify my insurance information! Hopefully it’s even cheaper… fingers crossed!!)

I still don’t know what I wanna call my newest fic. I went ahead and published it with what felt like a relevant title because I had it ready to go and figured I could always change the title later, but now there’s a tiny voice in my head screaming “You picked the worst possible title, now no one’s gonna bother reading it and those who DO read it will hate it” and like? Silenzio Bruno, I’ve never hated a fic based on title alone, I don’t think many people truly care what it’s called 😭 That said, if it IS bad or offensive or anything of the sort, please don’t hesitate to call me out! Worst case scenario I can just revert back to its working title and leave it at that. It’ll be a few days (hopefully not more) before I post the first proper chapter, so surely by then I’ll have my mind made up!

[tkwrites]

Summer Decisions - Quinn Hughes x ofc

gif from gabelandeskog

Title: Summer Decisions - Quinn Hughes x ofc

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah Roberts

Warnings: Highly emotional, angst. mild fighting, lots of anxiety, swearing, crying, fluff. If I missed anything, please let me know. 

Summary: An invitation to his family reunion over the fourth of July has Quinn and Sarah tumbling into a long conversation about their future in the off-season and beyond. Though the ensuing fight is resolved, the reality of their commitments vs. their love for each other is put to the test.

Word Count: 4,600

Comments: I’m back with some highly emotional goodness. This fic was halfway done for a long time until your overwhelming reactions to my WIP ask game really got me in gear to start writing again. I really like the way this turned out, and I hope you do, too. It's, like, 98% dialogue, so if that's not your thing, I won't be offended if you skip this one, but it is setting up all of our off-season fics.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know by commenting, reblogging, or sending in an ask. Your encouragement and comments truly inspire me to keep writing. 

I love Quinn and Sarah, and I’m constantly blown away that so many of you love them, too.

Summer Decisions

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

“My parents want to know if you want to come to our family reunion over the 4th of July. It’s in New Hampshire.”

“Oh,” she said, voice quiet. 

“Is that not okay?” 

“It’s just a big step,” she said, “meeting your whole family.” 

“I’m meeting your family in June, aren’t I?” he asked.

They’d discussed him coming to visit when she went home for a few weeks after school. Were it not for the Canucks making it into the playoffs, she would have bought a ticket for the Monday after her classes would be done. Instead, she pushed her visit back until mid-June, wanting to be in Vancouver to support him through the entirety of their run, however long it may be.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” 

It was a little strange to her how comfortably serious they were, but she couldn’t imagine life with Quinn any other way. It was that fated belonging she’d talked about so much when they first met. Even still, it was a little jarring to think about him meeting her family or meeting his before they even hit the six month mark. 

The phrase, ‘when you know, you know,’ never made sense until she met him. She knew, and even though it felt too fast and scary sometimes, she knew it would all turn out okay. 

“So we’ll fly out from Van, what? The night before?”

“I’ll have to fly out from Michigan.” 

“Michigan? Why?” 

“I thought I told you we train in Michigan in the summer.”

“You did, but I thought… I thought maybe that changed?” 

“Why?” 

“Because of us?” she gestured between them. 

“I mean, I’d love for you to come with me.” 

“I can’t do that, Quinn.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just pack up and move to Michigan. I still have my research work, and if I’m not working or in school for more than 6 weeks in a quarter, it violates my education visa. Not only will I have to move back to the States, I won’t be able to finish my degree.” 

“Then I’ll fly you out every weekend.” 

Pricked, the old wound split open, and she couldn’t quite hide the annoyance in her voice, “so it’s up to me to fly to you?” 

Shit. He hadn’t taken her schedule into account again. “Sorry, no. Of course I’d come here, too.”

The annoyance still fresh in her mind she found herself asking, “why do I have to remind you my time matters for you to take it into account?”

Quinn winced. “I know your time matters. I’m sorry, it’s not fair for me to assume you could just pack up and move or fly out every weekend.”

“Then don’t bring it up again,” she said. 

Okay then. 

“I’m trying here, Sarah. This is all new to me, too.” He’d never felt close enough with June to figure out a summer situation. They saw each other once or twice when he was gone, and that was enough. Looking back, that should have been a huge sign about the trajectory of their relationship.

“And yet, I assume because I have a vagina, I was raised to take other people into account.” 

“That’s not fair,” he said. 

“No? Then why do you always jump into me coming to you? Into me changing my plans? Into me inconveniencing my life before you do?” 

Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to go this way. This was supposed to be a nice, light conversation about how he wanted her to meet everyone he loved. 

“Maybe we should just break up for the summer,” she said when he didn’t say anything.  

“What? No!” Quinn sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, hurt and disgruntled she would even suggest such a thing. 

“What would you suggest, then?”

Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own. “Do you want to date someone else?” His voice was hesitant as he braced himself for the blow. 

“No. Of course not.” 

“Then why do you want to break up?” he asked through the relief easing his mind. “Why would you even say that?” 

“Because we won’t be together.”

“That doesn’t mean we should just call it off. Why do you always jump into ‘we should break up’ or ‘I should go’ when something hard comes up?” 

“I…” Sarah broke off, caught. “I don’t know.” 

“Maybe you should figure that out because I’m willing to put in the work here,” he said, gesturing between them. 

“That’s not fair.”

He raised his eyebrows instead of throwing her words back in her face. 

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I am trying, and I know you’re trying.” Tears pricked at her eyes, “I’ve just…” her mind whirred, trying to find the right explanation. In the end, as it always did with Quinn, the truth won out. “I’m scared I’m going to fuck it up and I don’t want to lose you.” 

Bridging the space between them with one big step, he pulled her against him. When they boiled down to the heart of the problem, they were both scared of the same thing. 

Tucking his nose into her hair, he breathed in the calming, smokey scent that was uniquely hers. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” he said. “We can still be together. Just separately.”

A laugh snorted from her nose, and she pulled back, “what?” 

“Long distance?”

It was Sarah's turn to suck on her lip. “I’ve never done that before.”

“I have. It's not easy. But I think we're both committed enough to make it work. Plus, we'll see each other pretty often.”

She had her thinking face on as a pregnant pause passed, so Quinn didn’t interrupt.

“What would that look like?” she asked, finally. 

“We’d talk on the phone and video chat a lot. I can come see you every weekend.”

“That doesn't make sense, Quinn. You go to Michigan to train and be with family. If you're flying back here every weekend, won't that mess with those things?”

“Probably, but —”

“Then it's out of the question. You need to do what you need to do.” 

He felt whiplashed. “I thought you wanted me to come here.” 

“Only in equal measure to me coming to you. I won’t let you give up your summer training for me.” 

It stuck him how much care and understanding were laid out in that statement. 

“Just like I know you wouldn’t want me to give up my research for you. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

Still wrapped in each others arms, Sarah rested her head on his shoulder as they thought. 

Tucking his face into her hair again, Quinn breathed deeply. As always, that smokey, vanilla scent was so calming to him. He couldn’t ever get it out of his mind. 

“This fucking sucks,” he said, voice muffled.

“I know,” she agreed. “I wish it could be different."

It couldn’t. They both had commitments that needed to be fulfilled, and they just didn’t match up.

“I wish I’d known. I would have made different plans.” 

“How would you have known?” she asked. “We only met four months ago.” 

“Has it only been that long?” he asked. The reality of the swiftness of their relationship hit him full force. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.” 

“I know. I do too.” 

“I don’t want to go the summer without you,” he said, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

“I don’t either,” she agreed, “but it’s not like it’ll be five months where we just don’t see each other.” 

“Four,” he corrected. 

“What?” 

“Four months, I come back in September.” 

Well, that was a relief. 

“Okay, four months. I mean, we already have stuff planned. Let’s talk through what we do have,” she suggested, breaking away from him all together and pulling her planner from her bag. Flipping to the summer months, she lay it on top of her comparative physiology textbook and sat at the table. The urge to make a plan itched beneath her skin. 

He sat next to her, leaning in.

“So we have my family in June,” she said, pointing out the 10 days she had blocked out for her visit, “I sort of expected you’d come on the weekend?”  

“Yeah, that sounds good. And our reunion over the forth,” he said, flipping the page. “Then, we’re going to Hawaii at the end of July. You can come. I’ll get you a ticket.” 

“Hold on, have you talked to your family about this?” 

“No, but it’ll be fine.” 

She shook her head. 

He couldn’t believe she was turning down the option to spend two more weeks together. 

“That’s your family vacation, Quinn. I’d love to come, but I don’t want to go inserting myself —”

“You’re not inserting yourself, I’m inviting you.” 

“And I’m telling you I won’t come unless all your family is okay with it. Including Jack.” 

Even though Quinn had assured her Jack was a good guy and very devoted to his family and would come around once they met, he was still aloof anytime she happened to be around when he and Quinn were talking. Even Ellen had said as much, but Sarah still felt hesitant. Until she saw it from Jack himself, she wasn’t about to jump into an already planned vacation. She knew what it was like having a new person join the family. She didn’t want to make it any harder than it had to be. 

Quinn huffed. 

“The last thing I want is to come between you and your brothers,” she said gently.

His expression softened. “Okay. I’ll talk to them about it when they’re here.”

“So, it looks like we’ll see each other every three weeks or so, depending on when you come to Nevada and what Hawaii looks like. At least until August.”

Every three weeks felt like too long. He could hardly stand a week on the road, and they weren’t even living together. Yet. 

“I’d like you to come out to Michigan,” he said, “meet the guys. See the house.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “And you can come back here sometime here,” she said, her finger circling over a few weeks in August. 

Quinn nodded. It certainly wasn’t going to be easy, but it did feel better to have a plan.

“Are you renting this place out for the summer,” she asked, “while you’re gone?”

“I kind of thought you might move in here.”

“What?” 

“I mean, it’s just going to be empty, and I’d really like to live with you when I move back.” 

She couldn’t believe he could drop such a huge bomb so easily. As she tried to reconcile what he was saying, she repeated, “what?” 

“I mean…” he paused, voice and expression suddenly hesitant, “only if you want to.” 

Her brain finally caught up, “it’s not that. It’s just…we haven’t even talked about living together, and now you have this whole plan about how I should live here over the summer.” 

“I just thought there’s no real need for you to pay for rent anymore, since you spend so much time here anyway.” 

“I…” she was struck with the care in that statement, “that’s really sweet, Quinn.” 

He beamed.

“But I can’t live here alone all summer.” 

Expression falling, he opened his mouth.

“I just —” she interrupted before she lost her nerve. What was one more in a series of already vulnerable conversations? “I’d love to live here with you, but I can’t…I don’t know how my depression will act up if I live alone for that long. I’ve never lived on my own before, and I don’t think a summer where I’m missing my boyfriend is the best time to start.” 

The thought that she’d be here alone hadn’t crossed his mind. Not in a concrete way. Like, he knew she’d be here, and he knew he’d be in Michigan, but he never thought about it like she would be the only one in the apartment.

“Oh,” he whispered, taking her hands in his, “then of course not.” 

His immediate acceptance made tears rush to her eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asked as she took a hand back to wipe her face. 

Smiling despite the tears on her cheeks, she shook her head. “I just really love you.” Her voice sounded full, almost like she had a cold.

“I love you, too,” he said, feeling a little confused, “but I don’t know why you’re crying.” 

“Just…” How could she explain something like this? “The way you accept and trust my needs. It’s really nice.”

“The last thing I want is for you to be unhappy, Sarah.” 

This brought on a new wave of tears, and she tucked her head into his shoulder, trying to pull herself together. 

Quinn still felt a little whiplashed but tried to roll with it, running a soothing hand over her back. 

“What?” he asked when she mumbled something into his shirt. 

Pulling back, she wiped her nose before repeating, “I’ll have to sign a new lease. It comes up in July.” 

“I’ll buy you out of it,” he said as if it was the simplest, easiest solution to any of the problems they’d discussed that day. 

“I can’t let you do that, Quinn. That’s a lot of money.” 

Her eyes went wide. They’d never discussed money so concretely. She knew he made big bucks. All pro athletes did, but, “eight million?” she asked. “What do you do with it?” 

He hated having this conversation, but it needed to be had. It was actually a little surprising to him that it’d taken this long for it to come up. June had asked him about it a month into dating.

“Sarah, I make eight million dollars a year. I can buy out your lease.” 

“I have a financial advisor who’s helped me invest most of it,” he said, “and I don’t really have all eight million available all the time. But I paid off my parents and some of our families’ houses, and I give quite a bit to charity.” 

She’d seen the way he was with money. He never worried about it, but he certainly didn’t throw it at anything and everything. He wasn’t irresponsible. 

Opening her mouth to say something, she found her mind still reeling and closed it again. 

The annoyed look he would give her when she paid the dinner bill flashed in her mind. No wonder. He made so much more than she did. All the same, she wasn’t about to become some sugar baby. That went against nearly everything her parents had taught her.

“I still want to pull my weight,” she said.

Quinn was a little taken aback by the fierceness in her voice, “what?” 

“If we move in together, I still want to pull my weight.” 

His lips pursed, and he held back his initial response in favor of gathering more information. “What do you mean?” 

“Like, if I make $80,000 a year, I want to pay whatever percentage that is of what you make.”

“You only make $80,000 a year?” he asked. 

“No. Right now, I make $50,000 a year from my research stipend. It pays for my schooling, too, so it’s technically more, but $80,000 is a general base salary for a marine zoologist.” 

“You’ve been living on $50,000 a year?” 

“Yes, and I’ve been fine,” she said, giving him a look that stifled any follow-up questions he may have had. “My point is that if —” she paused to correct herself, “when we live together,” he beamed and she lost her thought for a moment before continuing, “I want to pull my weight, even if it is just a small percentage of the household. I don’t want to be some beholden trophy wife.” 

“Beholden?” he repeated, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“Yes, I don’t want to be some kept woman. A lot of financial advisors that I listen to say you should split the household and each pay the percentage compared to your salaries. How much do you pay here a month? Do you rent? Is it a mortgage?” 

“It’s a rental. It’s not really smart for me to buy a place when there’s a chance I may get traded in three years. It’s not enough time to build adequate equity on a home.” 

Sarah stuck a mental pin in that to come back to, “and how much is your rent?” 

“12,000.” 

“A year?” she found herself asking, even though she knew that couldn’t possibly be the answer.  

“A month,” he said with an indulgent smile, knowing it was her shock speaking more than anything else.

She wasn’t quite sure why, but this fact struck Sarah harder than anything else they’d talked about. She knew she’d never be able to afford an apartment like this on her own, but this was insane. More than a fifth of her yearly salary went to Quinn’s rent each month. She counted herself lucky to find a private room for under $2000.

“Okay, so if I make,” she paused, doing mental calculations - moving decimal points. Her voice was flat when she spoke again, “one percent of what you do…” She trailed off, looking into his face, “Quinn, this is insane.” 

“I know,” he agreed. “I’m happy to just pay, but if you would feel better paying whatever, I’m happy for you to do that, too.” 

 “So, I’d pay one percent of the household expenses.” Saying it out loud, it sounded so silly. One percent? That seemed minuscule, too insignificant to matter. “Maybe I could pay ten percent? One feels too tiny.”

“Sure,” Quinn said, knowing this was important to her. Unless she was storming in, trying to take over all the bills, he was happy to have her contribute in whatever way she wanted. “If you want to do that, let’s do that. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

They sat quietly for a moment, and he gathered his thoughts.

“I know it’s important to you to contribute,” Quinn said gently, “and I’m not saying you shouldn’t - but I just want you to know I’m happy to pay for things. I know I’m insanely blessed to make the kind of money I do to play a sport that I love. I’d really, really like to live together once I move back. So if that means I need to buy out your lease, I’m happy to do it if you’re comfortable with that.”

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she thought. If Quinn paid off her lease, she wouldn’t have to put off moving in with him or live on her own in this giant apartment or find a place to live for the two months between when he was home and when her lease was up. 

She wondered if this was one of those instances her grandmother often talked about. “Sometimes,” she would say while they were cleaning the basement or kneading dough, or working in the garden, “life showers you with blessings. And it’s up to you to catch them.” 

She always accompanied this wisdom by shaping her hands into a bowl as if to fill them with water. 

Sarah did the same now, pulling her other hand out of Quinns to cup them together. 

Eyebrows knitted together, he glanced from her hands to her face. 

She giggled and told him the story. 

“I should start doing that every morning,” he said, cupping his own hands together. 

“Every morning?” she repeated. 

“Well, every morning that you’re here. When I wake up next to you, I feel like the luckiest guy alive.” 

Despite it being incredibly cheesy, Sarah couldn’t help feeling moved. “Quinn that’s really sweet,” she said. “I feel like that, too,” she paused, feeling like she needed to add a caveat. “And I want you to know your money isn’t part of that. I would love you no matter how much money you were making.” 

“I know,” he said, leaning in to brush his lips over hers, “I’ve known that from the start.” 

His hands found her waist as their lips connected. 

A while later, that pin she’d stuck in for later snapped back into her mind, and Sarah pulled away. “What did you mean about getting traded?”

Well, they might as well have all the hard conversations all at once. “I’m in contract for the next three years, but after that, or even before, there’s always a chance I could get traded.” 

The trade deadline had already passed for the season, and Sarah had watched, fascinated, as players were moved around from club to club, like pieces on a chess board as organizations tried to build the best teams possible. Now, she had a new level of understanding, knowing lives and families were being uprooted in the process.

“But they love you here.”

His smile was wide and genuine, “I love it here, too. I don’t really expect I’d be traded anytime soon, but I can’t say never with what I do. I could get seriously injured, or my game could crash.” 

She gave him an incredulous look. 

“Its happened before.” 

“To you?” 

“No, but it has to people I know. I really like it here, but I can’t guarantee I’ll play here forever, or even for the next three years. I think I will, but I can’t say for certain.”

“What happens if you get traded while I’m still finishing my degree?”

“I don’t think that will happen, but I guess we’d make it work apart until you were done. Most players get traded right at the end of their contract, so we’d be apart for the rest of the season, and then we’d decide what to do moving forward. If I was moving clubs by choice, we’d decide where to go together. ”

She nodded. “Do you get any say in trades?” 

“I think I probably would, but it doesn’t always work out that way. I mean, Bo had a monster year last season, but they couldn’t come to an agreement, and so he got traded, and I know he would have liked to stay. It’s just never guaranteed.” 

“How do you live your life like this?” she asked. 

He shrugged, “you just kind of have to get used to the idea that things could change tomorrow.” 

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” 

The concerns his parents had expressed when they were here snapped into place, and a sudden, consuming worry that she might not want this kind of life overwhelmed him.

“Are you,” he paused to lick his lips, trying to find the right phrasing, “I mean, do you think you could be okay with that?” 

Even as it was racing with anxiety, the worried look on his face melted Sarah’s heart. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that while it felt steady now, his life had the possibility of being in flux all the time, and that where he chose to work was only partially up to him. At the same time, she didn’t want to be without him. The pull between them was too strong, too fated in a way she couldn’t deny. She was too in love with him to be scared of the reality of his life. 

There was only one thing for it. “It’ll take some getting used to, but I think I can,” she said. Perhaps this wasn’t even something she needed to be worried about. Thoughts buzzing, she tried to think of players on Quinn’s level who’d been traded recently. She couldn’t remember any off the top of her head. She’d have to look it up. 

He gave her a relieved smile, and she saw moisture shining in his eyes. 

“Oh, Quinn,” she said, her hands coming up to cup his face. The course hairs of his beard tickled her palms. “I think I’d probably move to the ends of the earth with you.” The words just fell out of her mouth, and once they were out there, spoken aloud for everyone to hear, she realized how true they were. For someone so practical, it was strange for her to have such a frivolous thought mean so much. 

His face split into a beaming smile, and he pulled her into a hug. Tucking his nose into her hair again, he let a few grateful tears fall. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” he said. 

“I don’t know either.” 

A sudden, surprised laugh barked from his chest, and he pulled back with a raised brow.

“Oh no,” her hand went to her mouth as a blush blazed over her cheeks. “I meant that I feel the same way.” Shaking her head, she wondered if she had ever said something so stupid. “You’re the most understanding, accepting man I’ve ever met, Quinn. I’m so glad the Universe brought us together.” 

He nodded, “me too.” 

Looking into his eyes, which seemed more hazel than usual to the point that she could almost see a ring of green near the iris, the reality of what was coming hit her square in the chest, “this summer is gonna fucking suck.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling her into his lap. 

Arms around his shoulders to bring herself closer, her feet hung awkwardly off the sides of the chair. Though she knew her toes would be tingling from lack of blood flow within a matter of minutes, she didn’t readjust, savoring the feeling of his solid chest against hers. 

The deep breath she sighed out moved her whole body against his. “We’ll get through it together, right?” 

Tightening his grip, Quinn agreed. 

As the minutes passed, his hands traveled over her back in slow, calming waves that put her totally at ease. 

“Do you have homework?” he asked quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to hear the question himself. 

“Yeah, but it can wait a while.”

A pleased little hum filtered up his throat, and he pulled her tighter against him. 

“Can we move to the couch, though?” she asked. “My feet are falling asleep.” 

Laughing, he stood, hands cradling her butt to keep her wrapped around him. When she hooked her ankles around his back, Quinn filed the position away to try later. 

Halfway up the stairs, Sarah unwound herself from him. Sure, he was an athlete, but carrying her up the stairs was still taking a toll. 

She lay down on the suede couch and held her arms open for him. He gratefully lay on top of her, his head on her chest. 

Running her fingers through his hair, Sarah replayed their relationship in her mind. Knowing what she knew now, both about Quinn’s celebrity status and his quiet nature, the fact that he came up to her at all was a miracle. He could have any woman in the city, and he’d stuck his neck out for her. It was overwhelming to think about sometimes. She hoped she was living up to his expectations. 

Half an hour later, Quinns phone chirped with a notification, bringing them out of their sleepy reverie. By that time, they’d switched places, and Sarah was draped over him. 

“It’s 6,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got to get up to make dinner.”

Even as she whined, Sarah pushed herself up. This soft, caring version of Quinn was always her favorite, and she didn’t want to let him go. “I love you,” she said, looking down at him.

“I love you, too,” he said, standing and hugging her to him again before they had to get back to real life.

Her arms tightened around him. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, Quinn Hughes, but I’m so glad you’re mine.” 

Tucking his face into her neck, he pressed a few soft kisses there before telling her, “Sarah Roberts, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[rorywritesjunk]

I can’t tell where the journey will end But I know where to start

Prequel to my Kid Buggy fic, set about 11-ish years before that story.

Buggy meets you by chance when he needs his buttons sewn back onto his jacket. He’s young, up and coming, and he thinks everyone should cower before him wherever he goes, but all you do is smile at him.

Rating: PG-13ish just for some swearing. Warning: Buggy’s in his early 20s. I also gave him some anxiety and stuff because while he’s in love he doesn’t believe someone could love him back. He just has a lot of uncertainty with romance. Mawwiage happens. Alcohol is mentioned. Everyone's having a good time. Two pirates have a heart to heart in a way. A/N: This is second to last chapter so it may feel rushed, sorry! This was only meant to serve as introducing them and their relationship. Though it's funny because I've already made an AU for them featuring an OC for Buggy having an older sister that I've also been writing little fics for. I plan to get the epilogue out this week.

Title comes from “Wake Me Up” by Avicii.

TAGLIST: @lostfirefly @ane5e @kingofthemfingpirates @the-angriest-angel @tiredemomama @valen-yamyam16 @i-reblog-fics-i-like @plethora-of-fickleness @uhnanix

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8 + Chapter 9 + Chapter 10 + Chapter 11 + Chapter 12 + Chapter 13 + Chapter 14 + Chapter 15 + Chapter 16 + Chapter 17 + Chapter 18 + Epilogue

Chapter 18

“You don’t have to have an officiant.” Windy told Buggy that night on the ship while you and Blue prepared dinner. After words with her sister, Windy collected her husband, some rum, the rings, and headed to the ship to have words with the two of you. “Everything Stormy said was wrong. Snow married a pirate but he didn’t leave her like that. He goes off for six months and stays home for six months. They make it work.”

Buggy looked at the glass of rum he had. It was better stuff than he normally had. You had managed to make him feel better after your aunt insulted him, spending time with him as you told him all the reasons why you loved him, why you wanted to marry him, and to ignore that bitch of an aunt and her horrible words. Buggy did feel better and he knew you meant what you said, but there was sometimes still that little voice in his head that said there was no reason for you to love him or take care of him the way you did.

“I just told my Captain to say me and Blue were married and he did. That was good enough for us.” Windy chuckled as she sipped her own drink. “You two can exchange rings and just say you’re married. Who’s going to come asking for papers in the middle of the sea anyway?” She glanced over at Buggy. “You seem like the type to just do what you want anyway, Buggy, so if you two don’t want an audience, just exchange the rings. Hell, don’t even do that. Just say you’re married.”

“She wanted a ring.” Buggy shrugged. “And flowers. I gave her both.”

“You’re a romantic pirate, aren’t you?” She laughed as Buggy scowled at her. “You’re so cute. I’m not surprised Sunny fell for you.”

Buggy’s cheeks burned and he looked away from her, gripping the glass tightly. He wasn’t ‘cute’ but it was a little nice to hear that your mother seemed to approve of him. He wasn’t a romantic either, even if he had a picnic ready for you when he was going to tell you how he felt about you, or that he wanted to bring you every bouquet of flower he came across but didn’t because what if that was too much? But now he didn’t care, he would steal an entire field of flowers for you if he could.

“Let’s go check on’em.” Windy tossed her drink back and headed to the kitchen and Buggy followed after. He was feeling a little off, the doubt coming back as he wondered if he should have done more for you to show you how much he really loved you. There was still time for you to tell him this was a mistake, that he should just leave you behind on the island and sail away far from you. There were other suitors who would be better for you anyway, not some stinky clown who couldn’t go a meal without staining his shirt. You had to be tired of him by now, right?

The table in the kitchen was set. You and your dad had pulled together a delicious beef stew full of meat and vegetables, as well as a fresh loaf of bread. Buggy had to stop and watch you for a moment, seeing how much you were smiling when you saw him and that you stopped what you were doing to go over to him, giving him a kiss before leading him to the table to sit. He needed to stop those thoughts in his mind. There was no way you didn’t love him with the way you were beaming at him. 

“Buggy, we should just exchange rings.” You told him once you were all seated at the table. Buggy missed the look your parents exchanged. “I don’t care if we have someone here to say we’re married. We’ll be living on the sea, it doesn’t matter if we have someone saying it or not.”

“Wait, really?” He frowned, looking between you and your parents. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” You beamed as you reached over to take his hand in yours. “I don't care about having a wedding at all. We can do whatever we want.”

He actually … liked the idea. He didn't want to stand up in front of your family to tell them something that they already knew: that he loved you and would be with you forever, no matter what. He just needed rings. He glanced at your parents, at you, then back at them before pounding his fist on the table.

“We're married, got that? No one can tell us otherwise!” He announced loudly.  “Where’s the rings? She needs a ring so no one messes with her!”

“Aw, our baby is married.” Windy chuckled as Blue pulled out a small box and handed it over to Buggy. He took the box and looked at you, a wave of nervousness slamming into him that he almost forgot what he was going to do next, but he shook it off and opened the box. 

“See, we’re married! We have rings!” He told you as he showed them to you. “Y-Your parents made them for us because I couldn’t find anything better.” He took one out, showing you the design your father etched onto it. It was of Buggy’s jolly roger. “That way others know who you’re married to.” 

He took your hand in his, suddenly nervous once again as he started to slide the ring onto your finger, his hand shaking as he did it. Your parents were watching, he didn’t want to mess this up, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the ring slid onto your finger and you leaned over to kiss his cheek. 

“I love you, Buggy.” You smiled as you took out his ring, pausing for a moment to study it. It was his jolly roger but around one of the eyes looked like a sunburst. You grinned when you saw it, turning it over in your hand to study it for a moment before taking his hand in yours and sliding it on his finger. He held his hand up and looked smug, glancing at Blue and Windy, both who gave him a thumbs up. 

“Ha! It’s official!” He said proudly as you kissed him on the cheek again. He was holding his hand up to your parents, looking quite smug while the two of them looked amused.

“We have a pirate for a son-in-law.” Blue chuckled softly, shaking his head. “And he’s a captain. Wait til the family finds out.”

You looked up at that, holding Buggy’s hand in your own. “Okay, but wait until we sail off before telling them. We don’t need someone storming the ship because they’re mad they weren’t here to see this.”

“That's fair.” Your mom nodded. “Stormy wasn't pleased with our conversation but she may still try to insist on something. If you two kids want, sail off tonight and then we will tell them tomorrow. No point sticking around unless you absolutely want to.”

“Yea? I'm okay with that.” You agreed before turning to your now husband. “Do you want to do that? Do we need any supplies before we leave?”

Buggy shook his head. He was suddenly very quiet, his brain now processing that oh, he was married to the woman he thought was the most amazing person in all of the East Blue. You chose him out of everyone you ever met, brushed off all those other men who tried to flirt with you, ask you to lunch, everything and yet Buggy was the one who you wanted to be with in the end. Not that scary man, the handsome swordsman, or even that sharply dressed Kuro. Hell, you'd turn down Shanks for Buggy; he felt confident now in even thinking that and as far as he knew you never even met Shanks! 

“Honey?”

Your voice brought him out of his thoughts. He looked over at you as you held his hand, giving it a squeeze. He looked down, seeing the ring on your finger, the one your parents designed and made for the two of you. His mind was racing, his heart started to pound, and his palms were sweaty. When he looked back up at you, seeing the look of concern on your face, he just grinned and started laughing.

“I'm married!” He announced, looking quite pleased with himself. “Ha! Bet no one expected that! Tell that aunt of yours to shove it, Sunny!”

He almost regretted saying that, but your mom snorted before she burst out laughing while your dad nodded in agreement. You shook your head and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Buggy.”

He turned red but grinned, looking quite proud of himself for a moment. He put his arm around you, tugging you closer to him as he leaned in to give you a kiss. It was kind of sweet to see the sudden change in his demeanor moments after the two of you put the rings on. You didn't think he'd ever do such a thing like this before, but now that you two were married, maybe he didn't care. He was yours and you were his, maybe he wasn't so worried about losing you to someone else.

~

The ship did set sail later that night after Buggy and Windy had a few more drinks to celebrate. Blue escorted his tipsy wife back home after plenty of goodbye hugs and tears, but you knew you'd see your parents again. Your mom insisted the two of you visit sooner rather than later, and she was pretty sure you would end up commanding the ship over Buggy some day.

You managed to get your tipsy husband to bed with little trouble, he wasn't as drunk as you'd seen in the past, but he was definitely loudly saying what a wonderful wife you were, that he would make sure you were always happy, and that he was the luckiest guy because he had the sexiest wife. You were fine for him to sing your praises as you helped him change into comfy sleep clothes and tucked him into bed.

Once he was flopped onto the bed, arms spread out with the biggest grin on his face, he lifted his head up just enough to watch you change into your own sleep clothes. You caught him staring and smiled at him as you pulled your nightgown on.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just happy because I got the most beautiful girl to marry me.” He looked quite proud of that fact. “You chose me out of so many guys.”

“I did.” You smiled as you laid yourself down beside him, kissing his cheek as his arms went around you. “And I got the most handsome pirate to ask me to marry him.”

Buggy blushed at that, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against the top of your head. “Oh hush.”

“I did! I'm so lucky, Buggy.” You told him as his arms held you close. “You're so sweet to me and I'm going to make sure you are the most powerful pirate. Everyone in the East Blue will know your name.”

His cheeks were burning as he listened to your words. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to look down at you as you gazed up at him. He didn't say anything, just tilted your head up to kiss you. He was the lucky one, never thinking he'd meet someone like you, fall in love, eventually marrying. It wasn't in his plans at all, but he couldn't help falling in love when he first met you, experiencing your kindness first hand like that. 

You smiled at him, reaching up to twirl a lock of his hair around your finger. “Get some sleep, honey. It's been a long few days.”

[sagesolsticewrites]

Romance Will Reign Supreme | Austin Butler x Reader

Request from Anonymous: wondering if you could please write Austin Butler and his non-famous girlfriend shyreader are hanging around at the amusement park. Austin is so deeply in love with her & the two of them are just being an adorable couple and everyone is shipping them so hard, just hardcore fluff. Thx and I love your fics btw

a/n: posting this early as a HUUUGE thank you to y’all for 400 followers!! I honestly can’t believe it y’all are so sweet 🥺 to the dear nonnie who requested this: i hope it’s okay I made the reader gender neutral here! As a genderfluid person myself (though I lean more fem most days), I’m working on writing more gender neutral inclusive language in my fics! (in case you were wondering, the title is from a Tangled song! who knows which one it is 👀)

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: a couple swear words, inaccuracies about California & Disneyland, Austin being adorable, I think that's it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!

Thank you so much to my bestie @austin-butlers-gf for helping me with this!

Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍

“Babe, you ready to go?” Austin calls from the hall.

“Yeah!” You reply, grabbing your bag from where it sits on your bedside table. You step out into the hall, double-checking you have everything first— phone, sunscreen, wallet— before turning to your boyfriend, asking for about the twentieth time that day, “And you’re sure it’s okay I’m coming with you? I know you said it was a cast meetup, I don’t want to intrude on anything—“

“Y/N,” Austin places his hands on your shoulders, the sincere look in his eyes cutting off your nervous rambling, “I want you to be there. Besides, everyone loves you. They all practically begged me to bring you along.”

You nod, reassured for the moment. “Right, yeah. Thank you.” You give him a small smile, feeling a little bad that your anxiety keeps getting in the way of what’s supposed to be a fun day.

“Always, sweetheart.” Austin replies, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling you along to the car waiting for you.

Dating a famous actor, especially as the painfully shy, decidedly not-famous person you were, wasn’t always the easiest thing. But Austin did his best to keep you out of the public eye, and the castmates and colleagues he introduced you to were always the sweetest people. Like, for example, Baz, Dacre, Luke, and Olivia, whom you were going to meet up with at Disneyland today for a celebratory “the press run is over!” hangout.

“Y/N!” Olivia squeals as you head over to meet everyone near the entrance inside the park. She rushes over to hug you, Luke and Dacre not far behind her.

“‘Wow, Austin, it’s great to see you, how are you?’ Oh I’m great, thanks for asking, guys,” your boyfriend complains jokingly as his colleagues shower you with attention.

Olivia turns to him with a playful smile, “Oh hush, I was stuck with you for two years, I hardly ever get to see them!” She punctuates her sentence with a final squeeze around your midsection, releasing you to rejoin Baz and his wife, Catherine. The two of them greet you, mischievous grins on their faces, and you soon realize why as they pass out Elvis-themed mouse ears. The pink and black ears are bedazzled and covered in pearls, with a giant gold “EP” on one ear and the iconic “TCB” lightning logo on the other.

The group gushes over them as they put them on, Austin taking the liberty of putting yours on as if he were placing a crown on your head.

“You look adorable, sweetheart,” he says with a smile, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. An “awwwwe” goes up from the group as they watch the interaction, and a heat entirely unrelated to the California sun floods your face. You’re quick to focus your attention on your shoes until the focus turns to the day’s activities, Austin pulling you close as Baz goes over the plan: find rides to go on together before the lines get too long, find food, walk around to take some pictures with characters, and there might be time for people to go off and do their own separate things before meeting back up to say goodbye at the end of the day.

You enjoy the slower paced rides: the teacups, It's A Small World, all the usual ones, but you start lagging behind a bit as the group heads towards a… very large rollercoaster. Apart from Olivia, who shoots you a slightly concerned look that you wave off with a small smile, most of the group doesn’t notice, too engrossed in the conversation they’re having. Austin, however, isn’t so easily convinced. He hangs behind to walk by your side, intertwining your fingers and saying softly, “I know you don’t really like these kinds of rides. If you want we can just hang out and go get some food or something while they go…”

You hesitate, glancing over at the rest of the group chatting excitedly. “I… I don’t want you to miss out on all this stuff just because of me—“

“If I get to spend more time with you, I’m not missing out on anything, I promise, sweetheart.” Austin assures you with a sweet smile. “Hey guys!” He calls to the group ahead of you two, “I’m kinda hungry, I’m stealing Y/N to go get some food with me. We’ll meet you guys after, okay?”

Warmth floods your chest as he draws all of the attention to him, the group waving him off with a “have fun you two!”

You squeeze his hand in thanks as the two of you turn to walk away, and he squeezes back, looking at you with a soft smile. The line at the ice cream stand he drags you over to is short enough that you’re able to enjoy the Mickey-shaped treat before it’s time to meet up with the others again.

You meet the others at the exit to the ride, Olivia yelling something about how Luke was “absolutely terrified the entire time!” — with Luke vehemently denying it — as you make your way to Café Orleans for “some real food,” as Baz had put it.

Austin is practically glued to your side throughout the meal and even afterwards as you’re making your way through the park to take pictures with characters. It’s sweet, but eventually you have to extricate yourself from him to rehydrate, going off in search of refreshments.

He sighs, slouching at a table as he awaits your return. Olivia slides into a chair near him with a smirk.

“They just went to get a drink, they’ll be back in a minute, Aus.”

Austin blushes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “I know, I just…” he trails off, unable to explain exactly how he’s feeling; he hasn’t felt this attached to someone in a while, but after getting to spend so much time with you since the press run ended, it’s hard for him to pull himself away.

Olivia gives him a soft, teasing smile. “Don’t worry, Aus, it’s cute how much you care about them. The two of you are honestly adorable.”

“Yeah, I…I really love them,” he says finally.

Whatever Olivia says in reply is just a buzz in Austin’s ears as he sees you rejoin the group with an armful of water bottles. You feel heat flood your face as Austin comes over to help you pass them out to everyone, telling him quietly, “You guys didn’t have to wait here for me, I would’ve caught up eventually.”

“Well where’s the fun in seeing Rapunzel without you?” he replies with a smile, pulling you along with the group towards where Rapunzel is indeed waiting, a line of adults and kids alike waiting for a picture.

After a fairly long day of rides, pictures (both with characters and group photos for social media), and plenty of money spent at gift shops, you all finally make your way to the exit, smiling faces tanned from the California sun. You say your goodbyes and lean against Austin as you slide into the car, the long day of socializing finally taking its toll. Austin wraps an arm around you comfortingly, taking note of your exhaustion.

“I know it was a long day, but I really can’t thank you enough for coming along, sweetheart.”

“It was fun,” you reassure him, “I think I just need to curl up on the couch and not talk to anyone for a week after today,” you joke, laughing softly as you turn and tuck your face into the crook of his neck, making yourself comfortable for the drive home.

“Even me?” he says, and you can hear in his voice that he’s doing that silly mock pout that he’s criminally good at.

“Never you, honey, you know you don’t count.” You smile. He knows that when you complain about not wanting to have any kind of social interaction, it’s him and maybe a couple of your close friends that remain the rare exceptions.

“I’ve got your favorite ice cream in the freezer, and we can just sit on the couch and read or something in silence when we get home,” he suggests, and you can practically feel your heart melt because he knows you so damn well.

“That sounds perfect,” is the last thing that slips out of your mouth before you’re asleep on his shoulder, Austin’s eyes on you like you’re the only thing on the planet that matters.

Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @anangelwhodidntfall @austin-butlers-gf @butlersluvbot @killerqueenfan @kittenlittle24 @beauvibaby @kingelviscreole @justjacesstuff @sweetheartlizzie07 @coldonexx @londonalozzy @kaycinema @annamarie16 @adoreyouusugar @djconde58 @mirandastuckinthe80s @luke-my-skywalker @tubble-wubble @yourselenite @eliseline

[pedroshotwifey]

New fic alert!!!

Hey, y’all! Just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be putting a new fic out within these next few days. It will be the first part of a series, but I've been working on it and dreaming it up for so long! I'm hoping to have a new part out once a week.

It's going to end up being a dark fic with Javier P. It's going to start more fluffy, and get darker as it goes on. Involves age gaps, manipulative behavior, and physical and mental abuse at some points. Here's a little excerpt to see if anyone will be interested! I'm thinking the title will be "To the Flame", (or something to that effect) so look out for that!! I would really appreciate any reblogs to spread the news <3

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you from your spiraling thoughts, your cheeks reddening once you realize you have been staring blankly at the same page for a good few minutes.  You have to steady yourself so you don’t drop your book on the dirt below you, which has you almost falling out of your chair in the process.  You glance up at the stranger as you situate yourself, which doesn’t do much to help. The man is drop-dead fucking gorgeous. He’s staring down at you, clearly amused. His full lips are tugged up into a half-smirk. You think for a second that he looks familiar, but you would for sure remember seeing a man like this. His hair is dark, a bit long and shaggy, but in the way that makes you want to run your fingers through it. He wears sunglasses, you notice with disappointment. You don’t know why you have such a strong urge to see what’s hidden under there. You’re guessing they’re brown. He seems to carry a kind aura, it’s a fitting idea that his eyes would be warm. Even though you sense such a kindness emanating from him, there’s an annoying nagging from the back of your head that makes you uneasy. His stare is almost imposing, the way he carries himself adding so much to the effect. Your stomach bunches up in a frustrating way that signifies both anxiety and lust. You don’t really care much to figure out which is dominant at the moment.  All you know is that you’re drawn to this man like a moth to a flame, and that after all you’ve been through, you deserve to admire him at the very least. It’s not often you come across such a good looking man. A fictional looking man.  He cocks his head after you stare for what could probably be considered a second too long. Your face must be about the shade of a tomato at this point. The weight of an object in your hand quickly reminds you of the task at hand.  This is a potential customer. You need to stop staring like a schoolgirl. Besides, he must be what… ten, fifteen years older than you? God, you can’t even tell. He looks mature, but somehow ageless at the same time. He has strong, masculine features, but a sort of boyish quality, too. If someone told you he was some kind of a god himself, you would have no trouble believing them. “I-I’m so sorry, let me just put this down,” you say to the god, trying not to stumble over your own words after getting caught ogling.  “No problem at all, sweetheart,” he says, clearly unbothered. Fuck, his voice. It’s deep and rich, and he has some sort of accent,  like he grew up speaking another language. Spanish? Probably Spanish. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Down, girl. You take a breath in through your nose, willing yourself to relax as you set your book down on the table in front of you. You resist the urge to shut your eyes out of embarrassment as he looks down at the erotic cover, and then back at you with an arched brow and an amused smile. You move quickly as you snatch the book back to flip it back-side-up

Pls lmk if you have any thoughts or if you would like to be added to the fic taglist!!

And also thank you to my wonderful friends, @kewwrites and @nerdieforpedro for taking a look at my first draft and for supporting my absolute delusion!! I love you babes!! (Also, if you haven't checked kew's blog out, please go look because she is the QUEEN of dead dove fics and also like 99% of my inspiration to have started writing fics in the first place.)

[thewayofthemandalorian]

supposed to be just friends - oneshot

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: You and Dieter Bravo are just friends. That all changes when he brings you along when he travels internationally to film a new movie. This has to be a mistake, right?

Word count: 8,148

Notes: This might be the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written. The vague outline I had for this fic was Dieter cuddling and then this came out of it. It’s sort of AU-adjacent as Dieter doesn’t do Cliff Beasts in this version of events and instead works on himself. There are many, many references in this, some meta, some not. Our reader is on the struggle bus at the beginning of this fic and is kind of going through it, but our Dieter helps her get through it. The title comes from the song Glitch by Taylor Swift. All my love and appreciation to @ezrasbirdie​ for beta-reading  ❤️

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Warnings: Mentions of COVID-19/anxieties surrounding it, rehab, addictions, references to being high, swearing, food mention, (idiot) best friends to lovers, aimlessness, only one bed, unwanted attention, kissing, non-explicit sexual content (including fingering, female receiving oral), minor miscommunication.

masterlist (main) || masterlist (dieter bravo)

The door opens with a bang — not unusual with Dieter Bravo, your neighbour and best friend of four years — and a second later, he calls out your name. “You home already?” he asks. He knows your schedule in and out, ever since you were called back to your office after a year and a half of working from home (at his apartment, no less). 

You look up ruefully from the couch, your eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “I-I’m home early,” you say, trying to diffuse some of your sadness. 

“What’s wrong?” For all that he is a shit who doesn’t know anything about personal space or boundaries (not that you would ask him to change. That would be like asking a zebra to change its stripes), Dieter Bravo of apartment 605 is an expert at reading people and reading social cues when it comes down to it. It must come with being an actor. Or maybe he’s just good at reading people. 

“I… I was let go,” you admit, wiping your eyes.

Dieter actually laughs. Not at you, but out of incredulity. “What? Why?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes. “Something about downsizing? Or budget cuts? They gave a very inane reason that I didn’t really pay attention to.” You had wanted to pay attention, but once the words “I’m afraid to have to inform you that we are letting you go,” were out of your manager’s mouth, your ears started ringing and you didn’t process anything else that was said after that. 

“Did they at least give you a warning? Any sort of indication?” Dieter asks, coming over to the couch where you’ve flopped down, still in your work clothes. 

You shake your head. “My boss called me into her office this morning. My first thought was that I was getting that promotion that she hinted at six months ago.” 

That promotion was the only thing that was keeping you at that job. You hated it. It was a menial, joyless job. What you hate the most about it is that you were good at it. So when Tiffany had called you into her office this morning, you had been hopeful that your performance was going to finally be noticed and rewarded. “Not that it matters that I’m the highest performing employee,” you grumble to yourself. 

Before you realize it, Dieter’s arms are wrapped around you. “Fuck them. And fuck Tiffany.” 

You snort. “You already did that,” you remark. 

Dieter frowns. “Did I? When did I do that?” he asks.

“At the last holiday party before the pandemic. In 2019 I think?” 

Your best friend racks his brains. “Oh yeah, I did.” He smirks, then wrinkles his nose at the memory. Apparently she hadn’t been very memorable. For her on the other hand, she’d asked you for weeks after if Dieter was seeing anyone. In the end, you’d told her that he met someone else. 

His embrace is warm and you melt into it.

That’s the other thing Dieter is amazing at. Cuddles. You take them at any opportunity you can get. He’s like your own personal weighted blanket sometimes. “It’ll be okay. It’s the company’s loss.” 

You close your eyes. He’s wearing lounge clothes as usual. Soft and worn and cozy, making for peak cuddles. “Is it bad that I’m kind of relieved?” you ask. 

“No. You hated that job. Still, it’s never fun being let go. Trust me, I know.” 

In the four years you’ve known him, he’s made about four times the references of jobs he’s been fired from before breaking into the industry. His first movie, Hunger Strike, had been a fluke, he’s sure of it. A perfect case of right place, right time. Everything he’s done since then has paled in comparison. Sure, Hunger Strike won him his Oscar, which he keeps on display next to the award he’s more proud of, his Golden Raspberry Award, that he had gone in person to to pick it up. It had been for a movie called Deadly Monster From the Deepest Jungle! He’d done it as a joke movie. It was where he’d first met the hack director Darren Eigan, who’d been a script supervisor at the time. A man so far up his own ass, Dieter almost respected him. Almost. He’d gone on and on and on about how Deadly Monster was going to re-invent the horror B-movie genre. He’d then gone on to win some award and had been thrust into the world of Cliff Beasts. Dieter would never forget the phone call he’d had with his agent when they called him to see if he was interested in mid-2020, shortly after the pandemic had started. He’d laughed down the phone and said “Hell no. If I do that movie with that hack it might just kill me.” 

He also knew that if he went to film Cliff Beasts 6, his career would never recover and spending time away from his home during a time of great uncertainty would be the last thing he wanted. And to be so far away from you? No, it’s a bad idea all around.

Not to mention, filming a movie that seemed like such a clusterfuck as Cliff Beasts would interfere with his rehab over Zoom. He needed routine. And he’s not sure why, but he got the feeling that if he went to England to film during all of these upheavals, he would fall off the wagon and get so high off his rocker there’s no telling what outlandish things he’d attempt to do.

It had been rough, but he made it through to the other side, with his mentor and his sponsor and you cheering him on. You’d done work from home on one couch with your wireless earbuds (much to his chagrin) while he did his meetings. He couldn’t have done it without you cheering him on.

Your sigh pulls him back to reality. “I know. It sucks being fired. I just wish… I kind of wish that I knew what I wanted to do with my life, y’know?” you ask. 

Dieter nods as he twists the friendship bracelet around his wrist, the one that you had gotten for him as an almost gag gift; he hasn’t taken it off since, except when filming. “I get it. I still don’t know if I know what I’m doing. At this point, I just go along for the ride.” 

He wants to tell you that he got offered a movie role that looks promising and more in line with what he got into acting for in the first place. He’s tempted to say yes. He knows you would be happy for him – it’s his first role since before the pandemic. Or at least, the first role of consequence. He’s had recurring roles in TV series since 2021 that were filmed in LA, but this is his first starring role since Deadly Monster. 

His arms are still around you. “Dieter, you can let go,” you murmur, not wanting him to. 

Dieter doesn’t listen. He cuddles into you more. He’s always been a hugger. At least with you. But this is the first time he’s actively cuddled with you. 

You remember the first time he hugged you was when you had been discussing the pandemic and what you were going to do. You’d been panicking. “What are we going to do, Dieter? They say that it’s really bad.” You’d been teary-eyed with worry. 

Dieter, usually the more chaotic, unhinged of the two of you, had simply placed his hands on your shoulders before wrapping you in a bear-hug. It was the first of many. “We’re going to get through this. Together.” 

If you hadn’t been best friends before that evening, you certainly were after that. 

- - - - 

It’s been an easy friendship with Dieter since he moved in next door. Sure, he gets on your nerves every now and again, but he always makes up for it. He carries himself as an asshole sometimes, which you call him out for, but you think it’s mostly for show. 

Dieter cares for you. In a way that he hasn’t cared for any of his friends before. You see him. The real him. The one that he doesn’t want strangers to scrutinize on Twitter or in gossip magazines who only cared about his string of failed relationships (he needs connection) or his struggles with sobriety. It took his therapist six months before she finally cracked him. You cracked him in less than half that. 

Dieter orders a pizza once he’s deemed your cuddling session over. You miss your weighted blanket as soon as he’s gotten up to get himself a Sprite from the fridge, grabbing you some water. 

You’ve since moved back into your own apartment next door, but you spend a lot of time at each other's places. Despite the fact that you have a boyfriend. It’s a new relationship, still in its infancy, what you have with Ben. But you’ve just agreed to be mutual not too long ago. You’re not sure how long it’ll last, but he’s nice…ish. Dieter hates him. “He’s boring,” he’d said after meeting Ben for the first time. “And I don’t like the way he treats you. You can do so much better than that guy.” 

You’d waved it off as friendly concern. Even if you agreed with him. Your other friends had also given similar opinions. But Ben was nice, if a little boring. Sometimes boring is a good thing, you try to tell yourself. 

Your spirits are lifted; while you’re still bummed out about losing your job and being strung along for a promotion, it’s for the best. If you were going to be promoted, you would have already. And Tiffany was a toxic boss. 

“Hey, I wanted to tell you something,” Dieter says as his phone pings with an email including the script for the movie he’s in the process of being booked for. “I think I might be doing a movie soon.” 

You hit Dieter on the arm. “Get out! For real?” you squeal with excitement for your best friend. “Tell me everything.” 

That’s the thing Dieter likes about you. All of his successes are celebrated by you as if they’re your successes too. You always build him up. He’s not always sure that he deserves it, but he’s glad to have someone like that–someone like you—in his corner after so many people only wanting him for his modicum of fame. 

“It’s called Foe, it’s an adaptation of this really insane novel where I would be playing a bit of a double role, and it starts filming next month.” 

“That’s so exciting. I’m so fucking happy for you, Dieter. Really. Ugh. I’m so glad that one of us has good news today. Where is it being filmed?” 

Dieter has to think for a minute. “I think in France.” He tries to gauge your facial expression. Your excitement doesn’t diminish, though. 

“You’re going to love it there. I just know it. Congratulations, Dieter.” 

A few days go by. You try not to wallow too much about losing your job. Dieter books the role and is sent the script. It’s the lead role. It’s not quite a mainstream film, but it’s not an obscure indie role, either. But it’s character-driven. It’s something that speaks to Dieter. He doesn’t want to be known as the actor who does movies like Deadly Monster. Only doing movies for the money. Sure, the money doesn’t hurt. But after doing so many franchise movies and bit roles on tv, he’s beginning to wonder why he got into this industry in the first place.

He’s come a long way in the four years that he’s been living here. Sure, he still has his vices, and yeah, he might still be a bit of a fuckup and a magnet for chaos, but he’s trying. He doesn’t want to coast on his good looks and his modicum of luck. He has to work for what he wants. 

If rehab and the lockdown taught him anything, it’s that hardly anything good comes easy.

In the interim, you try to spend more time with Ben, trying to get to know him more. He mostly only talks about his job. He’s an accountant. 

You haven’t told him that you were fired. You know he’ll only condescend. You’ll tell him when you find a new job, and say that you wanted something different. Something new. 

Part of you knows that you want to cut things off with Ben. He’s not clicking with you. The sex isn’t even that good. Most times, you’ll have to finish the job yourself after he’s left. 

Still, he’s… someone. 

You hang out with Dieter, running lines with him, helping where you can to get him sorted for his flight. 

The night before his flight, you have to cut things short, meeting Ben at his apartment for dinner. “I will try and see you before you go before your flight tomorrow morning,” you say at the door. He pulls you in for a hug. He’s always so warm and comforting. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

After typing out a quick text (which he doesn’t respond to, which is odd for Ben), you drive over to Ben’s place. It usually takes longer to get there, but traffic is light tonight. It’s raining, so that probably has people staying home. 

Usually you buzz up to his apartment, but there’s someone coming out the locked door as you’re coming in. You grab it just as it’s about to close and make your way up in the elevator. 

You knock and Ben opens the door. You greet him with a smile. One that he doesn’t return. 

“We need to talk.”

- - - - 

“You’re back early,” says Dieter when you come in half an hour later. “Like, a lot earlier than you told me.” You don’t answer, just sit down on the couch next to his half-packed suitcase. He says your name. “Sweetheart? Are you okay?” 

“Fine. Ben broke up with me,” you murmur. 

Dieter doesn’t think he heard you correctly. “He what? Why?” 

“He said I wasn’t giving him what he was looking for. Which is fucking ironic given that he was the one who wanted things to be exclusive. He also said…” You blink back tears, not knowing why it upsets you so much. “He also said that I’m boring.” 

You omit the part where he outright accused you of being in love with Dieter and spending more time with Dieter than with him. You don’t need to put that on Dieter’s plate the night before his flight. 

Dieter sees that while you’re relieved to be free from Ben and your incompatibility with him, as well as your earlier relief at being let go, you’ve been struggling the last month. 

He sits down on the couch next to you and draws you into him. “I’m sorry. He was a loser and an idiot. You’re not boring. Not at all.” 

You offer him a melancholy smile. “Thanks, Dee. But you don’t have to say that.” 

“I’m not just saying that. When have I ever said things I didn’t mean? And don’t count when I’ve been high. Those statements are either cosmic truths or complete bullshit with no in between.” 

Looking at him, you notice his brown eyes. They’re tender and truthful. You’ve never noticed just how handsome he is. How he…

You push that oncoming thought away. He’s leaving. He’s your best friend and that’s all you’re supposed to be. You’d be lying to yourself if you hadn’t started to feel more for him recently. 

“Thanks, Dieter. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Dieter hates the idea of leaving you like this. He knows that you’ll be fine. Beyond any doubt. You always bounce back. But the past month—hell, the past three years—have been difficult for you. When was the last time you did something for yourself? Allowed someone to do something for you? He admires you. He cares for you. More than he probably should. You’ve made it clear you want this to be nothing more than a friendship. 

“Come with me,” he blurts out. 

He’s met with a quizzical look. “Come with you where?” you ask. 

“To France.” You open your mouth to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “Querida. When was the last time you did something nice for yourself? You deserve this. You’ve been through so much and you need to get your mind off things. I want you to come.” 

You can’t explain the emotion this last part unlodges in you. Everything becomes blurry all of a sudden and before you can comprehend what’s going on, your face is buried in Dieter’s warm chest, his arms wrapped around you. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s all right,” he soothes. 

You let out a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry,” you sniffle. “I–I just… how am I supposed to pay for it?” 

Dieter doesn’t care. “The company is paying for my seat, I can pay for yours.” 

“I can’t let you—Is it even okay that I’m coming? What about, like, quarantining and your schedule and all that?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t really give a shit. They can’t make this movie without me and I don’t want to leave you behind. Let’s just go. Two best friends doing something nice for themselves. That’s all this is. Okay?”

Dieter levels you with a long, soul-searching gaze. You hold it for a long minute. Probably longer than is necessary, but neither of you can bring yourselves to look away. He’s made several good points. “All right,” you sniffle again, accepting a tissue from Dieter. “Yeah, okay. I just need to find my passport and hope that it hasn’t expired.”  

While you’re searching for your passport, Dieter adds another passenger—you—to the flight. He can’t get you directly next to him in first class, but he’s sure that if he sweet-talks one of the desk agents tomorrow, they’ll let you switch seats. 

“Is it okay that I don’t speak any French?” you ask, coming back in with your passport, which gratefully doesn’t expire until next year. 

“Don’t you? I thought your mom had French Canadian heritage.” 

You nod. “She does. It just… never clicked for me.” 

“Should be fine,” says Dieter. “I don’t speak French either. We’ll wing it.” 

You can’t help but chuckle. “You wing everything, Bravo,” you tease. 

Dieter offers a trademark grin that’s graced so many magazine covers. “It’s one of my specialties. Go pack, ma chérie. That means sweetheart,” he adds with a wink.

- - - - 

At an entirely ungodly time of morning, your phone’s alarm goes off. You whine and hug your pillow closer, hitting the snooze button blindly. After two more snoozes, you force yourself to get up, stumbling to the shower, only turning on the overhead light in the shower and not the bathroom light itself. 

Just as you’re finishing getting dressed, Dieter marches in. He looks bleary-eyed too. 

“Why did I say yes to this, Dieter? You didn’t tell me the flight leaves at ass-o’clock.” He knows your complaint isn’t serious. 

He mumbles something about airport Starbucks. “Shuttle’s almost here, we should head down.” 

The ride to the airport is mostly passed in silence. The sun won’t be up for hours. Last night you’d hastily put together a suitcase and carry-on. Dieter said that the movie would take about a month and a half to film. You didn’t know if you had a month and a half’s worth of clothes, but you were sure that the hotel that the production company was putting him (and you, still unbeknownst to them) up in had a laundry facility. You’d asked if you should maybe return without him and come back sooner, but he’d said no and you didn’t want to come home by yourself if you didn’t have to. You hate air travel at the best of times. After informing your parents, your uncle and some of your friends where you were jetting off to, you headed to bed but only got a few hours of sleep because you were so excited.

The shuttle pulls up at the international gate entry. Even at three forty-five in the morning, LAX is overrun with people. It’s easy to get lost, so Dieter slips his hand into yours, making sure that you’ll stick together. 

He can’t sweet-talk the desk agent into switching your seats, but tells him to try his luck with the flight attendants. The plane is boarding in just over two hours, so you have lots of time to kill in the interim. Dieter tracks down the nearest Starbucks. You get a vanilla latte. He gets twelve shots of espresso over ice. It’s his usual order; you often wonder when you go to get coffee with him how he hasn’t died from the adrenaline rush two hundred times over. It’s one of his many Dieterisms as you’ve come to call his more eccentric behaviours. 

Before you know it, it’s time to board the plane. You’ve never flown first class before. There’s so much more room, the seats are more comfortable. It doesn’t look like it will be seven hours of pure torture like it usually is in economy. You stop a passing flight attendant. “Is it okay if I sit with my friend?” You sound like a kid.

“Wait until the plane has taken off and the fasten seatbelts light comes off.” 

The pilot comes on over the speaker, goes over the safety procedures. The plane takes off smoothly, and before you know it, Dieter’s plopping down in the seat next to you. 

“Do you want the window seat? I don’t mind.” 

Dieter waves your offer away. “Nah. You can have it if you want.” He leans back in the seat. “I think they’re going to come around with snacks and drinks soon.”

The flight goes smoothly and uneventfully (apart from the dirty look the old lady with the Pomeranian in her lap gives you and Dieter when you’re laughing “too loudly”). Once you’ve eaten, you start to feel drowsy. Dieter is actively fighting sleep. The blankets the airline gave you are soft and cozy. Not as cozy as the man who is sitting next to you. A little rest won’t hurt…

When Dieter wakes up, your head is resting on his shoulder, his head resting on the top of yours. He shakes his head a little, sees how the two of you have been resting. It’s not a new sleeping position for the two of you, but this somehow feels different. There’s an inkling of something new. With a smile, he leans his head back to where it was a minute ago and falls back to sleep.

The flight lands some time later. You wake before Dieter does this time. You’ve been resting against each other. Nothing new, but it makes you feel warm. 

It’s a bit of a process, getting through customs and waiting for your bags. The nap on the plane did you good. A lot of good. You know jetlag will sneak up on you sooner or later. 

Luggage obtained, you and Dieter make your way through the airport, luggage in hand, knapsacks on your backs. There’s someone waiting for Dieter to drive you and him to the hotel. 

You still can’t believe this is real, that you’re in France with Dieter Bravo.

- - - - 

The hotel can’t give you your own room, since they are fully booked with the production company and cast of the movie. The best they can do is offer a king room. That’s fine you tell yourself. You’ve shared close sleeping quarters with Dieter before, usually unintentionally, but somehow this seems different. 

“I can take the couch,” you offer immediately once you’ve made it to the room.

Dieter shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. I’ve shared beds before. I know you have, too.” 

He’s right. You’re just friends. This will be fine. 

“Plus, it’s big enough that it’s like we have our own beds anyway.” He tries to ignore the growing feeling of confusion and botherment at this. Has there been a glitch in his brain? There must have been. Or he’s just tired from the flight.

Gratefully, you don’t notice. “You’re right,” you reply. “It’ll be fine. Also, that bed looks super fucking comfortable, like lying on a cloud.”

Dieter grins. “Right? Ugh, I’m just thinking about how nice it’ll be after long shooting days to just collapse into it.”

He flops down on the bed, stretching out with a satisfied groan. He somehow manages to take up half of the bed with his limbs spread out like he’s making a snow angel. 

You shove him over, lying down on the bed too. Oh, god. It’s soft.

Dieter’s sunglasses are askew on his face. You lean over and take them off, putting them on you instead. At his exaggerated pout, you give a saccharine sweet smile before pulling the glasses off and putting them on the nightstand. You stretch out your legs. Turning to your side, you see that Dieter is lying on his side facing you, twisting one of his rings around his finger. “Ready for filming?” you ask.

“I think so. Thank fuck it doesn’t start for a few days.” He fights a yawn. “D’you wanna do some sightseeing tomorrow or something?” 

“That sounds nice. Apparently this is a very historic part of the country. It dates back really far.” 

Dieter frowns. “Isn’t all of Europe dated back really far?” His eyelids are drooping. 

The two of you decide to power through and attempt to adjust to France’s time zone. While the meal on the plane was good for plane food, you’re starving. You’re always half-convinced that Dieter is a walking, talking stomach.

Wanting to get into your jammies, you order room service over the room’s iPad, using the English setting. “Maybe I should work on my French while I’m here,” you muse. “Surprise my mom when we get back.”

You have a month and a half at your disposal. a month and a half to unwind and have some time to yourself, to pick yourself back up. Figure things out. Gratefully, you don’t have to do it on your own. 

The room service is delivered and you have a small feast on the hotel room floor before attempting to unpack. There is a large wardrobe in addition to a dresser that you share with Dieter. Glaring domesticity aside, it’s a very good setup. While you finish unpacking, Dieter takes a shower. 

Getting into your pajamas (stolen from Dieter), you climb into the massive bed and get cozy. You’re mostly passed out by the time Dieter comes out of the bathroom. You vaguely feel the dip of the bed on his side, so far away from your side. The comforter is warm, the pillow plush, the mattress just right. His breathing evens out and lulls you into sleep. 

It’s early when you wake up. The sun is just barely making its way over the horizon. You’re wide awake but you’re cozy. Dieter’s shifted in sleep, or maybe you did, because you’ve almost met in the middle. He’s facing you, his hand outstretched. His lips are parted a little bit, enhancing his pout. 

Even in sleep, even rumpled like he is now, he’s pretty. You think you can admit that about your friend. 

If you listen close enough you think you can hear it drizzling outside. Checking your phone you see that it’s just before seven in the morning. Later than you thought but still early. You are wide awake. Maybe you can just rest. It’s too early to do anything right now. You’ve never done international travel like this before so the time change is going to kick your ass, at least for the first few days. And then you get to relive it all over again when you go home. 

Dieter wakes up a half hour or so later and makes the suggestion that you go out for breakfast before doing some sightseeing

- - - -

Three days later, Dieter begins filming. The call time is early; even when he’s trying to be quiet, Dieter doesn’t know how to be anything but loud. It’s as if it’s ingrained into his DNA. You’re used to it from the years of living next door as well as spending a lot of time in his apartment; you just roll back over and go back to sleep. 

You were stunned when there was nothing more than a platter of cheese and crackers as a cast social two days after arriving. Thinking that the cast and crew deserved more than just a paltry welcome, you’d asked the director and one of the producers if you could plan the wrap party. It would give you something to do on the days when Dieter was filming. Aimlessness was not a good fit on you, and you’d been wearing it for far too long. They had enthusiastically said yes, and given you the studio’s credit card number. They had the budget for what you had planned.

Dieter shows up at the hair and makeup trailer before shooting, his least favourite part about making a movie. He knows why he has to do it, but he’d prefer not to.

“I’m Kate, your makeup artist-slash-hairstylist for this movie.” Kate is a young woman in her late twenties, maybe a few years younger than him. She’s good-looking, he admits, but he doesn’t feel the need to hit on her as he has done in the past with makeup artists and hair stylists. Her eyes appraise him slowly. She’s checking him out, he realizes. 

Dieter doesn’t really respond to her talking. Kate seems shallow and bossy. In a way that he doesn’t like. She takes way too long on his hair, and spends a lot of the time not so subtly flirting with him; he doesn’t respond. He does have to admit, she’s good at making it look appropriate for the movie. Artfully tousled. “Thanks,” he grunts when she lets him go. The old him would have asked her out. Or, more likely, just asked her to sleep with him. He’s not that man anymore, hasn’t been for awhile. It wouldn’t be fair to you, when you’re sharing the room with him. That’s what he tells himself.

Not to mention, he doesn’t gel with her vibe or her personality. No, best to just keep his distance. She’ll get the hint sooner or later.

On his days off filming — or on days where filming starts late or ends early enough — you go on little sightseeing adventures together. They almost, almost, feel like dates. Dieter’s always been a touchy kind of person. You think it might be one of his love languages. You aren’t sure if it’s just Dieter being Dieter, where you are, or something more, but you are starting to feel like more than what you’re supposed to be with him. Especially the past couple of mornings when you had woken up and Dieter, who had started on the other side of the massive king-sized bed, had made his way to your side of the bed in his sleep, apparently needing to be closer to you. You’d woken up these past few mornings with his chest against your back, Dieter sound asleep. One morning when he’d woken up, you’d been facing him on your side. It could have just been your imagination, but you were sure that for a split second, his eyes had flickered down to your lips. And were you dreaming or did he lean in just a fraction for a second before getting up before his call time?

Today, you’re doing a self-guided tour of an old castle from the early Middle Ages, his hand in yours the entire time. At one point, he says something funny. You laugh and he smiles, his eyes crinkling, and he kisses you on the forehead. 

“You two make such a cute couple,” says another person on the tour in French. You don’t know enough French to know what she’s saying but understand two, cute and couple and can glean what she’s saying. Not knowing enough to dispute her claim and say that you and Dieter are just friends, despite the glitch in your mind returning and saying that you could be more than that, you just smile and nod politely, if a bit flustered. 

Truth of the matter, though, you worry that if you and Dieter do become more than friends, it will  be a lopsided love. That you will ultimately end up caring for him more than he would care for you. Or that he would only be with you because it’s easy to, for the sake of convenience. It would never work

You shake your head, trying to clear these intrusive thoughts. 

On Dieter’s end, it’s been almost four weeks of filming this movie. Kate still hasn’t picked up the hint that he’s not interested in her. He’s started name-dropping you more and more frequently around her, hoping that she’ll pick up that he’s interested in someone else, interested in you. He’s starting to realize that he maybe doesn’t just want to be friends with you. He once heard that love is friendship on fire. Dieter’s always admired you, your sense of humour, your kindness and empathy for other people. The way you always cheer him on because you’re genuinely happy for his successes and want him to do his best. Never asking for anything in return. It’s everything he admires. He’s never felt this sort of connection to anyone before. Not even Annika, who he had dated for a long time (at least by his standards). He didn’t invite you on this trip to get laid, not at all. Nor had he done it out of pity, like he sometimes worries is what you think. He’d done it because he wanted to do something nice for you. It was never his intention to fall for you, but here he is.

As Dieter is, though, he got a bit stuck in realizing that he’s in love with you. He thinks he’s been in love with you from the beginning, or almost from the beginning. He just got stuck in realizing. It always takes a while for his brain to catch up with what’s happening. But being here, with you, doing all these things, sharing a bed on purpose, has unlodged something in him. He thinks you might feel the same way. At least he hopes that you feel the same way. He knows you’re happy being his friend, maybe that’s all you think this relationship is. 

Sooner or later, you’re going to have to deal with this. 

- - - - 

There’s only one more day of shooting, tomorrow. It’s an early call time. The wrap party is planned and paid for, all ready for tomorrow night.  You’ve worked really hard on it. It is not over the top. Just something more than what was originally planned. “Have you ever considered doing event planning?” Dieter had asked when you had put the finishing touches on the plans. 

It was something new, but you enjoyed it. It gives a sense of purpose. You’ve always been organized, you like coordinating things like this. “Not until just now,” you’d answered. 

You’re sitting on the couch, looking over your plans for the party. Dieter sits next to you and plays with his friendship bracelet. It’s a silly little five-dollar thing, but he loves it. To him it is priceless. 

“Why do you still wear that?” you ask, shutting your laptop and placing it on the coffee table. 

Dieter looks up from the bracelet. “Because it’s one of my most prized possessions, that’s why. You gave it to me.” 

It had been a bit of a gag gift. When you first met, you’d talked about how difficult it was to make friends as an adult. “As a kid,” you’d said, “it’s so easy to make friends. You find someone that you share the same interests in and make friendship bracelets for each other. Boom, bang. Friends. It’s kind of hard to give a friendship bracelet to an adult.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Dieter had countered. “If someone gave me a friendship bracelet now, I’d know for sure that we were friends.” 

A few months had gone by, you’d forgotten about the conversation until you were out and about and saw them for sale at a vendors’ sale. You’d gotten one for Dieter and given it to him as a belated birthday gift. 

That had been four years ago. 

“You’re my friend, babe. My best friend,” Dieter says now, licking his lips, bracing himself for something. “But… it’s more than that now, isn’t it?” he asks. 

You think you might be going into cardiac arrest. “Um… what?” you ask. 

“You know what, honey. I know what, too. I think we both know what’s really happening between us.” 

Weakly, not even believing it yourself, you say, “We’re just friends, Dieter.” 

Dieter shakes his head, moving closer to you on the sofa. “We’re not just friends and you know it.” 

You’re about to say something, but you’re cut off by Dieter’s mouth pressing against yours. You must be dreaming. He swallows the gasp that you let out before you respond to his frankly yearning kiss. Something that you, and evidently he, has wanted for a very long time. 

“Dieter,” you whisper when he eventually breaks the kiss for a breath. “Are you–are you saying what I think you are?” 

Dieter kisses you again, more sweetly this time around. “I like you,” he murmurs. “And I don’t think friends kiss like that.” 

He pulls away from you for a minute, giving you space. You don’t want space. You want him on you. In you. You grasp the collar of his soft, worn-in t-shirt and pull him back, meeting his lips in a kiss that tells him just exactly what you think of his confession. 

Dieter pulls you into his lap. You can feel just how much he wants you. The effect you’re having on his body. You would say it’s too soon, but this has been in the making for four years at this point. 

Your hands scrabble at his shirt. His hands go up under your shirt, his fingers roaming your back around where your bra should be. His eyes widen when he realizes that you’re not wearing one. “That’s no fair, taking off the bra is one of the best parts about foreplay,” he whines against your neck in between kisses, nibbles, and grazes of his teeth. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” you reply, your hand roaming southward. Dieter hisses when your hand makes contact. 

There’s no way you can have sex on the couch. You could, but as Dieter says when he takes your hand and leads you to the bedroom, “there is a perfectly good, perfectly large bed that we haven’t been putting to proper use.” 

Which is how you find yourself spread out on the king-sized bed, Dieter on top of you. His pupils are blown with want for you. He can’t believe this is really happening. Neither can you. His shirt is off. His perpetually rumpled hair is an absolute mess. Your lips are beginning to swell, your soaked underwear a testament to how much you want this man. You almost laugh at yourself for being so incredibly stupid for not seeing or acting on this sooner. 

Dieter’s deft fingers pull away your leggings and your panties in one fell swoop, grinning when you’re laid bare for him. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful.” One of his fingers makes his way inside and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head in sheer ecstasy. How is your body going to react when it’s—? You don’t have a chance to finish that thought because he adds another finger. His mouth hovers around your thighs, his lips almost pressing but just barely. You’re already anticipating the beard burn later. And then, after several minutes of teasing, his mouth presses down on you, right where you want it to and you nearly die of pleasure. 

Not that you’d ever really given it much thought, but it makes perfect sense that Dieter is a generous lover. He’s been nothing but generous the entire time you’ve known him. 

He grunts in satisfaction, his words muffled to the point that you can’t understand them, let alone process what he’s saying. Of course he runs his mouth during sex, even when it can’t be understood. 

When he comes up once he’s satisfied with your own satisfaction, he rests his head against your chest. “I feel like this isn’t fair,” you murmur once you find your voice. 

He gives a worried frown. “What isn’t fair?” 

You gesture to yourself and to him. “I’m naked and you’re still wearing your jammie pants. I feel like there’s an unfairness to this.” 

Dieter’s eyes glint. His smile is so bright it’s like he’s being lit from the inside. “All in good time. I’m just letting you catch your breath.” 

Sure enough, within a few minutes, even if he doesn’t give you a lot of time, you’re helping him take his pants off, suddenly eternally grateful that there are condoms in the bedside drawers courtesy of the hotel. 

Dieter pushes inside of you, biting down gently on your shoulder, and then he starts to move and holy shit, you think you might just die from how good it feels. 

“Take what you need,” he gasps between thrusts. “My pretty girl. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking pretty,” he continues to mutter. 

The two of you don’t last long. The only sounds in the room are the slapping of your hips, gasps and grunts and sighs of pleasure, and skin on skin. You suck marks into his neck, not giving a shit at all that his makeup artist is going to have to cover them up tomorrow morning. 

“Dieter, I–I–I think I’m close.” You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in even more. Hips stutter against each other as Dieter’s movements become less pronounced. 

You cry out, burying your face in the crook of his neck, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck as you reach that peak that you created together at the same time as Dieter does. 

Sweat-glistened and delightfully sore, you start to laugh. 

“What’s so funny, beautiful?” asks Dieter. 

“We are such dumbasses for not doing this sooner.” You don’t say anything else, not daring to jinx it. Tonight feels impossible, like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

Dieter strokes your shoulder, a teasing glint in his eye that you can’t see. “Oh, don’t worry about that, baby. I fully intend on making up for lost time.” 

- - - - 

The alarm goes off far too soon. You are warm, safe in Dieter’s arms. If it weren’t from the ache between your legs, you’d say that the events of last night — and twice again in the early hours of the morning—were a dream. You moan in protest and bury your face in his chest

“Baby,” Dieter groans. “I gotta get up.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his lips in a sleepy kiss. He sighs into it. “I gotta go, babe. But I’ll see you at the wrap party. There’s something that I gotta talk to you about.”

The old Dieter would have just assumed that you were together after having sex. You deserve more than that. He wants to ask you properly to be his girlfriend, wants to ask you out on a date that’s actually a date. Preferably while you’re still here in France, the most romantic country in the world. Not much can top that for a first official date. 

You’re still too sleepy to respond with more than a, “Mmmkay.” Dieter kisses you again and then, very begrudgingly, gets up for the last day of filming.

Kate notices his hickies almost immediately. She narrows her eyes. “Hmmm,” she mutters to herself. Dieter’s still caught up from last night and what happened that he neither notices nor cares, too excited at the prospect of asking you to be his girlfriend properly.

You spend most of the day doing final preparations for the wrap party, smiling every time you think about last night. You hope whatever Dieter wants to talk to you about is good news. 

Filming wraps early in the afternoon. You’re out doing errands when Dieter returns to the hotel to take a nap, shower, and change. You left a little note for him on the pillow telling him that you will see him this evening. 

The party is in full swing when Dieter arrives. You’ve done such a good job of organizing it, not that he doubted you for a second. He sees you at the buffet table. You excuse yourself from the conversation, heading towards the washroom. Before he can follow you, he’s intercepted. 

Kate stands in front of him. She’s wearing a glittering black dress and a look of determination. 

“Kate,” he greets politely. “How are you?”

Kate skips the niceties. “Dieter, I’m tired of being subtle, I guess you prefer more upfront than what I’ve been giving.”

Dieter’s insides twist with dread and discomfort. “Kate, I’m sorry if—”

She barrels over his unnecessary apology: “You’re cute, Dieter. I think we would look really great together.” That’s not presumptuous at all, Dieter thinks sarcastically. “So I think we should cut the bullshit. You didn’t need to make me jealous with those tacky hickies this morning. I say we just go for it, get to know each other outside of the makeup trailer.” Kate rests a hand on his arm, in an attempt to be seductive.

Dieter feels absolutely nothing. Removing her hand from his arm gently but firmly, he says, “I’m flattered. But I’m not interested. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve been clear from the beginning.”

Kate wasn’t expecting that. She blinks. “I see. So then, who gave you those?” 

Dieter smiles and turns around to where you’ve returned. You look confused to see him with Kate. “See that beautiful woman right over there? She’s the one who planned all this. She’s also my best friend and the love of my life. She makes me so fucking happy. Happier than I probably have any right being. But that’s okay. I love her. You’re… a nice-looking girl, I’m sure you’ll make someone very happy. It’s just not me. Sorry,” he says, not sounding or feeling at all apologetic. 

He leaves her standing there, gaping at the notion that someone would turn her down. 

“Hey, baby,” Dieter greets you, kissing your forehead. “You did such a great job with this party, I’m so proud of you.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks, Dee. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Dieter doesn’t think that’s true; you could do anything. “Um. What was that all about?” you ask, pointing over at who you’re pretty sure is the makeup artist, who’s now talking to one of the other cast members, a barely stifled look of incredulity and annoyance on her face. You’d been momentarily insecure when you came back from fixing your dress, that what Dieter wanted to tell you was that last night had been a one-time thing. But then Dieter looked at you like you were the sun and all your insecurities had melted away. 

“Oh. That. I was telling her about you and how I’m in love with you.” 

You have to blink a few times before a coy grin grows on your lips. “Is that all?” you ask.

Dieter grins, then turns serious, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s all I told her. But there’s more I want to tell you. I, um,” he clears his throat, “I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to make this a real thing. I know I’m not the best at this, but I want to make it work with you. I also want to take you on a date. A proper one where we both know it is one. What do you say?” he asks, heart in his throat.

You gaze at him wonderingly for a moment before you take his hand in yours, lean up and kiss him. 

“Is—is that a yes?” Dieter asks nervously. 

With a contagious smile, you nod. “Yes, Dieter. Yes.” 

You kiss him again, beyond grateful that you were lucky enough to fall in love with your weird, beautiful, wonderful best friend. This isn’t a glitch, this is meant to be; you were always meant to be more than just friends and you couldn’t be more lucky that it’s with him.

The End

--- taglist in reblog.

[3pirouette]

Fic: The Captain and The Missus (3/?)

Title: The Captain and The Missus 

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Spoilers: AU of CA:TFA

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :) 

Story Summary: Instead of wanting to recreate the serum, Schmidt wants every trace of it wiped from existence so he can be the sole one to benefit from it. This means that Steve’s life is in danger, and Peggy’s new job is to keep him alive as he travels in hiding with the USO tour. 

Story A/N: AU of CA: TFA, based on @roboticonography’s idea of having Peggy go on tour with Steve as “Mrs. America”

(Robot’s post HERE: https://3pirouette.tumblr.com/post/654017864817360896/steggy-24-49)

SO... Yes. yes, it's true. I've somehow managed to only update this once a year during the past three years for Steggy Week. At least I'm consistent.

For 2023, this satisfies Steggy Week Day 2: WIPs and Updates.

Chapter 3: Getting on the Right Track

Summary: Peggy and Steve are off on their adventure, but she’ll need to start relying on him just as much as she wants him to rely on her if this is going to work.

A/N: Yes. I’ve now posted one chapter a year for three years in a row for Steggy Week. It’s become tradition. I think a lot of it has to do with this story really just coming slow. I love it, but it’s not flowing as nicely as I’d like it to, so when I get to Steggy Week, I see the WIP category, and go “oh! I should update that!”

So, yeah. Please be kind about it.

~*~

Peggy huffed as she sat on the bench, sliding over to make room for him, irritated. “I’m already not liking this.”

Steve settled softly, trying to tuck his body into a space that used to seem roomy to his 90-pound self, and now seemed cramped for his new body. “The seat?” He turned and looked up the aisle. “I can ask the conductor if there’s—"

“No, no,” she interrupted him, setting her bag on her lap and playing with the edge. “Playing the nagging wife. ‘Oh, do be gentle! My grandmother’s china is in there! Please keep that on the bottom, men, I don’t want it tipping. Oh, could you do me a favor and make sure all our trunks are labeled? Couldn’t lose one, you know!’” She huffed again, looking over at him, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Those men nearly dropped that entire trunk full of ammunition and finely tuned decoders!”

Steve looked alarmed and dropped his voice, leaning in to her. “Could they have exploded?”

She pressed her lips and turned away for a moment, trying not to be angry for his ignorance. “No,” she mumbled, looking back, “But we won’t get another chance at getting more decoders or half of the other kit in there if something breaks or de-calibrates. It won’t explode, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t delicate.”

Steve nodded, letting the information settle for a moment. “I was a little curious why you were being so specific about them.”

Peggy glanced around the sparsely populated car, still caught up in her anxiety. The car ride to the train station had been quiet, which she had hoped came across as contentment, but it was really more her nerves than anything. “I understand why we couldn’t take a transport, but I’d take a well-trained private over a single one of those brutes tossing around our luggage any day. I felt like I was running basic training all over again out there. Everyone on this train must think you’re horribly hen-pecked.”

For a moment she saw that 90-pound man reemerge as he twiddled his thumbs and his jaw opened and closed as he tried to come up with an answer that would appease her. It was enough to crack the wall of growing anxiety and soften her just a little bit. She took pity on him and set her hand on his to stop the fidgeting. “I’m being ridiculous.” She started another sentence, but had to turn away as she yawned, big and wide, into her elbow.

“Tired?” Steve asked, his fingers almost, but not quite, holding her hand.

She sighed, turning back to him as the train rumbled to life under them. “A bit. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

“Why don’t you take a nap?” He shrugged, half smiling. “We’ve got, what… six hours?”

Peggy clicked her tongue behind her teeth and pulled her hand back, sitting tall. “That’s exactly why I can’t take a nap.” She took a deep breath, looking around the train. “Beginnings and endings of operations are the most dangerous part. Anyone could have followed us here. I can’t let my guard down for a second.”

“Peggy,” he started, almost stern, “there’s barely anyone on this train car. I don’t think that the eighty-year-old woman or the two little kids over there are planning anything nefarious. How could they have figured out our plan and followed us here already?”

She looked at him hard, knowing he was trying to placate her. “How, indeed?” She mused sarcastically, “And how do you think a Hydra Agent managed his way into a top secret SSR bunker to try to kill you and Erskine, hum?” She didn’t mean to be sharp, didn’t mean to open the wound that was still too close to the surface, but the thought still kept her up at night.

That man shouldn’t have been able to get in there. Someone in the SSR was ratting them out to Hydra.

That meant that nothing, nothing they were going to do that anyone else knew about, was safe.

Especially putting Steve in this damn show.

Steve nodded in understanding, shrugging half-heartedly, a shadow passing over his face at the thoughts of what had happened. “I get it, I do.”

“I have to keep you safe.” She replied softly, urgency filling her voice. “I can’t let my guard down, even for a moment.”

“So what?” he didn’t miss a beat, his own eyes accusing now, “You’re not going to ever fall asleep?”

“Well, I—”

He shook his head. “No, Peg. This isn’t one sided.”

She leaned forward, dropping her voice down low, “It’s my job to keep you alive, and I’m damn well not going to—”

He reached over, grabbing her hand. The movement was enough to derail her frustration and turn it to curiosity as he held her left hand up to his. “This, Peg, says we’re partners.” He moved his hands, letting their matching rings shine in the light, smiling a little and letting his own frustration morph to earnestness. “For better or for worse. Like it or not. You and me against the world.”

Peggy didn’t want to admit that the moment, born out of frustration and desperation, was extremely tender, or that she felt a little thrill of excitement at the confident, strong way he took her hand, or that she felt cared for in the soft way that he cradled her hand as he lined up their rings. No, she tried to ignore the fact that his eyes were damn near sparkling as he said those words, filled with all the emotions she was feeling, and maybe even more. She really, really didn’t want to admit that of all the moments in her life, that was the most damn romantic of them all.

“Steve, I…” Her voice drifted away. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, but she knew she needed to protest, needed to change this moment before it got way out of hand.

“We’re a team,” he whispered. “The moment we left that base this morning, it was just us. I don’t like to think about the fact that someone has already tried to kill me, and that it’ll probably happen again, and I don’t like thinking about the fact that you’re in that line of fire with me. But you’re here to protect me, and even though no one’s said it before now, I’m saying it and I mean it: I’m protecting you, too.”

Peggy struggled for composure; she tried to keep a straight face when everything inside her was falling apart. She’d never been one for big declarations or sappy sentiments and coming from anyone else, it might have felt trite or overly sugary, but Peggy knew with every fiber of her being that Steve meant it. He well and truly meant it.

She couldn’t remember if anyone had ever said something so simple in such a profound way to her before. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever believed someone so fervently before.

It was a struggle to pull her focus back out, to keep the world from closing in until there was just the two of them, hands cradled together, train bouncing below them as Steve just happened to outdo her ex-fiance’s proposal of marriage in a few earnest words, but she managed it. “Thank you,” she whispered, knowing the words were not enough for the depth of the sentiment he just expressed. She forced the tension to break with a smile, squeezing his hand. “You don’t need to work so hard, Steve, I’ve already married you.”

He chuckled, the heaviness around them lightening almost instantly. He looked away, ears turning red as he whispered into the aisle, “Maybe I’m trying to get you to fall in love with me.”

“Hum?” The questioning sound was out of her throat before she could stop herself. She knew very well what he’d said, but didn’t quite want to believe it. She managed to keep a straight face as he panicked, letting go of her hand and shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he tried to cover, poorly, and forced a nervous smile at her. “You should take a nap, really.”

Her smile only lifted her lips a little as she ducked her head. “To be honest, I don’t know if I could if I wanted to, I’m still so keyed up.”

This time his smile was genuine as he rooted in his pocket to pull out a small paperback. “Offer stands. I don’t need much sleep these days, anyway.”

She watched him, unabashedly, as he turned to the book and flipped through until he found his page. Without thought she reached out, hand wrapping around his wrist to get his attention. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

“That meant a lot,” she managed to choke out, uncomfortable with the way the words made her feel exposed, but knowing she needed to make him understand how she felt, “what you said about us. You and me.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Together against the world.”

“Yes,” she could feel the stress start to drain from her. “A team.” She took a slow, deep breath. It was like the worry, the anxiety of the last two days was getting left behind them with each passing second and each mile they put between the base and themselves, but she’d never been more serious. “I’m going to hold up my end, Steve, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he put down the book, flipping his hand and lacing their fingers together. “And I’ll keep up mine.”

~*~

She remembered holding his hand, contentedly, looking out the window and pretending she was watching the landscape pass them by while he read with one hand, but instead took the time to clock each and every passenger, to look them over in the reflection and try to gauge their threat level.

Somewhere after the pre-teen boy three rows up, she realized she had her head on his shoulder. It didn’t much seem to matter, though, as she could still hear him turning pages and they were supposed to be married, after all.

Just after the man two rows back, she thought that she’d just close her eyes for a minute.

Just one.

And five hours later, she woke up tucked into Steve’s side as the train slowed, chugging into the station.

~*~

They were hustled from the station to the theater by a small man with a pinched face, who seemed both annoyed by and indifferent to their presence. He assured them that their trunks would make it to their hotel room safely before he ushered them off the platform and into a small car.

She was both impressed and somewhat relieved that Steve managed to make his own fuss about the trunks as they were ushered off the train, she didn’t even need to speak a word on the subject.

They were quiet in the car, the trip quite a bit longer than they expected. “I thought we were going to be in DC?” Steve asked as the man navigated the streets.

“The show will open in DC, rehearsals are outside of the city,” the man replied. “Your hotel is close to the theater, don’t worry.” He grumbled, mumbling under his breath, “I know you’re worried about your trunks.”

Peggy tried to hold back her smile, but couldn’t. Steve gave her a gentle tap with his elbow, and she acknowledged his performance on the subject with a grateful bow of her head.

“How are you feeling?” He spoke softly. Even though they were bound to be overheard by their driver, who was under no obligation to keep anything he heard a secret, his soft voice went a long way to making the question feel at least a little private.

“Much better,” she replied just as quietly. “Suppose I was more tired than I thought.”

She expected a smile, or maybe a flirt- something he’d been more confident in over the last day- but instead he sobered and dropped his voice even lower. “I’m glad you felt safe enough. I always want you to feel safe with me.”

She couldn’t help but smile this time. “I do.”

~*~

It occurred to Peggy, as she walked into the theater, that she’d never been in one as something other than a patron. She’d gone for films and for the occasional play, even to hear concerts… but she’d never been in a theater where she wasn’t ushered to her seat and treated to a performance.

She was stunned as she followed Steve through the backstage area, stepping over coils of rope and avoiding scattered set-pieces that were half painted and half built. The bright white backstage lights were nothing compared to the colorful performance lights she was used to. She’d always thought theaters seemed too glamorous, so frivolous, and yet, there was exposed, dirty brick and sawdust everywhere. There wasn’t a luxurious velvet curtain in sight and instead it seemed little more than a warehouse with an audience.

It left her with an odd feeling of awareness, as if it was the first time she realized everything she’d seen on a stage really was just smoke and mirrors, sets and rigs and pulleys that made Peter Pan fly and Hamlet’s father rise from the grave. Seeing the lighting rigs bare overhead and the mess of lights and wires and rope on the stage made her feel a peculiar sensation, as if she was seeing something no one was ever meant to see.

“About six feet to the left!”

The shout pulled her out of her thoughts, and immediately reminded her that this was a place that posed an extreme danger for the both of them. The man who was shouting was a rotund man standing just below the stage, eyes on the two workers hanging a large American Flag from the rigging. He shook his head then caught sight of them, only looking slightly interested.

“You must be my headliners!” He gestured for their pinch-faced chauffeur to bring them down the stairs to him. He watched as Steve helped Peggy down the steep steps at the front of the stage with a hand, the raw wood wobbly. “Don’t worry about that,” he bellowed, “They may be unsteady, but they won’t be there for the show. Just while we’re getting the stage set up.” He shot a careful look over to where the men were hanging the flag, “It’s been busy around here since we got the rewrites.”

He held out his hand to Steve, “I’m Walter Pennington, Producer.”

“Steve Rogers,” He shook his hand, pulling back when he saw the man fight to keep a pleasant face at his strength. “And this is my wife, Peggy.”

Peggy knew right away what kind of man he was by the fact that he barely acknowledged her. No handshake, and barely even a nod. Instead, he kept his attention on Steve. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to being looked over, but rather that it always stung.

“Well, they weren’t lying that you’re strong,” Walter said, flexing his hand a few times. “That’s good.” He took another short glance at Peggy. “We were surprised you’d want to bring the little lady with you, never mind incorporate her into the show.” He laughed, “I’m even more shocked Brandt went for it.”

Steve glanced over at Peggy. Neither of them had been briefed on what, exactly, Brant had told the people who were making the show, and she realized that her nap today really was lost time. They had no story put together and would be making things up as they went- at least for today.

That was always dangerous territory.

“Well, we’re still newlyweds,” Steve managed the reply fairly quickly, pulling Peggy into his side. “How could I leave a gal like this back home?”

She felt Steve’s hand just barely tighten at her shoulder, and she could tell he was just as uncomfortable with the man’s suggestive gaze as she was. “I guess not,” Pennington finally mumbled, though Peggy was sure there was something else he wanted to say.

Walter cleared his throat and finally looked at her face, addressing her directly. “I suppose we can work you into a few of the singing numbers, though that’s really up to the director.”

“I don’t sing,” she declared, arching an eyebrow at the man. His clothes said high class but the way he leered at her proved he hadn’t had a proper upbringing.

“Well, then,” he looked her up and down again, not hiding it, “At least you’ll look good in the kick line.”

Peggy wished she could punch him, the way he looked at her reminiscent of far too many men who thought they were better than her. She could feel Steve tensing up beside her. “And I don’t dance.”

He cleared his throat, crossing his arms. “Oh, you don’t, huh?” He leaned over to Steve, “What does she do?”

“Well, she…” Steve stuttered only for a second, thinking on his feet and smiling that boyish smile of his, “she’s swell at telling stories, pretty versatile, really, and just look at that smile!”

The producer turned his head back to her and she flashed him her best grin, trying her best to hide the disgust and sarcasm. “’Swell’ at telling stories?” He sighed. “I’m supposed to sell a great American hero who married a Brit?”

“I mean, we are allies,” Steve tried to rationalize.

Walter sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “What did Brandt think, you were going to stand on stage and smile? You might have a nice set of gams there, but that and a nickel will get you a cup of coffee.”

“I think you’ll find,” Peggy started loud, clear, and very American sounding, “that I can blend in quite well when necessary. I’m happy to affect any accent you’ll need for the stage, and do most anything except sing and dance.”

Walter looked up at Steve, obviously not used to being talked to in that manner by a woman, waiting for Steve to say something to her. Instead, he gave her a little squeeze and met the man’s confused gaze with a proud smirk. “That’s my girl!”

He wasn’t pleased, and he didn’t try to hide it. “Rehearsals start tomorrow, you’ll get your script then.”

“How long will we be here in rehearsals?” Steve asked, genuinely interested. Peggy wanted to know, too. They had woefully little information about the process.

“Three weeks of rehearsals then a soft opening run of four shows here. You open in DC for a week, then there’s a cross country schedule.” He tipped his head to their chauffeur who had stayed close. “Dave there will bring you to your hotel.”

Peggy almost smiled. Their pinch-faced man had a name. Dave.

“You need anything while you’re here, you ask Dave. Once you’re on the road, you’re on your own. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve replied, almost reflexively.

Walter looked him up and down once more. “Yeah, I think they’ll believe you belong in the army.” He turned away from them, mumbling as he left, “Damn government contract.”

Peggy had only the barest of moments to share a stunned look with Steve before they were interrupted by Dave, who stepped in front of them and motioned for them to follow him back through the audience.

~*~

Their hotel was not quite homey, but not quite bleak: two high towers full of rooms with a central connecting lobby filled with the dining room and common rooms. It was housing all the staff and performers for the show, most of whom, at least according to Dave, already knew each other from being on the performance circuit.

Steve unlocked their room, pocketing the key and swinging open the door wide. It wasn’t much: pale cream colors on the walls and faded floral bedsheets with matching curtains, a worn loveseat and a tiny table with two unsteady chairs. The bathroom was small, but having their own private one was a luxury.

“Not too bad,” Steve mused, walking around. He patted the tops of their trunks, sitting across from the bed. “How do you think they fared?”

“Well enough, I’m sure.” Peggy smiled just a little, eyes falling on the single bed. “Better than a tent on the front,” she mused.

He chuckled a little, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Very big upgrade,’ he agreed. “Should we unpack?”

Peggy held up her hand, her wife façade falling and the agent taking over, serious and stoic. She pulled a small black box from her purse and flicked a small button, moving it up and down as she slowly side stepped her way through the room. She slid it over the dresser and under the bed, in the small shower stall and behind the toilet. Finally, she sighed happily, clicking the box off and gesturing to the room. “Proceed.”

He didn’t move, but rather pointed to the box in her hand. “What was that?”

“One of Howard’s designs,” she held it up, admiring it with a small smile. She tapped the small, dark bulb on the end. “It lights up in the presence of an electronic listening device.”

Steve looked around the room, crestfallen that he had been so blindly trusting of their accommodations. “So… we’re good?”

“For bugs? Yes. Though the walls seem about as thick as a piece of parchment, so we should get used to keeping our voices down.”

His shoulders fell just a bit more as the whole thing became just a little more real to him. “You… you really think I’m in danger here?”

Her lips pressed tight as she looked up to him, she forced the tiniest of smiles. “I think that Colonel Phillips is one of the smartest men I’ve ever worked with, and despite his misgivings about you, he’s a keen judge of people. I also think that if the goal was to simply guard you or keep you safe, not only are there many other people besides myself who can do that job, it could be easily accomplished by putting you in a cell in Alamogordo. The Colonel has a great distrust of Senator Brandt, and made sure I was the one sent with you. Brandt didn’t make that pick, no matter how he tried to sell it- Phillips did. He told me himself.” She took a deep breath. “He had this show all ready for you to go in to without more than a day’s notice, and is a main suspect in how that Hydra Agent got past our defenses. Whatever’s going on, Phillips wasn’t just trusting anyone with this, and I’m not going to take any of it lightly.”

He was silent for a moment, taking in all he hadn’t known: that Phillips picked Peggy, not Brandt, and that Brandt was a suspect for being in cahoots with Hydra. “Thank you,” he finally whispered out, forcing himself to move on. “I guess… I guess we should get unpacked.”

Peggy shook her head, “Only the littlest bit. If we make it look like we’re living out of the trunks, it’s less suspicious that we’re not unpacking two of them.”

He nodded, undoing the straps on the top one and opened it, moving aside to let Peggy see the artillery had made it safe and sound. “We should put these on the bottom, I think, and ours on top so it’ll be harder for anyone to snoop.”

Peggy smiled up at him, proud. “Thinking like a spy already!” She reached in and pulled out a small handgun and a little filled canvas bag. “That should do for now, make sure those straps are tight.”

Peggy set her bounty on the counter and moved to the second trunk as Steve tightened the straps and moved it deeper in the room, setting it in the back corner, then grabbing another trunk and stacking it on top of it. Peggy pulled out a pair of retractable batons and the boxes of clothes Howard had sent with them, setting those on the counter as well. When she turned back, Steve was at the edge of the bed, holding a small, wrapped package, looking more than a little bashful.

“I, uh…” he laughed nervously, looking down at his toes. “This seemed like a good idea at the time, but uh, seems corny now.”

“What is it?” Peggy asked softly, taking a small step closer and fighting to keep her hands from fidgeting in the folds of her skirt.

Steve turned red, but met her eyes with a big smile that reminded her of the one she’d seen on him at the beginning of basic training. “A wedding present.”

She swallowed, hard. “I… I haven’t gotten you anything.” The retort seemed silly, even to her ears, but it somehow relaxed him.

“I didn’t expect you to. I just…” He shrugged and stepped forward, holding it out. “Here.”

She took it in her hands, soft and light, and let her fingers run over the brown paper wrapping and the little blue ribbon bow around it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a properly wrapped present. She realized she was taking her time, and looked up at him, smiling. “Thank you,” she almost whispered, still surprised.

He shoved his hands back in his pockets, shoulders up to his ears. Slowly she pulled at the bow, and separated the paper to reveal a piece of black fabric that looked suspiciously like a garter belt, but with a little more fabric to it. She looked up at him, his cheeks slowly burning red with embarrassment. “A garter?”

“It’s- it’s a holster.” He reached out one hand, almost touching it, then pulling back. “Or it’s supposed to be, anyway.” He cleared his throat and fought for composure. “After you left Howard’s lab yesterday he mentioned that his butler’s wife was a seamstress and had done the majority of the sewing for the… stuff he gave you.” Peggy fought to not laugh at how cute he was, struggling around the topic. “Anyway, he seemed to think there was some left, so I asked if she could make you something nice. Anna seemed to think you’d find this more useful.”

That caught her up short, even as she pulled the holster up to look at it. “She knows?”

Steve shrugged. “I was as surprised as you are, but apparently all she knows is that the fabric Howard gave her is supposed to be a lighter version of armor, and she figured if you’d need armor you’d need this.” One side of his lips turned up. “Sounded like a good idea, to me.”

Peggy smiled. The holster was genius: made out of the same protective fabric that the stockings and slips were made of, it would lay extremely flat against her thigh and the flap at the top would keep the shape from being too conspicuous. She’d been worried how she was going to keep a firearm on her when she needed to be on stage, and this had just made it very, very easy. “This is wonderful, Steve. Thank you.”

“You like it?” He sounded like a hopeful little boy.

Peggy bent over and slid it up her leg, reaching out and settling the small handgun she’d pulled from the trunk in it. “I love it!” She let her skirt fall back over her legs, and noticed that he’d looked away while her bare thigh was on display. She spun, letting the skirt settle. “Can you tell it’s there?”

He looked, swallowing as he stared at her legs. “Uh, no. No, I can’t.”

She smiled brightly. “Then it’s perfect.”

~*~

Peggy felt better with the gun nestled against her thigh as they walked down to the lobby. With the entirety of the show’s cast and crew staying at the hotel, they were providing breakfast and dinner each day. Steve and Peggy stopped at the double doors of the small banquet room, watching the people, most of whom seemed to know one another, hustle around the large buffet and bounce from table to table, chatting.

“Not too much different from the mess, I guess.” Steve mumbled, tugging at his shirt sleeves. The civilian clothes he changed into fit him tight across the shoulders, almost too tight, and the pants were too big by at least two sizes. Most of the clothes he brought with him needed tailoring, badly, but they were all he could piece together on short notice.

He’d only had this physique for less than a week, after all, and none of his old clothes fit. Even the socks were too small.

Peggy slipped her arm through his, setting them forward. “Stay close, please.”

“Not a problem,” he mumbled, trying to force smiles as they moved through the room. It was easy enough, stepping in line and filling plates. No one questioned that they were supposed to be there as everyone was enthralled in their own dinner conversations. Peggy struggled to split her attention, eyeing each performer in the room, looking for someone whose gaze lingered just a little too long or whose eyebrows knit a little too deeply, while trying to decide what to eat. Apparently, rationing wasn’t quite as bad here as it was in London, and nowhere near what it had been on the front lines. Bowls and platters were full of chicken and mashed potatoes and rolls and butter and there were little cakes at the end of the line that made her do a double take.

She hadn’t seen a proper dessert in months.

“Bloody Nora,” she mumbled, trying to keep from letting her eyes pile more than she could eat on her plate.

“Yeah, it’s a good spread,” Steve whispered beside her, not being shy about piling his plate high. “Better than rations, huh?”

She carefully picked out just one of the little finger cakes at the end of the table and looked up at him, astounded. “Does everyone in America eat like this?”

“This?” He laughed a little, taking his own cake and then following her to a corner where there was a free table. “No. This is pretty extravagant.” He set his plate down, noticing she set them in the corner, where they’d both have a good line of vision to keep nearly the whole dining room in view. “I’ll go grab us some drinks. Water? Tea?”

“Water, please” she replied, still a little shell shocked. She watched him take the few steps to another table and fill two tall glasses and she unfurled her napkin and revealed the silverware that had been waiting for them on the table. The room still buzzed, but she could see that it was with a jovial familiarity. People were talking like old friends, making new friends, smiling and laughing.

The mood, and the food, was a far cry from the front she’d grown used to during her time with the SSR. She wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse. It certainly made her anxious.

Steve slid in across from her, setting her glass down. He smiled and pulled out his silverware, taking no time before tucking into his food. He stopped a few bites in when he realized she hadn’t started. He hurriedly wiped his mouth like a little kid and sat up tall. “Did… did you want to say grace or something?”

“No, sorry,” Peggy lifted her fork and tried to smile. “Just… people watching, I suppose.”

He started eating again, this time a little slower, with his eyes on her more often. “Did you… notice anything?”

Peggy swallowed and dabbed at her lips, moving her peas around her plate with the fork. “No, which bothers me.” She sighed quietly, leaning in towards him, “I’m used to knowing more about the situations I’m headed into. We know nothing about these people. I don’t even know who could be lying about who they are because I don’t have any dossiers on them at all.”

“Brandt didn’t give you any of that stuff?” Steve asked, his eyebrow knitting as he speared a piece of chicken.

She shook her head, chewing a forkful of potatoes thoughtfully. “I suppose I could get their bios and headshots somehow, but it still gives us little to go on.”

Steve tapped the fork against his lips, looking around. “What if… what if it’s not anyone here?” He turned back to her. “Wouldn’t it be easier to be an audience member?”

Peggy sipped on her water, nodding. “Could do, yeah.” She looked around, too, picking at her chicken that had seemed so appetizing just a few minutes ago. “Easy in and out. But if it were me? Someone in the show would be invaluable.”

“Like you,” Steve mumbled, looking at his plate and shoving a big forkful in his lips before he could say anymore.

Peggy’s heart skipped a beat, but before she could reply, a shadow slid over them. They both looked up to a bright, smiling face. “So, you must be the guy?”

“Excuse me?” Steve swallowed hard.

“Like, the guy, right? As in Mister Captain America?” She smiled and pulled the chair behind her up to the table. “I’m Angie,” she held out her hand, waiting for Steve to take it.

“Steve.” His handshake was tentative, but that didn’t seem to deter her.

She turned right away and held it out to Peggy, too. “And you must be the Missus!”

“Peggy,” she swallowed the mouthful of food she’d forgotten about, pulling her free hand to cover her mouth as she shook Angie’s hand. “Sorry, you surprised me.”

“Me?” Angie chuckled, eyes wide as she looked Peggy over. “You’re the surprise!” She let her voice drop, telling Peggy a secret she knew Steve could hear. “I mean, I was cast as Betty Carver, so I was a little disappointed when I heard I was getting dropped down to feature.”

Peggy watched Angie’s face fall when neither she nor Steve seemed to react to that. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who that is?” Peggy shrugged, trying to play it off as being dim. “We haven’t been given a script yet.”

Angie’s face went from disappointed to outraged. “You haven’t been…” Her mouth worked in disbelief as she looked between the two of them. “Who is your agent? We’ve all had the songs and script for weeks now!”

Peggy felt the sentence hit her like a punch in the gut: whatever Brandt had been planning, it had been going on for weeks, not days. Though they’d both known this couldn’t have been put together in the last few days, the realization that there was already a plan to center around some ultra-strong American hero bothered her deeply. She tried hard not to react to the plain panic in Steve’s eyes while Angie’s face was still on her. She made a snap decision, and decided the more honest they were, the better. “Agent? Why- the US Army, of course!”

Angie laughed, brushing Peggy’s comment away with her hand. “You’re funny! No- come on- tell me so we can help you guys get it all straightened out!” Angie’s smile faded as she watched Peggy’s straight face barely move. “Wait- you’re- you’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“But- this… this is a show. Why would the Army…” She looked between the two of them, truly confused.

Steve cleared his throat and stepped in. “There, uh, was an accident.” He looked down, and kept his eyes averted in a way that Peggy knew meant he was uncomfortable with what he was doing. “I couldn’t serve the way I wanted to, and some of the higher ups thought that this might be the best place for me.”

Peggy watched Angie’s face as she shifted uncomfortably. The young woman clearly hadn’t been prepared for what she thought was an injured veteran before her. Peggy reached out and took Steve’s hand, letting her thumb rub over the knuckle. “We’re very lucky to be here right now,” she nearly whispered, proud of how he’d managed to play his role.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” Angie, for her part, was now mortified, hands covering her mouth as she looked at the two of them. “You’re… wait- are you really married, too? I thought I just got re-cast!”

“What?” Peggy’s head swung around quickly.

“Betty Carver was supposed to be the love interest- the home front girlfriend of Captain America.” She rolled her eyes, talking out loud to herself. “I mean, I was thrown for a loop when I came over here and you were English! Couldn’t figure out why they’d recast the home front girl with an English gal, but…” She softened and turned, smiling genuinely. “Well, I guess it all makes a lot more sense, now.” She looked over at Steve. “You were really a soldier?”

He nodded, and Peggy pushed forward with the charade, skirting the line of reality as close as she could. “It’s how we met.”

Angie’s smile melted even further. “That’s so sweet. I wish I had a guy to write.” She shrugged, and switched gears quickly. “So, wait- you mean you’re really fresh out of the Army, no script or nothin’?”

“Nothin,” Steve confirmed.

“Well, you stick with me. I’ll show you the ropes, introduce you to everyone. Most of us have been taking gigs together for years now. After a while rehearsing and once we’re on the road we’ll be one big family.”

~*~

“I can sleep on the floor,” Steve said warmly, feeling gallant as he took a pillow from the bed even though he was drained from the way Angie had dragged them around the dining room, introducing them to nearly the entire cast.

Peggy pulled it from his hands and tossed it back on the bed. “Absolutely not.” Steve only knitted his brow at her. “The windows face the other side of the hotel. Even with the curtains drawn you can still see shapes. Plus, now that Angie’s introduced us around, I doubt she, or any of them really, will be too shy about stopping by. One overly nosy chorus girl sees you on the floor and starts talking and our cover is blown.”

Steve wasn’t convinced, and looked nervous now. “Still, I didn’t want to—"

“My modesty will survive if yours will.” She set her hands on her hips and looked at him, finding herself tired and frustrated after the afternoon they’d had. “One overly eager bell boy or maid comes in and finds you out of the bed, and we’re in the gossip mill. One wrong word to the wrong person, and this all goes south, you know that.”

He grabbed the pillow back from the bed, just as obstinate. “I don’t sleep that much anyway, it won’t bother me, Peg.”

Peggy shook her head, closing the tiny amount of space between them. “You and me, together against the world, right? But let’s get one thing straight, shall we? My official mission is to make sure you don’t get killed. If you die, I’ve failed,” she paused and smiled proudly, “and I never fail. Even more so than that,” she sighed, her eyes turning softer, “I’m quite fond of you, and I would very much appreciate you not dying.”

“Fond?” Steve nearly squeaked out.

Peggy smiled. Perhaps they’d been dancing about this too much, because his shock, after everything they’d said to each other this afternoon, was not the response she expected to her words. “Yes. Fond. So much so, in fact, that I might even let you take me on a date once this is all over.”

Steve flustered, surprised as he stuttered out, “D-date?” He cleared his throat and composed himself, nodding and looking anywhere but at her. “I mean, yeah. No. I’d love to take you out.” He took a breath and slowed himself down. “I’m… fond, too.”

Peggy smiled, turning her back, ignoring that he turned a deep shade of red. “Affection aside, we need to be comfortable with one another in public for strategic purposes: holding hands, casual touches, even kissing.” He’d very nearly gotten himself under control when she said that and she could see how hard he fought to keep his face from turning red again as she pulled the pillow from his hand, gentler this time. “When people see us, they need to believe we’re a couple, no matter if we love one another or can’t stand each other. Understood?”

He nodded swiftly.

She tossed the pillow down. “Now get in bed.”

He stared blankly at her for a second before sitting on the side of the bed, still fully dressed. “Did you… want to go to bed?” He asked cautiously.

She huffed, sitting heavily next to him. “No,” she admitted. “We need to talk this through. We can’t afford to get the details messed up. We came close a few times today already.”

Steve nodded. “I know. I tried to keep it as close to what really happened as I could, so we couldn’t mess it up, but—”

“No, that was good.” Peggy kicked off her heels and slid back on the bed, tucking her legs under her. “The closer we keep it to reality, the less details we have to remember. But the timeline is off. It’ll be what gets us caught.”

“Because according to the papers we were married before we even met.”

“Exactly.” She nibbled at her thumbnail, turning away to think. “And you were on the European Front. We need to figure out just exactly what your accident was, once these people get comfortable with us—”

“Angie’s already quite comfortable,” Steve mumbled.

Peggy hummed in agreement before continuing, “Once they get more comfortable, they’re not going to hold their questions for long. And it isn’t as if you’ve got anything overtly wrong that would take you off the front lines.”

Steve nodded. “They’re keeping every able-bodied soldier out there. It’s gotta be convincing.”

“Well, we should be able to fend off questions at least for a bit.” Peggy shifted, looking him over seriously.

Steve squirmed under her gaze. “What?”

“Just thinking,” she sighed, forcing her eyes to his. “If you were in your old body, we’d have no trouble passing you off as discharged.”

His laugh was somewhat self-deprecating. “If I were in my old body we wouldn’t be here.”

Peggy looked him over again, her eyes very pointedly popping up from the bed they were both sitting on once her gaze rested there. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

His jaw fell, more out of surprise than anything, and he was even more surprised to see a bright red tint start to shade in around Peggy’s cheeks. She cleared her throat and looked away. “Goodness only knows how people get places, yes?” she asked quickly, pushing through the heavy seriousness that had fallen over them both. She stood, pacing with newfound energy as she tried to halt the images of just what they could do in a bed together. “What if you were in your old body? What could we say was the reason?”

Steve switched trains of thought with her easily, shrugging and curling over, so reminiscent of the frail boned boy he’d once been. “Gosh, take your pick. I’ll start with the A’s: anemia, asthma, angina, all kinds a’ scrawny… then there’s the scoliosis, high blood pressure, constant sinus infections. I had scarlet fever, then rheumatic fever…. Nothing ever felt the same after that.” He almost jumped when he looked up to see she’d managed to creep so close to him that she was leaning in only inches away from his face, staring, fascinated. “What?”

The amazed look on her face never faltered. “How did you ever manage Basic Training?”

He laughed nervously, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he shrugged. “You were there. You know I barely made it through most of the time.”

Her amazement shifted to pride. “Sheer force of will, I imagine, was the only thing between you and collapsing on that field.”

“Probably more often than you’d know.”

Peggy stood slowly and resumed her pacing. “Asthma would work.”

“They catch that right away. No hiding it. I never would have made it past the recruitment center. In fact, there were five times I didn’t.” She hummed, leaning back on her trunk, still looking him over. Steve tried no to hide from her intense gaze. “You know, that’s getting a little…”

Peggy turned her eyes down, shaking her head. “Sorry. Can’t help it.” She looked back up and smiled. “Seems Erskin’s serum worked a bit too well.”

~*~

Peggy stepped out of the bathroom, pin curls hidden under her kerchief, face scrubbed clean with just a light sheen of moisturizer on, her robe covering the only nightgown she had. She smiled when she saw Steve’s back, his face turned carefully away as he sat on his side of the bed. “You can look, you know.”

“I, uh,” as he cleared his throat she could see the pink creeping up his neck, “I didn’t want to presume.”

“I’m sorry to say that there’s nothing scandalous about me without my make-up or with my hair pinned for the night.” She carefully sat on her side of the bed, smiling as his shoulders tensed when he felt the mattress move. “Though I am in a nightgown, I wasn’t allowed to keep the army-issued pajamas.” He slowly turned, looking over, relaxing a little once he saw her. “What?” She chuckled, “Was that all that bad?”

“I just… I didn’t want to presume…”

“You said that already,” she smiled, unable to see anything else but the stammering 98-pound man across from her in the back of the car.

“I know, but it seemed…” he huffed, shrugging.

“You’re not scandalized?” she teased.

He smiled softly. “You look like my Ma.” Her eyes widened and he threw his hands up, rushing to explain. “No, I just, I thought you’d be- I don’t know, more- but not like- no, and then I turned and you were just- normal.” His hands started flying and his eyes darted back and forth as he panicked, words spilling from his lips that didn’t make any of his stuttering confessions better. “But no, not like that. Not normal. You’re pretty. I just assumed you’d be more since I imagined—not that I want more, you’re enough. But I saw you like that with the kerchief and that was just how my Ma used to do her hair and—” His eyes widened comically large, “No! I do not think of my Ma like that. Not that I did or would, but I thought of you like that—”

“You have?” she interrupted, completely amused and charmed at his stammering.

“I have!” He announced, proud, before he realized what he’d said, his face falling again and the stammering resuming. “No, it’s just that, I respect you. A lot. And you’re gorgeous. And we are married, but not for real so then I shouldn’t—”

“Steve!” Peggy smiled, put a hand on his. “Breathe!” He stopped his disjointed rant, looking at her and finally taking a deep breath in, eyes wild with pleading for understanding. “It’s alright. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Good,” he chuckled, turning more completely to her, “because I sure don’t.”

Peggy laughed lightly, taking her hands from his. “I believe I have an unfair advantage here as I’ve already seen you without your shirt, and ladies do tend to have quite a few tricks up their sleeves.”

He looked sheepish, swinging his pajama clad legs on the bed, eyes focused on his threadbare undershirt. “I’ve heard fellas say that they’ve seen their girls without make-up and their hair done and they look completely different. Made them not want to date them.”

Peggy shrugged her robe off, setting it on the chair next to the bed. Her nightgown wasn’t exactly revealing, she had dresses with lower necklines, but it was thinned from use and age and she didn’t have another. His eyes traveled her form, and she pretended not to notice as she pulled down the blanket and slipped into the bed. “And do I?”

“No.” He smiled, turning away to click off the lamp to hide his expression. “You’re…” he looked down, trying to pick his words carefully, “just as beautiful.”

Peggy bit her lip, unsure of how to respond as he slipped in the bed, the pillow between them separating their sides. “That’s a kind assessment,” she finally whispered into the darkness.

“It’s the truth,” he whispered back. “Good night, Peggy,” he added gently, looking over the pillow that separated them, the compromise they’d made to keep him off the floor and somehow save her virtue.

“Good night, Steve,” she whispered back, completely sure she’d have quite the difficult time sleeping now that she knew that unlike Fred, he didn’t seem to mind her as she looked not so done up.

[beaker1636]

Ryan Car Accident Angst

a/n: I am not 100% sure what to title this so it is untitled. I have wanted to do a angsty car accident fic for awhile so when @tearfallpixie tagged me in this post I knew what I wanted to do with it and this is where my mind went. I’m not the best at angsty stuff so I apologize if this isn’t my best work but I didn’t think it was too bad for my first real crack at angsty stuff.

P.S. sorry if the formatting is wonky, I had to upload this via mobile instead of my laptop because my laptop was being a jerk 😂 also this is unedited like usual so sorry for any typos!

“Hey Ry, is y/n joining us for our celebration dinner tonight? I never asked, I know all the other girlfriends are going to join us,” Chris asks Ryan, curious. You and Ryan have been together for a few months now but he has not brought you around for anyone to meet you yet, everyone is interested in getting to know you.

“Yeah, I am picking her up later from work and we will meet you all at the restaurant. She has been nervous about meeting everyone which is why I haven’t brought her around quite yet,” Ryan smiles when he thinks of you, he is really looking forward to getting to introduce you to his second family tonight. If he had it his way he would have sooner but you were nervous about it, worried that being the boring school teacher you didn’t think that you would fit in with any of them. While he has reassured you otherwise your anxieties just have not left, in fact you are really nervous about this tonight.

“I didn’t think about it being Friday, at least it's the end of the week and she’ll be off for a few days.” Chris says, trying to sound supportive towards his friend.

“Yeah, and it’s fall break next week so they don’t go back until Thursday so we have almost a full week together, we talked about taking a road trip somewhere starting tomorrow for a few days. That way we can have alone time before the next tour hits.”

“I’m going to head out to go shower before we all meet up, I will see you tonight Ryan,” Chris says before leaving his friends house, they can continue to work on the new song tomorrow.

Ryan decides to go and take a shower himself before he comes to get you, wanting to refresh and have a clear mind when he sees you, excited that you are finally going to join him and meet the guys tonight.

Stepping out of the shower he gets dressed and then gets in his car, ready to make the drive to your school and pick you up. There is still time before you guys are all due at the restaurant but that doesn’t bother either of you, he already knew you planned to change and freshen yourself up after he got you, that you wanted to go back to your apartment before you went to see everyone.

He messages you that he has arrived and waits until he sees you pop outside of the school, making your way over to him with a smile with your bag.

When you get in his car you lean over the center armrest to give him a quick kiss, lingering in the moment before pulling away to put on your seatbelt when he starts to make the drive to your place.

“How was your day, hopefully the kids were easier on you today than yesterday,” he asks you as he softly grabs your hand with his, watching the road.

“It was, the kids were all pretty good today. Honestly for a Friday it wasn’t half bad, how was your day? Did you and Chris finish the song you were working on?” you ask, smiling at him. You loved watching him when he was focused on something, whether it be driving or watching a show with you, whatever it is he is paying attention to.

“We did not, for some reason there is something that just isn’t clicking. We decided to just give up and call it a day as we both were getting really frustrated, sometimes it's best just to call it a day,” you can see that he was a little frustrated while talking about it so you rub the back of his hand with your thumb hoping that he finds comfort in the touch.

“I understand that, at least we get a few days to relax and spend time together after tonight, I think that we both need this,” you answer him softly, hoping he is as excited as you are about having this time together.

He pulls into your apartment parking lot, grabbing your hand as you both make your way into the building. He takes a seat on your couch while you change out of your teacher's clothing into a decent pair of jeans and a nice tank top, touching up your hair and makeup before going back out and sitting next to Ryan, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Thank you for agreeing to go tonight with me y/n. I know that it makes you nervous but everyone will love you, you’re going to fit in well.” he says, lightly rubbing his hand on your bare arm as you sit there quietly.

“I’d be lying if I said I am not anxious but I have to eventually right?” you ask him softly, sighing to yourself. “We should probably leave Ry.”

“Yeah, I was just enjoying the moment. Let’s head out.”

You both make your way back to his car so that you can start your way to the restaurant to meet up with everyone, not completely sure what you are currently thinking. As if Ryan can sense your hesitation he grabs your hand the second you are in your seat and turns to look at you.

“Seriously, don’t worry about tonight. It is going to be just fine, I promise. If you get too uncomfortable then we can leave.” He says, now holding your face with a hand so that he can make you look at him. You nod, not really having anything to say back.

Ryan pulls onto the road, starting his drive while you sit there quietly, watching out your window lost in your thoughts, not really paying much attention to anything, choosing to just think despite the fact that might not be the best thing for you to be doing.

Before either of you can process what is happening another car runs a red light, slamming into your side of the car, your door crumpling inwards, the window breaking covering you in glass as your head slams into the door making you black out almost instantly from the impact.

Ryan slams into his door from the force of the other car, feeling the airbag hitting him hard, leaving him out of breath momentarily as he registers what happens. He immediately looks over at you, panic and grief hitting him when he sees how bad of shape you are in. Trying to undo his seatbelt so he can get to you all he can do is grab your arm, desperate to try and get your attention, try to get you to wake up despite the fact part of him knows that you are too injured to do so, losing a lot of blood from a couple of your wounds.

He sobs, letting out a shaky breath, “I can’t lose you, please. I love you y/n, hang on. I can see lights coming down the road, they’re going to help you.”

When the paramedics arrived he wound up separated from you as they extracted you from the vehicle, being the most injured you were the first one to be transported out in an ambulance, the other driver and Ryan we’re next as neither was injured quite as badly as you were.

At the hospital they bandaged Ryan up, he had a couple broken ribs and minor whiplash but nothing that overly bad minus the severe bruising where the seatbelt held him in his seat. He refused to leave, he wasn’t completely sure what happened to you, they never told him other than that you had to be rushed back into emergency surgery. They wouldn’t tell him much as he isn’t family, so he is waiting for your parents to answer the call and to give the doctors permission to tell him what is happening because they live out of state.

He was trying his best not to break down and cry but it was becoming harder and harder the more time passed, he can’t believe that this happened when everything was supposed to be so great. He was going to tell you he loved you on your trip, the two of you had plans and he finally got to introduce you to his second family and this had to happen.

He feels a hand settle on his shoulder and looks up to see Rick looking at him concerned, Rick immediately pulling the taller man into a hug not really caring at this point who saw, just wanting to comfort his friend. Ryan finally broke down in the hug, not noticing that the rest of his friends and their girlfriends had now joined him in the waiting room.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Rick asks him softly when Ryan pulls away from the hug.

“Not yet, they said they can’t tell me anything unless her family okays it when they call because I am not family. All I know is she is in emergency surgery, but I have no clue what for or anything.” Ryan answers, drawing in a shaky breath and looking at everyone who has shown up in the waiting room. “She suffered a lot worse than myself or the other driver, they told me it was an idiot teen who was texting.”

“I’m sure she will be okay, she’s at the best place that she could be right now.” Chris says giving his friend a small smile as they all take a seat with him, wanting to support him as much as they can.

A few hours later a nurse comes out, looking around the room at everyone asking for Mr. Sitkowski. Ryan stands up and makes his way over to where the nurse was standing, eager to find out anything that he can.

“We got permission from Ms. y/l/n parents to update you and let you see her. She is out of surgery, she wound up breaking her neck. We did a surgery to repair it the best we can, she could potentially be paralyzed but we won’t know that until she is awake and we can do further assessments. She did need stitches in several cuts in her face and head, and has severe bruising all over. But, she is alive. If you would like to, you can go back to her room, we can get you a blanket and you can stay as long as you want. Normally that is reserved for family but we have permission for you to stay with her in her room.”

He lets everyone know what he was just told, them all going home for the night, before walking back with the nurse, quickly moving a chair close to your bed so that he can sit next to you and grab your hand. He wants to kiss your forehead, wake you up and let you know that he is there but he knows that he can't. All he wants is to give you what little form of comfort that he can while you are laying there, still unconscious.

“It will likely be several hours before she is awake. Would you like a blanket so you can sleep in the chair?” A nurse asks him sympathetically.

He nods, and gladly accepts the drink she hands him and the blanket before she shuts the lights off and he doses out.

He notices a little movement which quickly wakes him up several hours later, looking over at you. He quickly smiles when he notices that your eyes are fluttering open, finally having the reassurance that everything will ultimately be okay. He doesn’t care if you wind up paralyzed, if you can’t walk, all that he cares about is that you are awake and alive. Tears falling down his face in relief when you look up at him and you squeeze his hand lightly.

“You have no clue how happy I am you are awake y/n. I have been worried sick all night about you,” he says gently, moving to kiss your forehead as he looks at you with what you can only describe as love in his eyes.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily…” you trail off slightly, squeezing the hand that is currently holding yours.

He calls your nurse down so that they can do what they need to do, the surgeon himself coming in to do some tests and relaying the good news that you were able to wiggle your toes and move, so the paralysis risk is gone. When they finish all the tests and leave your room you look over at Ryan, wanting to tell him something you found really important.

“I heard you, you told me that you loved me,” you say softly, blushing as you glance at him.

“Yes,” he responds back, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“While you thought I was dying in your arms, in front of you,” you say even softer, almost whispering when you make eye contact with him, while Ryan tries to figure out where you are going with this.

“Yes, I thought I was going to lose you,” he responds, reaching to brush some hair out of your face where it hung. Trying to distract himself slightly while he waits to hear what you have to say next.

“Well, I’m still alive. Care to repeat that?” You ask, this time a bit more bold as you look at him, begging him to do so.

“I love you y/n. The realization hit me when we were stuck in that car and I thought I was losing you. I’m sorry it took me almost losing you to realize that,” he says, kissing your forehead softly, not wanting to accidentally hurt you somehow as you laid in the bed looking uncomfortable.

“I love you too Ry, I wanted you to say it so I could say it back,” you say gently, knowing that while you have a long road ahead that he is going to walk every step with you. That he will help you with everything that you need, that he will love you and comfort you through this, and at that moment you knew that you could never let him go. You two made it through this, you can make it through the recovery and anything else that you face in the future if you make it through this and you know that you can with him by your side.

[imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend]

I’ll Take Care of You, Chapter 23: Goodnight

chapter title sounds like the end but it is not! i wrote this in bits and pieces, distractedly, not sure if i've read the entire thing through, honestly! my anxiety is kicking my ass right now but i'm hoping for some serotonin when i read this again later, and when i read your comments!

Fic Summary: Reader works in the hospital where Billy Russo keeps his mother. They’ve caught each other’s eye. But she thinks he is the devoted son… little does she know what hides behind a handsome face and expensive suits.

Posted on my ao3 as well :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x Fem!Nurse!Reader

Chapter Summary: reader deals with being Billy’s prisoner and learns about more of Billy’s past lies, and even more terrible things he’s about to do

Warnings: swearing, being held against will, poisoning, murder

Words: 2.3k

Masterlist ~~ Chapter 22

~

You stayed in Billy’s room, refusing to let his goons see you when you were down. You thought about dumping all of Billy’s expensive cologne, smearing his hair gel all over the mirror, breaking everything made of glass. But you didn’t want to risk it. After learning that he let his best friend’s family get slaughtered, you were sure he wouldn’t hesitate to kill your friend to punish you.

Billy was gone for a few hours before he came back. He had the decency to knock on the door, but let himself in anyway. You were perched at the head of the bed, knees to your chest.

“There you are. It's time for dinner. I picked something up.”

That would have seemed like a sweet gesture had it been under normal circumstances. You looked away from him. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be difficult, Y/N. It’s your favourite.”

You didn’t speak or move.

He sighed. “Don’t be a brat. I’m sure you remember what happened last time you were a brat, when you hung up on me?”

You did remember. You remembered it very well. Your body betrayed you and you felt a pulse to your clit and a dampening from your core.

You begrudgingly got up and followed Billy into the kitchen. You sat down on a bar stool, a display of food from your favourite Mexican restaurant on the island counter.

Billy handed you a fork but no knife. You shook your head and rolled your eyes in annoyance, but accepted the fork.  

“Jack told me about the glass.” Billy said, looking at your carefully.  

“It slipped.” You said nonchalantly, after a second.

Billy chuckled, taking the seat to your left at the end of the island. “Slipped all the way across the room?”

You shrugged, poking into your enchilada.  

“But then you sent yourself to our room like a good girl.”

“Go fuck yourself.” You said venomously.

“Ooh, baby.” He feigned being stabbed in the chest. “Why would I do that when I’ve got you?”

“You think I’d let you touch me? After everything you’ve told me about you?”

“You’ll get over it eventually. And I’ll be back between your pretty thighs soon enough.”

You laughed humorlessly. “You’re insane.”

Billy just smiled.

“Where’s my friend?” You asked.

“She’s fine. But I’m keeping her at Anvil, so she doesn’t go running to Homeland Security.”

“So, she’s a prisoner, too.”

“Just until we’re out of New York. Then I’ll have her released, unscathed.”

You chewed on your lip again. “Do you promise?”

“If you behave, yes.”

You eyed him warily before getting back to your meal. You remembered when Billy first brought you Mexican food and you had wondered if you told him about it being your favourite. That pushed you to ask a question that had been bothering you all day.

“How long have you had my phone bugged?”

Billy swallowed his forkful, and kept his gaze down as he answered, “Since our first date at the bar.”

“What? That was months ago and we barely knew each other! That’s so fucked up!” You said incredulously.

He shrugged and met your eyes. “I barely used it.”

You ignored that. “So, you could just read all of my messages, hear all of my conversations?”

“I could see texts, yes. Things you had stored on your phone. And I could hear your phone calls, but that’s it, I couldn’t hear anything when you weren’t using the phone. And obviously I had your GPS. But I only ever looked at your stuff when I had... concerns. Or when I wanted to make you feel better.”

You remember when he brought you roses to apologize after your friend had asked if he’d given you any.

“That’s not a good reason to fucking spy on me.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah fucking right.”

Billy gripped his fork tightly. “I’ve done good for you, baby. How do you think that little bitch Tessa got fired after she almost got you fired?”

You furrowed your brow. “What do you mean?”

“You know she’s not the kind of person to steal meds. I got someone to hack in the system and make it look like she did.”

Holy shit. Sure, you didn’t like the girl but it didn’t mean you wanted her to never work as a nurse again. “You do realize that you probably ruined her life.”

Billy shrugged. “She almost ruined yours, and I wasn’t going to allow that.”

You rubbed your forehead. “Shit, Billy.”

“I know you didn’t like her, anyway.”

“It doesn’t mean I wanted her to get fired!”

“Oh well, I thought I was doing you a favour.”

“Jesus. Any other insane things you want to tell me about, then?”

“No. Nothing I can think of, anyway.”

You just shook your head and tried to eat what was on your plate.

The food was delicious but you hardly had an appetite and it did little to improve your mood. You grabbed a bottle of wine and headed straight back to Billy’s room, ignoring his calls of your name.

You put the bottle on the dresser and opened the drawer with your clothes in it. You pulled out some pyjamas and started to strip so you could put them on. When you turned around, you saw Billy leaning against the doorframe and you jumped.

“Jesus, Billy.”

He smirked. “Sorry, I was just admiring the view.”

You said nothing and grabbed the bottle of wine and opened it, flicking the lid in his direction. He caught it and winked, and you rolled your eyes at him.

You turned around and took a deep swig of wine. You walked over to the window and stared out at the city lights.

“Are you really going to abduct me from New York?”

Billy scoffed. “I don’t have a choice. If DHS has all that shit on me, I can’t stay here. And I can’t leave you behind, Y/N. I love you too much.” He sounded like he was closer to you now.

“If you love something you’re supposed to set it free.”

“They could use you to get to me. I can’t let that happen.”

You took another drink. “DHS or your boss? Will your boss even let you leave? Wouldn’t that screw over your illegal little empire?”

“He’s getting out of dodge, too. Anyway, I know how much it upsets you so I told him I was out.”

You turned around in surprise. “You expect me to believe that?”

Billy shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

“After all those lies, how can I really know when you’re telling the truth, huh? That one night when I cleaned up your fucking knife wound you were lying to my face, and then you did the same a few days later when you were pretending to tell me the truth.”

“I don’t have anything to gain from lying to you now, little lady. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant unless you make it that way.”

“You’re going to steal my life from me!”

“We’ll build a new life, together.”

“I like the life I have now! My job, my friends, my place! I have parents and family that are going to worry about me, Billy!”

He stepped closer and snatched the wine from you. “That’s not something I’ve ever had the luxury of worrying about.” He took a swig from the bottle.

“Don’t try to make me feel bad for you when you’re literally trying to ruin my life.” You snapped.

“Baby, I can’t leave you here. People will try to hurt you to get to me. I’m doing this to protect you. I know it’s hard but it’s what we have to do.”

“Why would DHS try to hurt me?”

He huffed in irritation and ran his fingers through his hair. “Not DHS. Rawlins isn’t exactly pleased that I’m leaving. We were lucky to get ahead of DHS, it means Rawlins can keep his operation going elsewhere. But if I leave, he’s going to be down a... business partner and obviously that’s not ideal. He won’t let me leave quietly. He’s the one I’m worried about, and that’s why you’re coming with me.”

“Why couldn’t you have asked me, though? Instead of making me feel like a prisoner?”

“You wouldn’t have said yes even if I explained.”

“I guess we’ll never know, because you didn’t fucking ask.”

“You really think I could have done this any other way?”

“Yes! If I knew that my life would be in danger, I’d probably be more willing to get away from here!”

“I didn’t want to scare you!”

“Well, you are scaring me! I’m already fucking scared, Billy!”

Billy rubbed his forehead, letting out a harsh sigh. “Don’t you know how fucking hard this is for me? It’s my life that’s getting turned around too. I have to leave Anvil, a company I built from nothing-”

“Blood money.” You interrupted.

“It may have started that way but Anvil ended up paying for itself. I made myself something, Y/N. No one else did.”

“You didn’t need money to be somebody, Billy!”

He shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “I disagree. I wouldn’t have been able to afford that hospital for my mother, and then I never would have met you. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of the stuff I have for you. And I’m sure knowing that I was a CEO of my own company was one of the reasons you fucked me in a supply room.”

Your jaw dropped. You couldn’t believe that he said that. “That’s not- Billy, I don’t care about your money! I care about you! I love you, not your money or your title. You cared for your mother and donated money to the hospital taking care of her. That’s why you caught my eye.”

He said nothing, just looked at your wearily.  

You were mad that he thought so little of you, that he thought so little of himself. “Nothing to say to that? Not even a ‘sorry’?”

“I have something to tell you about that, too.” He said hesitantly.

“What, that’s not really your mother?” You said dryly.  

“Oh, no. She’s my mother.” He looked at you thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s one more loose end I need to tie up. And you’re coming with me. Get dressed.”

“Are you joking?” you asked incredulously, watching him walk over to the door.

“No.”

You huffed in annoyance. “Fine. Get out and I’ll change.”

“Why? I’ve seen it all, baby. Nothing new.”

“Give me some privacy, please. You’ve lost your privileges after being an asshole.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned against the wall. “My place, my girl.”

You clenched your teeth in frustration. You grabbed some clothes from the dresser and slammed the drawer shut. You held Billy’s eyes defiantly as you changed out of your pyjamas and into clothes more fitting for public.

“Good.” He said when you were fully dressed. “Let’s go, shall we?”

***

Billy drove, which surprised you. You figured he’d get Jack or one of the other meatheads to do it. The car rolled to a stop outside of the hospital.

“What are we doing here?” You asked. “I thought you were going to talk to Dr. Beck for me.”

“Yes, that’s all been taken care of. We’re here for something else. We’re gonna go up together and we’re going to pay a last visit to Mother. And just remember that your little friend isn’t out of the woods yet.”

You stared at him.

He leaned over and took hold of your chin. “Do you understand, little lady?” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

You nodded.

“Good.” He let you go and got out of the car. He opened the door for you and put his arm around you so you were tight to his body.

You felt like your heart was in your throat as you got in the elevator. When the elevator door opened, Billy simply held onto your hand as he led you down the hallway. There was no staff in sight, no one you could silently beg to help you. You were steered over to his mother’s room and Billy shut the door behind you. You looked over at Carla, who looked absolutely terrified. Billy closed the blinds and then took his time walking over to his mother. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Did you ever wonder why Mother’s condition never seemed to improve?” Billy asked. It didn’t sound like he actually wanted an answer, so you remained quiet.  

“Well,” he reached into his jacket and pulled out a syringe, “that may be my doing.”

“What is that?” You asked in horror.

“It’s like what’s been keeping her so pathetic and helpless, preventing her from ever getting a true recovery. But this is actually much worse.”

“You’ve... you’ve been poisoning your mother?” You were in disbelief. You thought he had cared about her. You looked at Carla, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Every single visit.” Billy said, pausing between words.

You covered your mouth in horror. “Oh my god. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He ignored you and spoke to his mother now. “Now, this isn’t what I normally give you. But I won’t be able to give that to you anymore. I’ve got to go away but you’ve become my responsibility. And this is what I believe you deserve after what you did to me.”

Billy took the cap off the needle and you couldn’t help but gasp. “Billy, what are you doing?”

He ignored you, still. “It’s time to say ‘Goodnight’, Mother.” And then he stuck the needle in her arm.

~

Author’s note: oh shit. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Tell me what you think! :)       please

Taglist

@quellmythirst @princess-miaa @catherinnn @kahlanmars @tnrthings @loubombshell @slut4benbarnes @booksandbenbarnes @adriennebarnes @nothinkingonlycrying @whattheforks @musicalggirl @bxtchopolis @restingbitchsblog @nerds4life246 @hydrogen-in-our-veins @insssanemind @thegreengoop @springtimesimmer @dragon-of-winterfell @misscaitygrace @sweetwritingfanficfriend  @asgardian-sapphire @kayleev-07

Chapter 24

[chaotictarlos]

••• Pineapple | tarlos

Request: “Could you write something where TK and Carlos are having sex and using a safe word and TK calls out the safe word, and then Carlos comforting him. I read so many fics they use the safe word system but none where it’s actually said. I love your writing so so much”

Pairing: Tarlos | Rating: Explicit | Warnings: Safeword, safe word usage, hurt/comfort, bondage, blow jobs, oral sex, m x m smut, anxiety, anxiety attack, overdose mention, Canon Divergence, Missing Scene, anal fingering, fluff, tk strand needs a hug

Summary: TK uses his safe word.

Author's Note: Hi friend! Thank you so much for the request! I hope you like this. The title and safe word used actually comes from a personal experience. When I was a senior in high school I was one of those smart kids that were able to take dual credits so I took classes at the local community college. One of the classes I took was Psychology. On the first day of class, my professor was like “we’re going to pick a safe word that way if we talk about something that makes you uncomfortable all you need to do is raise your hand, say the safe word and then walk out no questions asked.” I’m still unsure of why he did this but as a class, we settled on the safe word “Pineapple” so now whenever I think of safe words I think of that story and pineapple. Anyway, that was just a little aside. I hope you enjoy this fic! Reminder if you’re in a situation where someone safe words you need to stop immediately and make the situation safe for your partner. Not beta’d, all mistakes are my own.

Nobody has permission to save, translate, repost, upload, or do anything with my fics. My fics are only posted on AO3, if you see them on any other site such as wattpad please let me know.  This story was written for an adult audience and is intended for adult consumption. If you are under the age of 18, you should not be reading this story.

“How does that feel?” Carlos murmured as he finished tying TK’s wrist to the headboard. 

TK pulled against the ropes, feeling a slight give but not enough that he can do anything about it. He sighed happily and nodded, looking up at Carlos with a blissful look on his face.

“I need words TK.”

“Yes, it’s good.”

Carlos smiled and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to TK’s lips before he moved down his body, lips ghosting every part that he can. TK settled back, happy and content to let Carlos do whatever he wanted to do to him. It was one of those nights where TK just wanted to let go and let Carlos do whatever he wants. TK knew that in the end he was going to feel really good and his body was going to be sore in all of the right places.

He spread his legs wider for Carlos as he settled between them, a moan slipped from his lips as Carlos wrapped a hand around his half-hard cock. TK’s hips jerked up a few times, fucking into Carlos’ hand as Carlos worked him to full hardness before leaning forward to swallow him down.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so good at that.” TK moaned, eyes slipping shut as Carlos swirled his tongue over the tip of his cock just the way TK liked it. 

READ MORE ON AO3

tags: @strangefurychaos @ronensass @sapphire11 @malexsoulmates @angeltk @noxsoulmate @sivan325 @beautifulhigh @welcometololaland @rangergurlgleek1211 @detective-giggles @tarlos-spain

[miekasa]

NICE.

+ pairings: eren yeager + (fem) reader

+ genres: rich kid au, college au, friends to lovers au, fluff, light-ish angst, smut/nsfw content (everybody gets a piece)!

+ warnings: mentions of depression/anxiety, mentions and use of drugs and alcohol, some of the smut happens under the influence so be cautious if that’s something you don’t like, i swear this is all more idiots in love than angst tho i just wanna disclose everything fairly

+ notes: this is alternatively titled super rich kids and you can probably figure out why. some of this is based off of real life, some of it is straight out of gossip girl and i challenge you to separate the facts from the fiction :’) anyways, i hope we all remember the lyrics to in my feelings

+ more notes: one quick reference for ages in this fic—all the vets are older but not by that much, think various stages of grad school. armin, connie, sasha, annie, and bertholdt are all college sophomores. eren, the reader, and pretty much everybody else are college seniors, so they’re about a year or two older. also here is a playlist for your reading pleasures, shoutout to ryn for letting me mooch of their spotify account :’)

+ word count: 19k. i’m sorry.

+ summary: fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you.; or the story of notorious rich kid and self-proclaimed bad boy eren yeager, and his not so goody two-shoes best friend.

“So you’re saying that you don’t love me? That you’re not riding? That you’ll actually leave from beside me?”

“I’m saying that it’s ass o’clock in the morning and I’m not driving in the rain to Brooklyn to pick your sorry ass up.”

“But… but I want you, and I need you, and I’m down for you.”

You check the time on your phone screen and groan. 3:57am. Far too early to be dealing with the likes of Eren Jaeger. “Just get an Uber or something. I don’t know what you and your idiot friends were up to this time, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“First, they’re our idiot friends. Second, I don’t think they let you take Ubers from jail, and even if they did, it’s, like, four in the morning, so I don’t think there are any Ubers driving around, so could you pretty please come pick me up? I promise I’ll make it up to—”

“From where?” you cut him off, slowly sitting upright in your bed. You hold your phone closer to your ear, ready to listen again; because, certainly, you must have misheard him the first time. You wait, but the line is silent, save for Eren’s awkward chuckling. “Eren Asher Jaeger, tell me that that was another stupid lyric from that stupid song, and that you are not in prison right now.”

Eren makes a sad attempt at laughing. “Technically, it’s a holding cell, not really prison… and I would leave, but they suspended my license for a month, and Min can’t drive yet, so we kind of need you,” he explains, “Uh, no pun intended.”

“Min?” you pull your eyebrows together at the mention of the younger’s name, “Is Armin with you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

With a frown and a heavy sigh, you push yourself out of bed, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you grab the nearest pair of sweatpants.

“Why did you get him caught up in whatever stupid shit you were doing tonight?” you complain, scanning your dark bedroom for a shirt to wear, “Erwin’s going to castrate you when he finds out.”

You curse as you stub your toe against the edge of your bed on your way out of the room. Given the time, weather, and the fact that you have several exams to start studying for, hanging up and leaving Eren in the middle of god knows where Brooklyn doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, but you couldn’t go back to sleep knowing that Armin would have to suffer with him.

“Relax,” Eren breathes in a tone all too nonchalant for the situation at hand, “He didn’t get charged with anything, and nothing’s going on his record.”

“You don’t know that,” you retort, sliding your raincoat over your free arm, as you paddle down the stairs of your apartment, “The NYPD suck.”

“True,” he hums, “But I paid off the cop, so it’ll be fine.”

You pause in your steps, but really, you shouldn’t be surprised. “Of course you did,” you mumble, moving again and grabbing your car keys off of the kitchen island.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he questions. His tone is actually genuine and it tempts you to roll your eyes.

“What it always means, Eren,” you sigh, stepping into the elevator, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Get off my line.”

He doesn’t have time to throw in another pitiful “I love you” before the line goes dead and he’s met with static silence. He hangs up the station telephone with a silent chuckle, turning around to face Armin and Officer Hannes.

“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” he says, trying to focus on Armin’s sigh of relief and not the warmth creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, “I’ll, uh, call a tow for the car in the morning.”

The cop, too tired to care, only shrugs, and pays them no further attention. He hands Eren a plastic bag with his car keys and newly suspended license, escorts him back into the cell, and returns to his desk. Eren gives Hannes the finger while his back is turned.

Beside him, Armin is still quivering; bouncing his leg up and down, fiddling with his fingers, gnawing on his bottom lip. Eren frowns, a heavy wave of guilt washing over him as he takes in the younger’s anxiety ridden state. It wasn’t fair that Armin could have potentially suffered legal consequences because of his stupidity.

Eren’s lucky that Hannes was sleazy enough to accept his bribe and let him off with minimal punishment. With that they were doing, things could have ended up far worse for the both of them tonight.

“I’m sorry, man,” he apologizes, hands stuffed in his front pockets, “About tonight, I mean. We—I shouldn’t have done that, not with you there.”

Armin looks up at him with sparkling, doe eyes and Eren wants to punch himself in the gut for making him go through all of this, even if it didn’t amount to an actual arrest. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

“I could have prevented it,” he says. Because it’s what you would have said, too.

“It’s not your fault, I wanted to come, remember?” Armin tells him, redirecting his gaze to the grey floor of the precinct cell. He takes a deep breath, almost calming down completely when a sudden thought reignites his nervous ticks, “You… they’re not gonna tell my parents, right?”

“No, no—of course not.”

Armin was legally an adult; he, nor Eren, nor the police had to tell his parents anything. Sure, Hannes could rat them out, but honestly that sounded like way more work than he was cut out for; not to mention he’d be bound to reveal that he let them off easy for a couple thousand bucks.

Armin nods, “And… that wasn’t Erwin on the phone, right?”

“Are you kidding me? He’d murder me on the spot,” Eren says. He pauses before tacking on, “I, uh… I called (_____).”

“Oh,” the younger gapes, “She’ll kill you, too.”

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, scratching the back of his neck in nervous anticipation, “Trust me, I know.”

“You have your access card on you, right, Armin?” you ask. He nods sheepishly, hand on the car door handle.

“Thanks again for coming to get us,” he says meekly, “I’m sorry about waking you up and everything.”

You offer him a warm smile through the rear view mirror, “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re safe. Text me when you get up tomorrow, okay? We can get brunch, my treat.”

His face lights up at the prospect of free food, and he nods once more, enthusiastically, but his expression falls again when he speaks, “Okay, and I’ll, um, pay you back for the tickets and stuff as soon as I can—”

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it,” you repeat.

“It was almost three thou—”

“You forget who you’re friends with,” you cut him off with a smile, “Don’t worry about it, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

Armin’s eyes dart to Eren quickly, before clearing his throat, a light pink tint to his cheeks. You know that the prospect of money can be a sensitive subject for Armin, one easily triggered by his very environment, but this wasn’t negotiable on your end. You know that Armin doesn’t like the feeling of owing anyone anything, but he knows he won’t get you to budge; so, he quietly nods, appreciative of your generosity, before bidding you and Eren a final goodnight and sprinting towards the dorm. Once you see that he’s safely inside, you wave one last time, and wait for the door to shut behind him.

Slowly, Eren turns to the driver’s seat to look at you. You were eerily calm when you came to pick him and Armin up from the station. You didn’t yell, cuss, or punch him in the face like he expected. You politely talked to the officer, thanked him for his service, paid their fees, and up until now, you’ve shown no signs of being angry with him at all.

The two of you drive back to your shared apartment in complete silence, Eren too confused, and borderline scared, of initiating a conversation. He wonders if you’re too tired, or if you really don’t give a damn anymore, but when you pull into the underground lot of your building and put the car in park, he finds out the silence was simply the calm before the storm.

You take your hand off of the gear shift and turn towards him. It’s a quiet stare down for nearly a full minute before you break the mime act with a slap to his thigh.

“Drag racing? Are you out of your fucking mind? Of all the stupid shit you’ve done—and you’ve done a lot of stupid shit—this has got to take the cake. Just what the actual fuck were you thinking?”

“Ouch!” he inhales sharply, rubbing over where you’d hit him, “We were just having fun! Then these other guys showed up and started talking shit so—”

“Having fun?” you echo, “You couldn’t think of anything fun to do that’s not illegal in every borough of New York City?”

Eren feels his cheek flush, but he only huffs with the illusion of disinterest, “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so bad. I’m a good driver, it was those other squids that got us into shit, I’m telling you. They showed up looking for a fight, then ran like a bunch of pussies when the cops came.”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head in disbelief. You seem to have no other words to say to him, choosing to step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Eren quickly follows, slamming his door equally as hard, and hot on your trail as you march towards the elevator.

“(_____), come on, enough with the silent treatment,” he whines when you stick yourself in a corner of the elevator after pushing the button to the penthouse, “I told you I didn’t start shit, Armin and I got ratted on.”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not they started it, Eren. You’re still the problem here.”

“Me? How am I the problem?” he pulls back, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion, “I just told you I didn’t do shit.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and shifting your left leg, “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Doing what with me?” he presses, tone growing icy.

“This, Eren!” you reiterate, “I’m too tired to hear your bullshit right now.”

The elevator dings and opens into your apartment. You push past him, continuing your deliberate strides through the living area, and to the stairs, but Eren catches you with a hand on your wrist before you can go any further.

“Will you fucking stop that,” he growls, “If you’ve got something to say, then stop running away from me, and just say it.”

“Funny,” you sneer, pulling your wrist away from him and settling both your feet on the bottom step, “You’re one to talk about running away from things.”

He takes a step back, standing just a notch below you, perfectly frozen in place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your little drag racing episode was not only dangerous and immature, it was you running away from your problems like a spoiled child, yet again.”

Eren’s features narrow at your accusations; eyes fading into hooded slits, lips curving downwards, and voice bobbing low, “I’m not running away from anything.”

“Oh, please, Eren,” you roll your eyes, arms retreating to their crossed position in front of your chest, “Cut the bullshit.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he bets that even in the dim lighting of the apartment, you can see the tips of his ears growing red, just like they always do when he’s lying.

“Oh, really?” you ask, eyes widening in mock surprise, “You don’t think I don’t know this whole thing has something to do with the fact that your mom came home on Friday?”

Another pause. “Who told you that?” He asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

“Nobody had to,” you snap, “Jean said he caught you with a sack of coke over the weekend, and I knew something was up.”

“It wasn’t mine, I was—”

“I said cut the shit, Eren. If I went up into your room right now I bet your ass I’d find more than enough of it in a shoebox somewhere.”

He retreats, almost bashful, but unapologetic all the same. “Fine, whatever, I did a few lines. Big deal.”

“The big deal is that you think this is fucking normal, and now you’ve upgraded from coke to getting yourself arrested! It’d be one thing if you were acting like a misfit on your own, but to drag Armin into it because you—”

“Drag him into it?” he echoes with the snare of sarcasm dripping from each syllable, “You talk about Armin like he’s six. I don’t know why you think he’s some helpless little baby, but you have no goddamn responsibility over him. He’s not your fucking charity case.”

“I never fucking said he’s my charity case—don’t you ever fucking say that,” you say, “Having some basic respect and concern for my friends isn’t charity.”

“Wake the fuck up! You baby Armin when he’s a grown ass man. I didn’t force him into the fucking car to get sympathy points from you.”

“Grown? Armin is barely nineteen, disowned by his parents, is on a full fucking ride to an insanely expensive university, and you got him arrested tonight! Do you know what could happen if NYU found out? They could fucking kick him out, take his scholarship away—and then what, huh? Or were you just gonna buy off the headmaster, too?”

“You’re acting like I fucking planned for it!”

He’s screaming now, voice bellowing throughout the apartment, face red—and he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean it at all; but it’s late, and he’s tired, and those shouldn’t be excuses, but he’s too prideful to back down.

“Of course you didn’t! You didn’t plan for anything, you were just being a reckless, irresponsible asshole like always,” you tell him, too blind-sighted by anger and the need to chide him that you miss the teary undertones in his words.

“And what’s it matter to you?”

“It fucking matters to me when you call at some godforsaken hour asking me to pick you up from prison!”

He takes a step forward, right leg elevated by the same step that both your feet rest on. “Well, what else am I supposed to fucking do!” He shouts even though he’s mere inches from your face, “Tell me just what the fuck I’m supposed to do instead!”

“You’re supposed to act like an adult and fucking talk to someone!”

“Who the hell am I supposed to talk to, huh?” he presses, taking a step forward and forcing you to retreat backwards, and up a step, “My mother who’s never home or her bastard boyfriend?”—another step forward for him, another step backwards for you—“The step-brother I can’t get in contact with?”—one step forward; one step backwards—“Or maybe the dad I never had, right?”

“Me, Eren!” you yell back with equal vigor, throwing your hands up at your sides, and planting your feet firmly. “Armin, Mikasa, Jean—anyone! You have people who fucking care about you! Stop treating us like correction officers, we’re your fucking friends!”

There’s silence for a while, just you and Eren staring at each other, heavy breathing, waiting for the other to make the next move. He opens his mouth, but when he tries to speak, his resolve washes away, his throat tightens and the words get sucked back in.

It would be easy to keep yelling, screaming, blaming you for blowing up on him. He used to think the scolding he got from you after pulling some stupid stunt was the worst part; but now, he thinks it might be his favorite part. He hates to hear you scream, and it hurts to see you cry, but if you’re yelling, you’re angry that he hurt himself; you care that he’s okay.

“I—” he stutters, words quiet and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to get like this tonight, it was an accident I—”

“You never mean for any of it to happen, yet it always does,” you interrupt, voice soft yet strained, “I know you have your own shit to deal with, but so does everybody else.”

“(_____), please, you’re right, okay? I should have said something before,” he admits, mouth small as he voices his confessions, “I should have talked to you or one of the boys, but I—I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

He’s groveling now. Mouth in pout, eyes wide, voice small, and honestly, he thinks he might cry. At this point he doesn’t care if he does.

“I want you to mean it,” you finally say, and when he looks up, he hates the look he sees in your eyes. It’s something between sad and hurt and empty and it’s awful. Someone like you shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t make you feel that way.

“I—”

“When you’re ready to tell me exactly what’s going on with you—what’s happening that made you think going to jail would be better than facing your issues—I’ll be here to talk,” you continue, eyes watering, “But until then, goodnight, Eren.”

Eren winces when you turn around and ascend up the remaining stairs. He flirts with the idea of following you, going to your room to finish talking, but you’re probably angry enough to have it locked. His room is up there, too, but he opts for part of the sectional, laying down with the palms of his hands kneading against his closed eyelids.

For as long as he can remember, you’ve been there for him. Your friendship, at times, was like a game of tag—Eren always on the run with you loyally chasing after him; he’d always run amuck, and you’d always be there to catch him in the act. Now, it’s five in the morning, there’s no more yelling, no more chasing, no more racing, but he’s still running.

The following morning, you take Armin out to brunch, as promised. Jean tags along too, something about hanging out with the two of you being infinitely more entertaining than his genetics lecture. It doesn’t seem like Jean knows anything about Armin and Eren’s late night antics, so you don’t bring it up yourself.

Oblivious, Jean chats your ears off as if nothing is awry. Whether he knows it or not, he does a great job of distracting Armin from his own thoughts. They both eat to their heart’s content when you remind them you’ll foot the bill; and you don’t bat an eye when Jean convinces Armin to order his third round of pancakes. He deserves it.

Afterwards, Jean convinces the three of you to go window shopping with him in SoHo, claiming that he needed inspiration for his latest fashion assignment (you don’t question why he’s taking a fashion class as a biology major, but you suspect it has something to do with Mikasa). Window shopping soon turns into actual shopping, so almost completely unprompted, and with little effort on his part, Armin gets a few pieces of clothing on your behalf, while you try to ignore Eren’s words itching at the back of your mind.

Armin’s not a baby, but he certainly is a kid with a rough past and rough relationship with his parents at a time in his life where he arguably needs them the most. A little extra support from his friends wouldn’t harm him.

It’s nearing six when the three of you are wedged in a small booth inside a café, indulging in overpriced hot chocolate. Three sips into his second cup, Jean excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you sitting across from Armin.

“You know, you don’t have to keep buying me stuff to make up for Eren,” Armin says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m not trying to make up for him,” you sputter, careful not to spill your drink over your lap, “You had a rough night. Just accept my gifts, don’t be a brat.”

“I do accept them. Erwin’s been eyeing that Off White sweater for, like, three weeks now. He’s gonna have a hissy fit when he sees me wearing it.” You chuckle, and he continues, “But you know, as much I love spending time with you, you can’t use me to avoid Eren forever.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” you frown.

“You said you were going to take us to brunch, and then spent the whole day with us.”

“Funny, I recall you saying something about how much you love my company about thirty seconds ago.”

“He’s called you at least ten times today.”

“I was spending the day with my favorite NYU student… and Jean,” you bat your lashes, “I see you maybe once a week. I live with Eren, I have to see him every day.”

Armin calls your name with a pout, “He’s sorry, you know.”

“Not sorry enough,” you mumble. Armin opens his mouth to say something again, but then Jean’s sliding back into the booth, chatting about how he’s finally come up with the perfect anniversary date for Mikasa.

Armin doesn’t notice your sigh of relief, but he does take note of the way you wipe away your notifications when a text rings through. If Eren could spend his days running away from his problems, then you could, too.

Despite being arguably the greediest of you all, Jean loves company, so he doesn’t hesitate to say yes when you ask to crash at his place after your shopping escapades. You expect to be welcomed with sounds of screaming, laughter, and loud music, but to your surprise his apartment is completely silent upon your entering.

“Bertholdt has class and Marco has a meeting,” he prompts, as if he could read your thoughts. He shimmies his coat off his shoulders and tosses it over the bar in the foyer.

Their apartment has the same amount of rooms as yours and Eren’s, but is all stretched along a single floor. It’s more of a maze, really, with intricate turns, and hallways, that all more or less open up into the expanse of the foyer and bar. Their living room is your favorite part. A dark, brown leather sectional wraps around the back three walls and an oversized flatscreen encased in an ebony frame takes center stage. A collection of vinyl records litters the walls above the couch; each of the boys contributing their favorite discs as décor.

“If he has class, shouldn’t you have class?” you question, fingers dragging over the ridges of the closest record.

“I’ve had class all day, but that doesn’t mean I go,” Jean shrugs, walking up behind you and taking your jacket off your shoulders and your bag from your hand, “Besides, Bertholdt will probably cut half-way to go see Reiner, if he can even stay awake that long. Going with him is just as productive as staying home.”

“You’re all a mess,” you scoff, turning around as a cheesy grin grows on Jean’s lips. His smile is infectious, and soon you catch yourself grinning just because.

“You want something to drink?” he offers, throwing your coat over his elbow and tilting his head in the direction of the bar.

“You’re bad at mixing drinks,” you remind him, but follow him anyway.  

Jean laughs, not bothering to deny the jab. He doesn’t try his hand at anything mixed or complicated this time; simply offering you a glass of your favorite red, and pouring himself a smaller amount.

He puts the album you were gawking at earlier on the record player, the two of you sinking into the couch as lovely melodies radiate throughout the apartment.

He spends the first hour bitching about how Marco’s supposed to become a CEO in less than a year, yet has the attention span of a squirrel; but the playful lilt in the brunette’s voice, and the begrudging smile on his face lets you know that it’s all love. He gushes about Mikasa for a good half hour, cramming you with stories about his girlfriend’s talent for sewing and fashion. You also learn that Bertholdt’s been busier than usual these days, and Jean suspects it has something to do with a secret lover.

You pinch your eyebrows at his hunch. Bertholdt’s never been one for dating. He’s had many friends with benefits in the past, but they weren’t relationships, nor were they secrets. In fact, you don’t think that he could keep a secret to save his life.

“Why would he be hiding it if he were seeing someone?” you question, swirling your newly refilled glass.

“Dunno,” Jean shrugs, “But it’s sus, I’m telling you. He’s been oddly busy for someone with a 2.3 GPA. Either way, I’ll pry it out of him eventually.”

“You’re so fucking nosey,” you chuckle, watching the mischievous, satisfied grin settle onto his features.

“I kinda think it’s Armin,” Jean says after a while, downing the remaining wine in his cup, while you choke on your own drink.

“Why on Earth do you think if Bertholdt had a secret lover that it’d be Armin?”

“Because he was in love with him for, like, two years in high school,” Jean says, as if the information should be painfully obvious.

“Yeah, and Bert also hooked up with a million different people in high school.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with Armin.”

“I don’t think Armin’s kissed another human, let alone is in a secret relationship with one.”

“Hm, true. I forget he’s still a virgin.”

“Hey—there’s nothing wrong with Armin being a virgin, leave him be.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Jean whines, “But it’s so—he doesn’t have to be. Armin’s cute! And very attractive—dare I even say sexy. He could go outside and get laid right now if he just tried.”

“Stay humble, Jean boy. If I remember correctly, you only started breaking hearts a year ago,” you tut. Jean’s nose goes pink as he shoves you away when you continue, “But, if you’re so concerned with Armin’s virginity, why don’t you go help him out with it.”

“Actually, if I remember correctly, I think that’s more your gig,” he shoots back, a smug smile tugging on his lips. “Not to mention, I’m not trying to get beat up by Annie. Though, I wonder how much longer it’ll take before she finally snaps. Hey, maybe the both of you can tag team him, I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind, and it might even make Armin less nervous to have you—”

It’s your turn to shove him now, throwing in an extra punch when his head bobs back with laughter. You’re very certain Annie would mind; you would mind if someone inserted themself in your kind of, sort of, not really relationship, and ruined your four years of pining.

“Speaking of lovers,” Jean prompts, once his laughter dies down, bending his knee and turning closer to you. “Why are you and lover boy fighting? Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum, sipping your drink in between words. Jean’s eyes pinch together. “Marco and I would never fight.”

“My god, will you let your Marco fantasies go already? You’ve already caused him one sexuality crisis,” Jean groans, “You know I mean Eren.”

You sigh, lowering your glass and reaching forward to pinch his cheek. “It’s nothing you have to worry your pretty little head over.”

“Please,” he scoffs, flicking your offending hand back, “He’s been texting us nonstop since this morning at, like, nine. I didn’t even know he was capable of waking up before noon.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Jean continues, “Why he would ask us for advice on you is beyond me. He knows you better than all of us combined.”

“And why you’re saying all of this is beyond me.”

“Oh, come on, what’d he do,” Jean pushes, borderline whines, as he puts his empty glass down in a cup holder embedded in the couch. He’s always been the most prone to gossip, but you forget that wine makes him even more of a nosey prick. “Must have been pretty bad. Or stupid.”

“Try both,” you mumble, “Well—I don’t know, it wasn’t… the worst thing anyone could do, but it was really fucking reckless—and why he did it, I couldn’t even tell you. I don’t know what goes through his mind half the time, but I swear he must have been on crack last night.”

“He probably was. On crack, I mean. I told you, I took an ounce from him over the weekend, but that was after Eren and Ymir did, like, five lines.”

“Do they really do that regularly?” you nearly cry, a hand massaging your temple, “Fucking Christ, if he really was high while driving, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Well, I don’t know if regular is the right word,” Jean ponders, “Maybe for Ymir, but god knows what she’s on half the time, anyways. Besides, coke isn’t the worst thing they could do.”

“You sound like you speak from personal experience.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, pausing when you shoot him a disapproving look, “Oh, come on! You’re no angel, either—if memory serves, you were high as shit at Moblit’s birthday party, and kept singing the star spangled banner all night.”

“Yeah, on weed! One time! It was on a rooftop and the stars were out and it has the same rhythm as the happy birthday song, cut me some slack!”

He finds laughing at your expense to be much more fun, however, as he continues to chuckle while you throw a fit. He’s also not one to let a topic of gossip go undiscussed, and has no problem bringing the conversation back to Eren.

“It’s because you two don’t talk, you know,” Jean tuts, “That’s why you fight like this.”

For the second time, the younger’s words have your eyebrows growing close together. “I mean, I guess—but it’s more than that. Eren and I live together, we obviously talk, but—”

“I know, I know, but just hear me out, okay? You and Eren talk about a lot of things, yeah, but you also… don’t. And sometimes you don’t have to, because you guys, like… get each other.”

“Wow. What a way with words you have, Jean Kirstein. You should write a self-help book.”

“What I mean,” he sneers, unhappy with the sarcasm being thrown his way, “Is that you guys understand each other in weird ways. It’s actually kind of cute—sometimes a little freaky, in all honesty. It’s why you don’t always have to talk about serious things. But you take it for granted and let shit bottle up, and then get in denial about it until you blow up in each other’s faces.”

“Please, you barely passed one philosophy class and now you think you’re Plato.”

“You’re doing the in denial thing right now!” he taunts, “Come one, when you two fight like this, what’s it usually about?”

You sigh, sinking back into the plush leather of the couch, and wrapping your hands around a fluffy throw pillow. Thinking about arguing with Eren isn’t particularly something you like to do, and truthfully, you don’t really get pissed at each other that often. Not to the point of ignoring each other, at least.

“I don’t know,” you drawl, “Drugs, me forgetting things, him doing stupid shit, him thinking Mikasa could do better than you, school, drinking, the fact that he leaves his big ass shoes at the top of the stairs for me to trip over and fall to my death every morning, when—”

“His parents?” Jean cuts you off.

“I—we don’t really… it’s not so much fighting over his parents, it’s all the stuff he does to deal with his parents. He never gives his mom’s boyfriends a chance, and he never really talks about why, either. I know he’s secretly just angry and insecure about his dad, but… I don’t know. That doesn’t really make it better.”

“True,” he nods, “See—he doesn’t talk about it.”

“I know, and I told him that last night, too, but… it’s a sensitive subject for him—his dad, I mean,” you sigh, “And you’re right, he shouldn’t bottle his feelings up, but, on the other hand he’s watched his mom get married five times. I don’t always blame him for not wanting to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but just because it’s hard to talk about doesn’t mean he shouldn’t,” Jean lolls, “Wouldn’t you have rather he said something than have done whatever stupid shit he did to make you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Okay, Socrates, I get it,” you lighten up, “I’ll talk to him—or get him to talk to me. Are you happy?”

“Quite,” he says, annoyingly chipper as he rises from the couch. “I hate seeing my favorite power couple fighting.”

Jean knows his words would elicit a slap to his arm, so he takes off just before you can reach him, prompting you to chase him out of the living room and down the hall. The brunette cackles ridiculously loudly as you scream his name with profanities sprinkled in-between. You catch a hold of the bottom of his shirt and pull him back, finally flicking him on the forehead.

He accepts his punishment with pride, offering you a signature smile in return while you both catch your breaths. It’s a sweet moment, the two of you looking at each other with stupid smiles on your face, exhalations tickling your cheeks.

Jean’s eyes break the gaze first, as he looks down the remainder of your face, and back up to your eyes again. His words could get caught in his throat, but he doesn’t let them—he shakes his head, and swiftly turns around, beckoning for you to follow him.

“Come on, we can steal Marco’s clothes for your pajamas this time.”

Jean spends all of three minutes pulling apart Marco’s dresser before swiping a t-shirt and Christmas themed pajama bottoms from his room. He tosses them in your direction before leading you back down the hall and to the left, opening the door to the guest bedroom for you, before leaving you to change.

They have more than one guest bedroom, but this one is unofficially yours. Little pieces of you can be found littered throughout the room, from spare jewelry to mismatched makeup. You spot a single, gold, teardrop shaped earring on the vanity and sigh as you run your fingers over it.

You swear you’d lost it a few months ago. Trust Jean to put it away for safekeeping without telling you he’d found it. The boy in question returns moments later, knocking while walking through the door with your purse in hand.

“How’d you know I was about to ask you to get that?” you question, a smile on your face as you retrieve the small bag from his hands.

Jean offers you a cocky grin, “Cause I’m the best.”

“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” you tease, “Or, well, an even bigger head.”

Jean ignores your insult, as you take a seat at the edge of the bed, fishing through your bag for your phone to plug it in for the night. He’s about to turn around and bid you goodnight, when the flash of something orange peeping out of your purse prompts his next thought.

“Hey, you picked up your refill, right?” he asks innocently, “It should have been ready last Thursday.”

You sigh, head falling slightly when you close your bag and place it on the vanity. “Uh… no.”

Jean’s mouth is already open, ready with equally friendly and scolding words, but you cut him off before he can talk. “I was going to on Thursday, but I had class late, and then I forgot on Friday and I haven’t really had time since then. But I have a few left-overs from the last two months, so I’ve been taking those!”

Jean’s mouth closes, but his eyes narrow as he begins to walk towards you. You know he’s putting two and two together, so you speak ahead of him again.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have any left over, but it’s only five, I promise! I’ve been really good, lately.”

Jean’s eyes remain in concentrated slits, but his resolve is waning when he reads over your expression. His facade fades as he takes the final steps towards you to stand directly in front of your body.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft through his smile, “I’ll go with you to pick them up tomorrow before I drop you home, yeah?”

It elates him more than it should to see the smile you flash his way. Unfortunately, it’s short-lived, as his next question leaves your face twisted with guilt.

“Have you… told Eren yet?”

You consider lying and saying yes, but something tells you Jean won’t buy it. Your silence seems to speak loud enough, as his shoulders drop with a quiet sigh.

“I want to, I just… well I’m mad at him right now, and even when I’m not… I don’t know why it’s so hard,” you confess.

“He’d wanna know, you know,” Jean says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it to you, either. “You know he wouldn’t judge you or anything.”

“I know that. But, truthfully, if I had things my way, not even you would know, Jean.”

It was an accident that Jean found out that you’d been taking anxiety medication.

It was at somebody’s house party where the majority of your friends and their guests had gotten piss drunk. Reiner’s date had suggested mixing their alcohol with molly she’d supposedly had in her bag. In her drunken stupor, she’d mistaken your purse for her own, but luckily, a not so drunk Jean had noticed the label didn’t match her name, and snagged the bottle before the worst could happen.

They ended up not finding her molly, anyway, but it’s a moot point. Jean had cornered you about the bottle later in the week with honest intentions; he’d been concerned that might be another kind of drug disguised by a prescription veil. However, you’d assured him that it was indeed your prescribed Lexapro, and not a shady mixture of black market substances.

And, he’d been more than understanding in the aftermath. Quite frankly, he had somewhat made it his business to ensure that you got and took your medication on time and felt comfortable getting to and from your therapy appointments.

It’s endearing in a way that made you pause and count your blessings sometimes. Jean had been nothing but unequivocally supportive in his understanding about anxiety and had gone the extra mile to comfort you where need be. It made you wonder why you hesitated to tell Eren on several occasions.

It was probably the very nature of anxiety itself that had you doubting your trust in Eren. You wanted to tell him—of course you did—but, you couldn’t. You know that Eren would do everything in his power to make it better, even if that was just being. You know that he’d want to know and he’d kill to understand. But you couldn’t possibly burden him with your problems, not when he has a million of his own.

The one person in the world you wanted to tell, you were terrified of talking to. And you know it’s irrational to be afraid of him, but you can’t seem to control those thoughts. It’s a tiring, consuming, endless cycle.

Jean watches the way your gaze lowers to the floor. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, and, god, he swears if he could take that train of thought away from you, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a heavy heart and tired eyes, he takes a final step forward and wraps his arms around your body. He counts three, four seconds before you hug him back. He raises a hand to the back to your head, cradling your face into his shoulder and squeezing you tightly.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, you know that,” he speaks, just a notch above a whisper, “I know you’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. You hug him back a little tighter and close your eyes, “Thank you, Jean.”

And Jean holds on, and hopes you know that he wouldn’t let you go, “You’re welcome, (_____).”

You come home to find your entire apartment littered with flowers; in the hallway, on the sectional, atop the counter, up the stairs.

There are several boxes of your favorite macarons stacked in a small pyramid on the kitchen island, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you checked the labels to find that they were shipped straight from the south of France this morning. There’s too many bottles of Ace on the coffee table, sparkling next to a basket of what looks like your regular skincare products. A pretty, gold bow rests atop an even prettier pair of red-bottomed heels, and if you’re not mistaken, that’s a limited edition, vintage YSL clutch on the sectional, resting against your favorite throw pillow.

You sigh, making your way to the couch to pick up the orange envelope sticking out of the handbag. Just as you’re about to open it, you hear footsteps, and a voice that follows.

“You’re back,” Eren chirps from mid-way on the staircase, “I, uh, there’s catering coming from Butter coming soon. I know it’s your favorite,” he continues as he descends the stairs.

He has his hand on the back of his neck and there’s a faint, pink tint to his cheeks as he slowly makes his way towards you. You cross your arms, looking him up and down when he stands in front of you.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a tweed sweater with patches at the elbow. His hair is split down the middle, longer than usual, so the ends of sweep over his eyelashes; and there are telltale signs that he’d been toying with it.

“Eren, what is all of this?” you finally ask, shifting your weight to your right leg.

“Part one of my apology and explanation,” he replies, a hopeful timbre to his voice. You roll your eyes, but he continues anyway, “Actually, part two is in that envelope.”

Skeptical, you unfold your arms and open the envelope. You don’t know what you were expecting—a card, maybe tickets to a musical or something; but what you definitely weren’t expecting were two tickets to Paris.

“France?” you look up, tickets in hand, “You don’t get it do you? You can’t just buy all of this shit, jet us off to Europe and expect everything to be okay.”

“No, no it’s not like that—I swear!” he interjects, hands moving sporadically, “It’s just, well… Can we sit? Then I can explain everything.”

Eren looks at you with those big green eyes and that sad pout to his lips, and you find yourself sighing and taking a seat on the couch against your better judgement. There’s a small smile to his lips when you do—a little victory—and he sits next to you, your knees resting against each other as you face him.

He’s shaking, and your resolve to punish him with whatever solid exterior and half-assed silent treatment dissolves as you take his left hand in your right, and recall your conversation with Jean. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, Eren. You can talk to me.”

When he feels your smaller hand envelop his, the shaking stops, and for a moment, it feels like he can do this, like everything is okay. He smiles, and takes a deep breath.

“The other night, you were right, about my mom and her boyfriend coming home,” he starts, words slow and heavy, “I didn’t even know she was coming—I knew she was visiting this month, but she didn’t tell me when, and I thought it was going to be just her, you know? But then she showed up with him, and, well, I don’t know. I was upset. She’s been home for a week now, and we haven’t even gone to dinner or anything.”

He pauses, and you squeeze his hand for reassurance, “We were supposed to get lunch on Thursday, but she cancelled. Had some meeting or something, I don’t know, I don’t care. Friday comes and she says she wants to have dinner, right?”

You nod, he continues. “I thought it was just going to be us, but he was there. That’s when she told me that… that they’re…” he squeezes his eyes shut, “They’re engaged.”

Your mouth falls into a small o-shape. Everything made perfect sense now.

It’s not that Eren didn’t love his mother, quite the opposite actually. He’s a mama’s boy through and through; she’s his role model, his everything, he adores her. Her career as a designer often takes her on long business trips, most frequently as prolonged stays in Paris, so much so that she relocated her primary office there shortly after Eren graduated high school.

Now, she only visits home for one or two weeks at a time, sometimes only for the weekend. Upon her decision to permanently relocate, she planned to leave Eren under the unofficial supervision of Mikasa. Instead, Eren bought Mikasa her own three-bedroom apartment in Midtown (according to his logic, it was better for her to have her own place than to move in with Jean), and a shared two-story penthouse for the both of you that overlooks Central Park.

Eren misses her more than he cares to admit, but he puts on the same facade every time she comes home because he hates the company she brings.

Paris is where she met her newest boyfriend, Mitchell, and Eren swears he hates that man with every fiber of his being. It’s not saying much, though, not when Eren’s hated every single one of his mother’s past romantic partners, right down to his own father.

“Is… is that why you—”

“Rented a brand new Corvette and went drag racing at one in the morning?” he chuckles, “Yeah. It was stupid, I know, but I was just angry, I guess. I dunno what I was feeling, but it wasn’t good.”

You nod, wrapping both of your hands around his now and offering him a warm smile. He smiles back, just for a moment. “That’s what the tickets are for, actually. The wedding.”

“They’re getting married in France?” you question, to which he nods, “On the first? Isn’t that a little short notice to plan a wedding?”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of Carla Jaeger,” he chuckles, “Apparently, it’s been in the works for a few months now. He proposed with fireworks or some shit. Said she wanted to tell me in person, though.”

“This ticket is for next week,” you say, rereading the dates on the papers. “The wedding is three weeks from now.”

“Well, I kind of figured we could take a little vacation before then,” he grins, “I texted most of the boys earlier, and they can probably come to the wedding, but I want to spend some time with you before it gets hectic, you know? Consider it an end of the semester present.”

Your eyes flicker down to your hand, still wrapped around Eren’s, when he starts to trace circles into your skin, “I thought I just told you, you can’t jet us off to Europe to fix things.”

“You did,” he hums, “And I know I can’t—I’m not trying to, I just… Truthfully, I reserved the plane and the hotel a few weeks back and it really was just going to be a surprise for us—well, more like a gift for you because I know you’ve been busting your ass in chem—but then… everything else happened, and I think a break sounds perfect before I watch my mom get married for the sixth time.”

You watch him continue to toy with your hands for a while, processing your conversation. It was typical of Eren to surprise you like this, so you can’t figure out why this particular present leaves you feeling warmer than usual.

“You sure you don’t need a break from me?”

Eren beams and takes the opportunity to lace your fingers together. “Nah, you’re annoying, but not Jean level annoying.”

You scoff, “I’m telling him you said that.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you, anyway,” he shrugs, “Besides, I might just murder Mitchell if you’re not there with me.”

You chuckle, on the verge of accepting his proposal, but the mention of Jean prompts another thought to cross through your mind. “I’d love to, but I… I don’t know. I don’t want Armin to spend the first few weeks of winter break here all alone.”

This Christmas would mark one year since Armin had seen, or even talked to, any of his immediate family members, with the exception of Erwin.

Last year, you all tried to salvage the damage by sticking around so, at the very least, he didn’t have to feel alone. You and your friends decided that Armin ought to be celebrated, not ostracized for any aspect of himself, so you all chipped in for a cute, impromptu trip to the Catskills so that everyone could be together and close to home.

This year, however, there seemed to be quite a few conflicts of interest. Even if Armin was one of the boys who was planning on attending the wedding, you doubt he had plans leading up to it. You know that Marco, Bertholdt, Mikasa, and Jean had invited him to go to Aspen with them, but Armin declined the offer. Similarly, Connie, Sasha, Annie, Reiner, and Ymir would be off to Dubai as soon as classes ended; an invitation Armin had also turned down.

You weren’t sure what Erwin’s plans were, though you’re certain they involved his own friends in some way or another. At the very least, it was unlikely that he would leave his younger brother completely stranded over the break; but you didn’t want to make plans without knowing Armin wouldn’t be alone.

“He won’t, actually he’ll be closer than you think,” Eren reassures you, “Hange and Moblit wanted to go skiing anyways, so Erwin is taking all of them to the Alps instead of Aspen. Armin doesn’t know yet, but he’s going with them.”

“Shouldn’t Erwin spend his break campaigning, and not skiing? Last I checked, he wasn’t too popular in Queens”

“Ah, you know Erwin,” Eren shrugs, “He has a way of making people devote themselves to him. He’ll win the election with or without campaigning, trust me—the point is, that little baby Armin will be safe and sound under Erwin’s protection, and you don’t have to worry about him.”

“How come you get to call him a baby?”

“Because I’m a hypocritical asshole who doesn’t deserve you, but is hoping you’ll come with me anyway.”

Eren smirks, but there’s a genuine undertone to his words as he moves his fingers to toy with the ring around your pointer finger. The same one he gave to you two Christmases ago. Well, kind of.

The ring he originally gifted you was a Harry Winston piece, with an encrusted band that wrapped into two sunflowers, both made of classic, white diamonds with emeralds sparkling in the center. After seeing the design, and the price tag, you demanded that he take it back, or at the very least, get it sized to fit on your index finger or thumb so that people didn’t get the wrong idea.

Instead, he came back with a simple, silver chain for the original ring to hang from, and the current ring on your finger; a rose gold band with tiny diamonds studded around it. Likely equally as expensive, but more appropriate according to you.

“Fine. But you have to be on your best behavior,” you agree, paying no mind to Eren’s thumb twirling your jewelry, “Do you promise me no drag racing or antics of any sort while we’re there?”

Eren shakes his head at the memory, eyeing the first ring that sits against your chest.

He smiles. “I do.”

The afternoon after your last exam, you bid the remainder of your friends goodbye, grab your bags, and hop on a plane with Eren. It arrives in Paris, but you’re rerouted off to Nice before you can so much as blink at the Eiffel tower; you’d be staying there for the two and half weeks leading up to the wedding, in a small villa.

You had to hand it to him, Eren really outdid himself. It’s dark and nearing three in the morning when you arrive, but even in your sleepy stupor you can admire your accommodations. The villa is secluded, the perfect distance from the water, and decorated lavishly almost to your exact liking. You wouldn’t be surprised if Eren sprung it on you that he’d bought the place, and wasn’t merely renting it for this vacation.

Every day after that, Eren proves he was honest in his intentions of this being a getaway gift to you. He’s planned every activity under the sun—from hot air balloon rides, to helicopter tours, to jet-skiing. The days are certainly fun and filled with beautiful memories, but there’s something special about Nice at sunset; something about the sound of gentle waves brushing up against the beach, and the spotlights carved from sun-cast shadows on the buildings.

It’s just after dinner time, bordering on your eighth night here, when you and Eren are walking along the cobblestone streets that border the beach, the length of your sundress flowing every which way with the breeze, and the tail of Eren’s blazer flailing like a cape behind him.

He looks nice tonight, but, truthfully, he always does. He claimed he hadn’t put on the casual green suit because of your outfit, but you swear he was wearing khakis before he saw your dress. The tips of his ears go red when you tease him about it at dinner, but it doesn’t really matter to you; he would have looked good, regardless. Those suits are made for him, after all; tailored to fit perfectly, and designed by his own mother.

The streets tend to settle down after six, locals and tourists retreating indoors or heading to the beach to relax and draw in the evening. Tonight, however, there’s much more commotion than usual on your route.

“Maybe we should take the long way,” you suggest. On the tips of your toes, you realize that there’s some kind of special event happening in the square, filled with lights and music that grows louder with every step you take.

But the crowd and the lights and the smell of food only piques Eren’s interest. “No way—let’s check it out!”

You don’t have the time to refute before his long legs surpass your own stride, headfirst into the sea of people. You can only follow with a smile and a shake of your head. The soft green of his suit jacket serves as your guide as he navigates through the crowd, but the closer you get to the center, the more people there are.

You can feel palms of your hands growing uncomfortably warm as you become hyperaware of just how many people there are. You clutch the end of your dress in your hand, for both practicality and as a sort of comfort mechanism, as you try your best to calm the anxious wave threatening to crash against you.

With a deep breath, you begin to walk again, unaware of Eren’s actions until you physically walk into his hand, long fingers poking at your belly. You hadn’t realized he stopped walking, or that you’d caught up with him, and your eyebrows crinkle when you look down to see Eren’s left hand extended behind him and towards you, palm facing upwards.

He doesn’t say anything, or look back at you at all. Only wraps his larger fingers around yours when he feels the weight of your hand in his, and continues to guide you through the crowd, his pace slower, and hand firm around yours.

The mass of people becomes more spread out when you approach what appears to be the center of the event; and it looks like a party, maybe a wedding of some sort. There’s food and champagne galore, and more than enough happy guests dancing along to upbeat music in the streets.

Eren’s eyes light up as he takes in the scene, “You wanna dance?”

“What—Eren, no!” you refuse, “We cannot crash these people’s party!”

“Why not?” he counters, without a care in the world, “Seems like an open invitation to me! Come on!”

And for the second time that evening, you find yourself being pulled into his schemes; this time in the direction of the open space dubbed dance floor.

You’re both terrible and ostentatious and people start to watch, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling too wide and laughing too hard to care. Eren has a way of moving both with and against the music, forcing your body to follow his lead.

He shouts something over the noise, but you don’t have time to register his words before he laces your right hand with his left, and places his right hand on your waist. There’s a blink of confusion for a moment before you’re being swept off your feet and into a dramatic dip. You don’t have time to secure yourself against his shoulders, but Eren does a fine job of supporting you with a single arm against your back.

From what you can tell the song is far from over and the dramatic pose is completely unwarranted, but you and the crowd alike are victim to his charm. You indulge yourself, looking up at him with eyes too fond to memorize every feature of his face in this moment; the way he’s laughing with that big, dumb, wide smile of his that makes his nose crinkle and his eyes light up.

You’re too busy looking at him to hear Eren’s voice calling out to you, or even realize that he’s moved you from your pose to standing back upright. He’s equal parts amused and concerned at the glazed over look in your eyes.

“Hello? Anybody home up there?” he teases, elongating the vowels and squeezing your waist to alert you.

The reminder of his hands on your hips pulls you back to reality, your eyes fluttering down to his arms, then back to his face. It feels stuffy suddenly, too close to function.

“Yea—yeah! Do you wanna get a drink? Yeah, let’s get a drink!” you exclaim, haphazardly pointing and walking towards the food.

You don’t see it, but Eren looks on with glittering eyes, his verbal agreement heard only by himself as you veer towards the buffet. He can still feel your body in his grip, still see the specks of gold in your pupils as he lingers on the back of your silhouette lovingly. And before you can realize, he snaps himself out of it—an out of body experience similar to yours a few moments ago—before catching up with you.

You end up socializing for much longer than intended. Eren makes friends with everyone, to no surprise, and, uncharacteristically, you feel influenced by his actions, and converse with a few people yourself. You let him take the lead, though. Partially because he’s better at it, and partially because you just like listening to him speak French.

“Hey, we should probably get out of here,” he whispers into your ear after waving goodbye to a lovely couple you’d just met, “Before the host of this party realizes we’re miles better than his actual guests.”

You nod with a smile, more than happy to play by his rules for the evening. He offers you his hand again, that same, dopey smile on his face when you take it.

He leads you out of the crowd and back on to the path to your villa, the smell of warm food and sounds of vibrant music growing dull as you venture further from the celebration. It’s much darker than it was when you began your trek back from the restaurant, but beautiful all the same.

Your sandals pad against the wooden dock that leads up the villa, and Eren unlocks the door silently, ushering you inside before entering behind you.

“I know I said I wanted to leave, but I’m not really tired yet,” Eren confesses, pulling his blazer off of his shoulders.

“Me neither,” you say, placing your small wristlet on the table with a shrug, “What do you wanna do though, I’m not—”

“Great!” he cuts you off, smile too big. You narrow your own in suspicion. That tone of voice with that look on his face usually meant something mischievous, at best. “Remember when you said the first time you’d smoke would be with me, and then pranced away and took a bowl from Hange and got high as shit at Moblit’s party?”

“Why does everyone remember Moblit’s party but me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, waving the topic away, “Anyway… Do you wanna smoke now?”

You blink. “I… did you… smuggle weed all the way to France?”

“No, of course not!” he refutes, “…I got it here.”

You scoff, but don’t have the time to question him further before Eren’s tugging on your wrist and pulling you into the bedroom. You take to sitting on your bed while he rummages through his suitcase to retrieve a small, clear jar with several rolled joints inside and a lighter to match.

He shuffles next to you in the bed, mindlessly handing you the lighter while he unscrews the top off the jar. He takes out two of the joints, places one next to the jar on the nightstand, and tucks the other between his teeth. He asks you to hand him the lighter, and you do so wordlessly, distracted by the sight of Eren’s gaze and the blunt poking out his mouth.

“This’ll be fun, yeah?” He reassures you, “Technically, you let Hange take your weed virginity, but I’ll be better.”

“Can you not phrase it like that,” you roll your eyes, “You already took my virginity virginity, don’t be bitter.”

An all too smug grin settles on his features as he recounts the fact. “Besides,” you tack on, “I’ve never done it like this before. So, it’s still a first, kind of.”

Eren cups one hand around the joint, sparking the lighter with the other until it catches fire. He inhales, slow and deliberate, as if he were putting on a show, or a lesson, of sorts, taking the smoke into his lungs and out through his mouth.

You’d gravely miscalculated how attractive Eren would look doing this. Sure, he’s hot, you knew that, but the pronunciation of his jawline when he exhales, and the confidence with which he drags on the blunt is a stark reminder to you. He takes a few more hits, just as slow and sensual as the first, and the room begins to feel warmer.

“Come closer,” be beckons, smoke rolling off of his tongue with every syllable.

You snap yourself out of the haze of your imagination and scoot closer to him. He silently hands you the joint, and it feels heavy between your fingers. At the distance, you take in the smell—pungent and off-putting, but too familiar.

Eventually, you bring it to your lips, careful not to let your tongue press against the tip, and inhale slowly, like you’d seen Eren do before. You do your best to hold the smoke in your lungs for a bit, but seeing as the last time you did this you were amped up on adrenaline and drunk off your ass, the task proves to be much more difficult. It tickles before becoming uncomfortable and you exhale ungracefully, puffs of smoke punctuating your coughs.

Eren watches with a grin, amused at the sight of you fanning the excess smoke away with your nose scrunched in distaste. “You should have warned me you were gonna cough like a bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, trying to hide the hint of a smile creeping onto your face. You hand the blunt back to him, “You’re supposed to teach me, not tease me, asshole.”

Eren pauses his laughter, unsure of what to make of your tone; rushed, a bit embarrassed, but testy. It’s quiet while he stares at you, trying not to let the implication of your words run wild in his mind; but it’s futile when you’re pouting like that, the room is growing foggier, and he’s been semi-hard since you accepted his offer.

“Fine. Watch and learn,” he breathes, words coming out more jagged than he’d intended.

This time, he completely exaggerates every motion; he inhales at a tantalizing pace and flutters his eyes closed while he lets the smoke swish in his mouth, down his throat, and expand into his lungs. He cranes his neck upwards, and purses his lips to let the clouds exit in the streamline that follows the slope of his jaw.

Maybe it’s the drugs getting to you, but your mind is filled with nothing but sheer clouds that aren’t thick enough to block out thoughts of Eren. The weed is unattractive, potent in smell, and all kinds of wrong; yet, everything about him is soft, sultry, and pulls you in.

“Wanna try again, or do you need another lesson?”

You faintly mutter a profanity under your breath. His words end with giggles, a sign the drugs have already begun to take their effect on him, his expression is still smug. You forget Eren knows just how attractive he is. Motherfucker.

“Actually,” he cuts your train of thought, “I have a better idea, come ‘ere.”

Eren beckons you forward again, closing the gap between your legs so that your knees graze each other under the fabric of your clothing while you’re sat next to each other. He leans over, far too close into your personal space, as if to test something; he freezes when his nose is mere inches from your face, a dissatisfied scrunch taking over his features.

He reinstates his hold on your wrist, motioning your body backwards until your back is against the frame of the bed. He hums in approval, positioning himself next to you again, equally as close, but far more comfortable for what he has planned next.

“I’m—I’m gonna try somethin’, okay?” he stutters, the first word mistakenly coming out in broken German, “Just, don’t freak out on me. It’ll be good, promise.”

You nod, unsure of what you’ve just signed off on, but you don’t have time to ask questions. Eren takes another hit, then passes the blunt to his non-dominant hand. He turns to face you, leans forward, and places his free hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer; the expanse of his palm leaving room for his thumb to venture over the bottom half of your cheek.

Eren pulls you in until your lips are millimeters apart, and he can see the pattern of your eyes in beautiful detail. He shifts his hand now so that the majority of it covers your face, the pad of his thumb running across your bottom lip. He applies the perfect amount of pressure to pry your willing mouth open, and then, finally, exhales.

This time, you can taste it. It’s woodsy, and bitter, but the sweet undertones dance on your tongue. This time, there’s more to think about than just the smoke in your lungs; like the burn of Eren’s hand on your neck; the pressure of his thumb against your bottom lip; the proximity of his lips to yours; the look in his eyes.

“Feel good?” he doesn’t bother to pull away before asking, and the words ghost over your lips with the remaining smoke. You nod; he smiles. “Wanna try again?”

You let out a breathy note of affirmation, and then he’s inhaling and exhaling into you, and you welcome him with pried lips and a heavy thumping in your chest. The confidence with which he maneuvers his body and the drugs is nerve-wracking, yet comforting at the same time; he has an expertise and power that intimidates, but compels you to follow.

Together, you finish the first blunt, and Eren lights the second without missing a beat. His hands are more demanding this around; they guide you into submission, and he’s pleased to find that you’re willing to listen.

After the third exhale, you stop focusing on his hands, and more on his lips. After the fourth, you think you might be high—not to the stars as you infamously were during Moblit’s party—but with a comfortable, dull buzz in your head. Everything feels a little fuzzy, out of touch, but you host a burning want for something more, something tangible.

You don’t know it, but Eren feels the same.

After the fifth exhale, Eren pulls away, the blunt a simple stub as he flicks it away onto the night stand, and you miss him being too close. You miss his hands, you miss his warmth, you crave his touch.

“Eren,” you call, unable to think of or see anything but him in the haze. He answers with a strained, “Yeah?” keening towards the sound of your voice, wide eyes flitting all over your face.

It’s too much, too close, too hot. That’s when you cup his jaw, pull him forward, and meld your lips together.

Kissing Eren is painfully familiar, and unnervingly satisfying. It’s certainly not your first kiss with him; and, yet he has a way of making you feel like it is while reminding you of your history. His lips are soft, and they taste like smoke and the chapstick you swear by because he refuses to buy or test out his own.

You pull away too soon, gauging his reaction with blown-out eyes, before dipping forward to have him against you again. Then again, and again, and again, until Eren is tired of your leaving, and his hands are back on your neck.

This kiss is deeper, Eren searching to satisfy the hunger aching inside of him, and you’re happy to comply when his thumb is pressing at your lower lip again. You open your mouth for him and he doesn’t waste a moment, brushing his tongue against yours experimentally, and then flush into your mouth.

He groans when you rake your fingers into his hair, and pulls back with a hissing noise when you scratch at his nape. Large hands move to grip at your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a concentrated gaze—a brief second for him to admire the sight of you on top of him, before he resumes kissing you. He sucks on your tongue, rolls his past your teeth, and bites on your bottom lip.

You know he relishes in the sounds he elicits from you, and under any normal circumstance, you’re willing to put up a fight with him, but not now. Now, you let him unzip the back of your dress and snake his hands beneath the fabric. The rubbing motions of his hands turn into gripping, gripping into grinding, and eventually, an unfiltered moan slips past your lips when you feel Eren’s erection roll against you.

“Fuck,” he pulls back with a suck of your swollen lip, “You’re so hot.”

Eren quickly switches your positions so that he’s hovering over you. You chuckle lightly underneath him, taking the opportunity to run both your hands through his hair and cradle his head in your hold, “Haven’t done anything yet.”

“I know,” Eren murmurs, dipping his head down to press kisses into your neck, “Still so sexy. So pretty, always.”

Eren bites a hickey into your collar bone, and everywhere he can touch; your neck, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Your moaning serves as the spark to keep him going, but he’s barely coherent himself the way you keep pulling at his hair and grinding yourself against him. Even through his clothes, you can feel how painfully hard he is.

He barely catches your tongue between his lips when you moan again, sucking harshly before bruising his lips over yours again. His hands are grabby again, finally pulling your dress completely off of your body, leaving it to form a puddle on the ground. They’re back on your as soon as possible, massaging over your tits, and running his index finger over your nipples.

“Eren... Eren, please,” you whimper, chest heaving as you look down at him. He rolls his index finger over your right nipple, with his left hand teasing the other with his thumb. You can’t tell if the look in his eyes is a product of the weed, or just his glassy, borderline predatory stare, but it makes you shiver with pleasure when he wraps his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

“I want you.”

“Want you, too,” Eren hums, pulling back with a thin trail of spit from your breast, before moving to give your left nipple the same treatment, “More than you know.”

You keen to him when he teases his teeth against you, finally having had enough you force him off of you with a tug of his hair. “Then take off your clothes.”

Eren blinks, wide-eyed but glazed all the same. He chuckles lightly, a blush spreading over his cheeks as he nods. He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, forgoing undoing the buttons, and pauses briefly with his hands over the zipper of his pants.

“Please tell me you’re not that gone that you forgot how to undo your zipper,” you tease him, chest still heaving from his previous ministrations. Eren smiles, doe-eyed and hazy, and shakes his head.

“No,” he reassures you, finally undoing his zipper and shimmying his pants off his legs, “Was trying to remember what underwear I was wearing. Didn't want it to be embarrassing.”

His honesty makes you laugh, and Eren pauses for a moment to soak it in. Even like this, even with him stumbling over the steps to undress himself, and you almost completely naked in front of him, he can make you smile. There’s something equally sexy and endearing about your giggles; a juxtaposition that makes him want to hug you or kiss you or something in between. And you—you like the look in his eyes even through your giggling; the way he smiles back and blushes and tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “Don’t think mine are particularly sexy either.”

Eren hums, shuffling back on to the bed so that he’s between your legs, and leans forward to kiss you again. He still can’t seem to keep his hands off of you, his fingers immediately flying to your underwear and peeling them off your legs, pulling you closer despite the lack of space between your bodies.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter,” Eren echos, tossing the offending item to the side, before cupping your face in his hands, “I’d still wanna fuck you in your granny panties.”

“You wanna fuck me?” you question, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

“Yeah, I do,” Eren can’t help but to smile again, happy and high and drunk on you, too, “Will you let me?”

Your feverish nodding is all it takes for Eren’s mind to go hazy again; clouded with you, you, you. You pull him into a kiss, arching your body into his, and running your hands down the sides of his back. He moans at the feeling, punishing you by nipping at your lower lip and pressing your stomach back to the mattress with his palm.

Your eyes meet his as Eren lines himself up with your cunt, teasing your folds with the head; but it doesn’t take long before he finally pushes in, sheathing himself inside you completely without movement. He waits a minute, whether it’s to make you comfortable, or to gather his own bearings, you’re not sure; but when he’s ready, he flashes you a smile and waits for one in return, before he starts thrusting.

You know Eren’s not gentle; rough whether or not he intends to be by virtue of his size in comparison to you, but you seem to have forgotten just how capable he is of making you lose your senses. He has you gasping, grasping at him at him unintelligibly, feeling full with his cock inside of you.

Eren groans, borderline growls, when he feels you clench around him, when he sees you shaking beneath him. He could do this all; could watch you all day.

“So pretty, the prettiest. Prettiest girl, my favorite girl,” Eren praises, eyes raking up and down your thrashing body, “My favorite fucking girl.”

“You—you, too.”

“Yeah? I’m your favorite, too?” Eren coos, reaching out to guide your arms over your head, the force of his body pinning your hands down; you can hardly gasp before he lacess your fingers together, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Promised you, didn’t I? That I’d be good to you, be on my best behavior,” Eren reminds you, leaning forward.

He eyes your necklace—eyes glued to ring around it—bouncing with your body. He bends his head down to kiss it, bites at the skin near it; a possessive streak overcoming him as the diamonds shine against you. “I said I’d treat you good, always. Meant it.”

He stutters, when you squeeze him back; fingers tightening around his hold, your pussy clenching around his cock. Your whining is insistent, and mixes with Eren’s low moans and guttural noises. Eren doesn’t let up his pace, fucking you fast and deep, and it’s only a matter of time before you feel a knot twisting in your belly.

You attempt to move your arms, searching for a release of the feeling building up inside of you but Eren is strong; stronger than you, and he keeps you in your place. Keeps your arms pinned above you, keeps his palms pressed into yours, keeps his lips hovering above yours, just out of reach.

“Eren,” you call his name through shaky moans.

“Yeah? What, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, his lips needy and hungry over yours. Eren fucks you and kisses you through your orgasm, tasting your moans on his tongue in timing with him cumming inside of you. You don’t let up; kissing him lewdly while you both come down from your highs.

“So good,” Eren croons against your lips, down your jaw, into your skin, “So good for me.”

You both moan in chorus when he finally pulls out, Eren’s head laying on your collar, nose nuzzling into your neck. He lets your hands free, and immediately you wrap them around his back, holding him close as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, with Eren on top of you, and your thumb rubbing circles into his cheek while he sleeps soundly. Maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less; but the euphoria of your sex doesn’t quiet seem to fade.

It might last all night, maybe even for the rest of your trip but you don’t mind. You think back to earlier in the evening, when you’d caught his gaze after your dance. The feeling isn’t all that different; warm, and fuzzy, and too much and not enough all at once. It feels good, it feels like Eren.

You hum softly to yourself, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy on your chest, when you realize exactly what these two moments have in common: a rare event in which Eren is still in front of you, steady and stagnant, no running or chasing; and you don’t want to let him go.

Sometimes Eren thinks you act oblivious on purpose just to fuck with him, because there’s absolutely no way you—or any human with a functioning nervous system and social cues—can’t tell that he’s completely, stupidly, and embarrassingly in love with you.

Long gone are his days of trying to deny it or get over it. He realized that sophomore year of high school—almost eight years ago—that no matter where he went, what kind of drug he inhaled, or how hard he tried, you’d be permanently etched into his heart. That doesn’t make it any less exhausting, and, in fact, only makes it more astounding that you haven’t caught on yet. Honestly, Eren’s considered hiring a private psychiatrist just to make nothing’s wrong with you.

Amazingly, the remainder of your vacation continues just like the former half. The only exception being that now you’re in Paris. And that he’s shamelessly coerced you into letting him fuck your brains out on several occasions. But besides that, everything’s chill.

Just two best friends traveling through France together and stopping to fuck in any semi-private location they can find. Just two peas in a pod walking along the Champs Elysées at damn near midnight. Just two best buds with linked arms tasting (see: feeding each other) every macaron flavor they come across while violinists play stupidly romantic, classical music in the background.

He knows he should probably talk to you about it, but for some reason he can’t. Like telling you would make it all too real, and give it a meaning that could so easily be taken away from him; give you a reason to want to leave him. Right now, it’s just a fantasy, and he’s free to keep dreaming, believing that he’s special and worth enough for the affection you’ve shown him.

He doesn’t want to be one in a list of your boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands; he wants to be your only one, and if he can’t be, then he’d rather be stuck to your side as your best friend. At least that way, in someway, he could remain special to you; not a forgotten, ordinary ex of your past.

Though, a best friend who he’s sleeping with regularly and he’s in love with and will always be in love with is starting to sound a lot like a husband to him. At least, the kind of husband he would like to be to you.

You call his name, asking him if he wants to try another sweet. Eren rolls his eyes. What he wants is to fuck you, and marry you, and have you bless his stupid little existence with two runts for kids that look like him but act like you so his life savings don’t run out by the time they’re twelve. But sure, he’ll settle for having you feed him another macaron in the meantime.

“This one tastes just like the coconut one,” he mumbles, chewing his way through the pastry you’d stuffed into his mouth whole.

It’s the seventh bakery you’ve stopped at tonight, and even though Eren’s growing pretty sick of the sugary treats, he’ll walk with you to every damn bakery in Paris tonight if that’s what you want.

He blinks at the thought. He’s so lovesick it’s disgusting. And he wouldn’t do a damn thing to change it.

“That’s probably because it’s almond and coconut flavored,” you say, wiping the stickiness from your fingers onto a napkin.

“I didn’t taste any almonds.”

“I don’t even think you could spell almond, much less tell me what they taste like.”

Eren simply pouts in refute, leaving you giggling at his expression. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, but you seem even prettier in Paris than in Nice. But, that’s probably his rose-colored glasses speaking.

“You think there’ll be macarons at the reception?” you question, biting into yet another pistachio flavored treat, “And if not, would it be rude to bring my own?”

He chuckles. “Yes, babe, I’m sure there will be macarons there.”

He’s always loved Paris, even when his mom moved away here and left him in New York, and he’d always loved it more when you’re with him. He feared that having to attend another, what he considered to be wasteful, wedding in arguably one of his favorite places in the world would leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but, thankfully, he’s only fallen deeper in love since being here.

“You sure you won’t be sick of them by tomorrow?” he asks, watching you debate between taste testing another variation of vanilla bean or rosé.

“How could I get sick of them?” you answer offhandedly, not sparing him a glance away as you choose the pink snack. How could he get sick of you.

“By the time we get back to New York you’ll have forgotten all about them,” he scoffs.

“Don’t worry I’ll quit it soon. I’ll have to eat something solid if I wanna take my meds and go to bed,” you spew with a smile, unaware of what you’ve actually just said, “But they are delicious and I have no regrets.”

Eren pauses. Then so do you, mouth stuffed with sickly sweet.

“I mean—”

“I know, you know,” he cuts you off, “About the meds and stuff.”

You look like you could pass out, or scream, or cry, or everything in between. Eren figures saying more is better than saying less, so he continues.

“I saw a bottle in the bathroom a few months ago,” he admits shyly, but careful about his tone, “Didn’t understand half the words on the label, but it had your name on it so I just, uh… Googled it.”

Of course he knows. Eren’s always kind of known, just never had the words to express it. He imagines that’s what you’re feeling right now.

“Oh,” you finally gape, “Why didn’t you, um… you know, like, say… anything?”

“It seemed like your secret to tell,” Eren shrugs, features softening out, “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

Eren’s always been better at showing than saying, anyway. He hopes that his actions, small as they may seem, might have provided you with any sort of comfort in the past few months. Maybe even before that, too.

“Oh,” you repeat, continually blinking at him, “That’s… that’s it? You’re cool with it?”

Now it’s Eren’s turn to blink. “What do you mean am I cool with it? They’re your meds.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re not mad I didn’t tell—”

“Of course I’m not mad,” he cuts you off with a soft smile, “It’s not really my business. I mean, like, you’re my business because I care about you, but you have your own private stuff, too, which is cool. Besides, when I was, uh, researching it, I learned that it can be hard to tell people stuff like that even if—”

Eren shuts up when he feels your weight against him and your arms wrapped around him. Shell shocked, he takes a moment to hug you back, and slowly comes to rest his chin atop your head after leaving a flurry of kisses.

“You didn’t have to look it up or do any kind of research, you know,” you mumble softly into his jacket. Eren borderline chortles, but only hugs you more tightly.

“Of course I did. If not for you, then for myself, because I meant it when I said I’d never seen half the words on the prescription before in my life,” he replies, heart glowing at the sound of your small chuckles.

He’s expecting an equally witty response, but you surprise him when you pull back just enough to face him, a hazy smile on your face. “You’re amazing, Eren.”

Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush—fucking idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he boasts, leaning back into the coolest pose he could muster up while ignoring the growing heat creeping up his neck. It’s all in vain as you reach over to playfully tug at one of his ears.

He thinks you’re pretty like this. All the time, but most notably when he has you in his arms. So pretty, that he has to lean forward to kiss you; you don’t seem to mind, if the way you smile into the kiss is any indication of your feelings. Eren finds himself mirroring your grin; moving his arms from around your waist to the sides of your face.

The workers in this poor little café probably hate the two of you, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s got his favorite girl in his arms right now, and you taste like almonds and coconuts and like the love of his life.

And he should tell you. Eren wants to tell you, and he finds himself wondering if those same intrusive, fearful thoughts were part of the driving force behind your own reason to keep your secrets from him.

You pull away from him, hands lightly draped around his neck, and you smile like you’re shy—like he hasn’t known you your whole life. Still, Eren finds himself smiling back; and thinks that if you were brave enough to tell him how you were feeling, then he should do the same.

“(_____), I… I gotta tell you something,” he starts, voice soft as his fingers curl around your waist a little more tightly, “Though, I’m kind of hoping you already know.”

You blink at him, almost innocently. Eren bites the inside of his jaw; you’re going to have to stop doing that before he jumps you again.

Better now than never, he supposes. He tries to shake his nerves when he takes your hands in his, completely covering them with his palms, and closes his eyes. Despite that, you try to offer him comfort, squeezing his fingers as best you can; and Eren takes that moment to thank his lucky stars for whoever decided to put you in his life. Because he knows that no matter what, even if he royally fucks this up, you’ll find some way to be there for him.

He slowly blinks his eyes open again, gaze resting on the ring around your neck. A faded chuckle escapes his lips when looks at it. The only one who got the wrong idea about his gift was you. But, he supposes that’s his fault; he never did explain it, after all.

“It’s nothing… It’s just that, I’m in—”

But Eren’s startled by a voice that makes him freeze. He almost wants to believe he misheard it, but he can hear the telltale clacking of vintage heels on the floor of the bakery and he knows that he didn’t mishear a thing.

Eren turns his head, and sure enough, there is his mother, in all her five foot glory, adorned in designer clothing from her beret to her shoes. With a fucking street urchin on her arm.

“Well, well, well, what a lovely surprise,” Carla beams, red lipstick perfectly in place even after a long day of wear.

Eren’s eyebrows draw together, as he takes in his mother and her fiancé standing in front of him. He can just barely register you calling out towards her, carefully maneuvering yourself off of his lap, and into the neighboring chair; but still keeping your right hand wrapped around his left. He can feel you squeeze it—whether to give him comfort, or warning, he’s not sure yet; probably both.

“It’s so good to see you!” you beam, excitedly offering her and Mitchell a seat across from the two of you at the table. Eren opens his mouth to refute, but you squeeze his hand again; a warning.

Carla leans forward to encase you in a hug, exchanging cheek kisses, and leaving Eren to stare at the street rat across from him. Mitchell seems to know better than to make eye contact with him, irises scattering from Carla’s back to the décor of the bakery while the two girls catch up.

“We missed you at the rehearsal dinner on Sunday,” Carla recounts, eyes fluttering to Eren’s briefly. One look into her son’s eyes, and she understands why; one look into his mother’s eyes, and Eren knows she has him all figured out. “I was worried you might not show at all.”

Eren strategically averts your gaze when you turn your head towards him, choosing to look at his mother instead.

“I didn’t even know there was a rehearsal dinner,” you tell her, tone polite, but Eren can hear the clear jab directed towards him, “I’m sorry, I—we would have gone, otherwise.”

“No need to apologize, darling,” Carla smiles, “I’m sure you two were very busy.”

“We were,” Eren cuts in, words definite. He sees a hint of surprise flash in his mother’s eyes briefly, expertly covered up with her sweet demeanor. She only nods in understanding, sitting back a bit to wrap her arm around Mitchell’s.

“What are you even doing here, Ma?” Eren questions, even as you do the same with his hands under the table, “Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“After the third or fourth wedding, you grow tired of pleasantries and superstitions, my love,” she replies, “This place makes Mitchell’s favorite macarons, we thought we’d share a few before the big day. Maybe get some tea as a pre-celebration.”

The topic of sweets has you speaking up once again, engaging both his mother and Mitchell in a discussion about them, and your other findings from bakery hopping earlier. If Eren didn’t love you to pieces, he would have left the table a long time ago.

It carries on much longer than he can bear to endure; almost an hour of you, and his mother, and Mitchell making pleasant conversation while he tries his best not to brood beside you, but it’s futile. He feels like a little kid again. Stuck at the dinner table with his mother and a man he was being forced to get to know, only for him to become a stranger to him in a matter of months.

Eren grinds his teeth into each other when you laugh at something Mitchell says. He’s not going to sit through his any longer; or ever again.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eren says, voice blatantly monotonous as his cuts through the conversation, “But we should all probably head back go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Eren, we should—” but, he stands up quickly, hand wrapping around yours to force you upwards too.

He doesn’t care to look at you, knowing the dissatisfied expression he’ll be met with. He fishes for his wallet and pulls out too many Euros, neatly tucking them under an unused knife to pay for the meal.

Eren’s steps out from between his chair and the table. “We’ll see you guys tomorr—” But is stopped before he can take three steps away.

His mother’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She stands, significantly shorter than Eren’s full height. “Actually, Eren, could I borrow you for a bit?”

And he doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly the conversation waiting for him. But he looks down at her, lets his eyes flicker to you, and back to her, and he knows he doesn’t have the heart to walk away. Not even if he tried.

He sighs with a shallow nod. He can feel your hand on his shoulder, the proud smile on your lips when you tell him that you’ll meet him back at your hotel. Mitchell ensures him and Carla that he’ll make sure you get back safely, and Eren still can’t stand the guy, but he’s grateful that he can at least be of use for something.

Eren kisses you on the forehead briefly, a promise to you and himself that he’ll finish his confession later. After all, he probably should come to terms with the woman who taught him what love is before he vowed to love you for the rest of his life.

The walk to his mother’s hotel is silent, Eren choosing to keep to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent his mom from holding them. He’s probably acting like a child, but isn’t that what he is to her; isn’t that she treats him as.

“Look, Ma, you don’t need my approval to marry him,” Eren grumbles, when they finally exit the elevator into the hotel room, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Carla offers him a small grin, even if he won’t look at her directly, “But it matters to me.”

“Why does it matter now? It didn’t matter with Keith, or Henry, or Henri with an I, or any of the others,” Eren mumbles, reluctantly taking a seat on the stool opposite the vanity.

His mother tracks his movements with soft eyes and an amused grin as Eren absentmindedly bends a knee and begins to fiddle with the hem of his pants. Just like he used to when he was upset as a child.

“It mattered then, too, Eren,” she tells him, sitting on the stool and facing him.

He’s surprised by her words, his wide eyes giving him away even if he attempts to act unfazed. “It didn’t seem like it.”

Carla opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, words stuck in her throat. She watches Eren’s hunched figure, her tall son not even bothering to look her in the eyes. She exhales slowly; if he were five feet smaller, he’d have tucked himself under her arm, still refusing to look at her, but he’d have snuggled his head into her side while he pouted anyway.

“I suppose it didn’t,” she admits, “In the end, the love wasn’t enough to make it last, then.”

Eren is quiet for a bit at that, pulling at his pants leg. “And… and you love him enough, now?”

“It’s more than love, Eren. It’s... happiness—for yourself and another person—it’s being okay with somebody knowing you now, and forever. Whichever version of you that is.”

“Then why did you marry them before?” Eren asks, “If you knew it wasn’t enough, if you knew it was just going to end up as another big mistake.”

“Maybe the marriages were a mistake, and some of what came with them, but I don’t think the feelings were,” Carla muses, “Love is never wasted.”

“How can you say that?” Eren questions, disbelief and exasperation painted on his face, “Of course it is—you wasted your time, and your money, and your—your everything on those people who couldn’t care less about you now!”

“Eren—”

“You let them into our house,” Eren speaks over her, “You let them into your life, and they left. They always left—”

“Eren—”

“—And you even let some of them come back! Everyone, you let everyone have another chance, another anniversary, another wedding,” He’s ranting, crying, hot, irrational tears streaming down his face; hiccups interrupting his speech, “So—so, so if it’s not wasted and everyone gets another chance and another chance and another chance—why didn’t he come back, huh? For his?”

Eren’s standing now, arms flailing every which way during his breakdown, but his mother doesn’t try to stop him. She lets him continue, hears him out.

“If it’s love—if it’s not wasted, and it’s real—then why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t he want to? Why—why didn’t he want me? Why did I end up the bastard?”

Eren looks his mother in the eyes for the first time in the duration of their conversation with that final question; with his vision blurry, and chest heaving, and cheeks wet. Carla has no words to say; can only carefully open her arms, and wait for her son to come crashing into them. And he does; and it rains and pours, and Eren holds onto his mother for dear life, and onto the pieces of her breaking heart.

“Am I not good enough to have that kind of love?” Eren asks through tears, “Am I not special enough to want to know?”

“Eren,” she finally speaks, moving to cradle his head in her hands, “You don’t have to be special or good, to be known or loved. It’s enough that you were born. That’s enough to make you deserving of love.”

She doesn’t mind the tears against her palms or the hiccups of Eren’s breathing, “And you already have it.”

And Eren looks at her with eyes wide and wild like a child, staring at the first person to have ever loved someone as messed up, and plain, and ordinary as him; and he can feel more tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Ma, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, chin resting on her shoulder while his shake through his tears, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Carla hugs her son as close as she can, like he’s five years old and the apple of her eye and she can take all his pain away. “You don’t have to be. You’re my son, and I’ll love you always.”

It feels like they have all the time in the world like that, to hug and cry and apologize; but Carla hopes Eren knows that he was always forgiven; that he never had anything to apologize for in the first place.

“She loves you, too, baby,” she coos, holding Eren as tight as possible, “But you have to let her know that. That you accept it.”

“Do you think she knows?” Eren asks, words muffled into the fabric of her clothing, “That I love her, too?”

“I do,” Carla confirms, pulling away to look at Eren in the eyes; his beautiful, shining, green eyes, “But I don’t think that either of you really realized it. I mean, you did give her an engagement ring, darling.”

Eren huffs at the memory, “She thought it was a gift.”

“Because you gave it to her as a gift.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Love has a way of making people blind,” Carla muses, “Especially two lovesick semi-adults with too much money on their hands.”

Eren’s cheeks grow pink at the accusation, “It’s your money!”

“Yes, and I’m very happy to have it,” Carla chuckles, motioning for Eren to stand up. He does, and she looks up at him with glimmering, proud eyes. “Now, go, shoo. You have a girl to propose to, don’t you? There might be two Jaeger weddings this weekend.”

Eren nods, certain of himself for the first time in a while. He turns on his heel with a vigor igniting his footsteps, but pauses when he reaches the elevator. He makes a sharp turn, running back to his mom one last time, and squeezing her suddenly, and tightly against him.

“I love you, mom,” he says; the words too foreign on his tongue, and he vows to not let them be a stranger to his vocabulary from here on out.

“I love, you, too, Eren,” Carla calmly wraps her arms around her son one last time, “And I always will.”

You half-expected your walk back to your hotel with Mitchell to be painfully awkward, but he proves to be a pleasant conversationalist, even in Carla’s absence.

You know that Eren isn’t fond of him, but you wish that he would at least give him a chance. There’s no way to know if a marriage—if any relationship—will last forever, but, sometimes, you think it’s not about knowing about forever; but, rather about wanting it to make it there; about willing to go the distance with that person.

You can see that want, that willingness that works alongside love in Mitchell and Carla’s relationship, that stands out from her past marriages. You get the feeling they’re going to last; and that, most importantly, they both want it to, too.

It’s quiet out as you both walk the streets of Paris, Mitchell taking the time to point out small notes in architecture that interest you. You readjust your jacket as a gust of wind washes over you, careful to make sure your necklace doesn’t snag against your clothing.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” he calls to you gently.

“Thank you,” Surprised, you quickly let out an embarrassed cough, looking down to your left hand resting atop the uppermost button on your coat. “It was a gift.”

“I meant that one,” Mitchell corrects, carefully gesturing to his own neck to indicate that he was talking about the ring on your necklace, and not the one on your finger.

“Oh, thank you,” you repeat, “That one was actually a gift, too.”

The older man hums, continuing your walk to your hotel. “Must have been one hell of a gift. I don’t know many people who give out engagement rings as presents.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it wasn’t—it’s not an engagement ring,” you tell him, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks even in the chilly atmosphere of the night, “Eren gave it to me, actually, a few years ago—it was a Christmas gift.”

“Eren, huh?” Mitchell smiles fondly, “That makes sense. Carla tells me how much he cares about you.”

“You—she does?” you stutter. Mitchell nods. “I—I mean, I care about him, too.”

“Enough to accept an engagement ring from him, it seems,” Mitchell taunts, “I’m no specialist, but I know a Harry Winston piece when I see it. They’re not cheap.”

“Trust me, I know,” you scoff, “I almost killed him when I saw how much he spent on it.”

“And you took it, anyway?”

“Well, he—he was supposed to return it,” you defend yourself, “Because I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea! But he just, well, he gave me the other one instead, so I wear that one on my hand.”

Mitchell pauses, just as you both stand to the entrance of your hotel. “And what was the wrong idea you didn’t want people getting.”

“That... that...,” you pause, thinking back to that Christmas day.

Even though Eren is known for spending ludacris amounts of money, the ring came as a genuine surprise to you. A couple thousand on shoes, sure—you’re victim to that yourself; a couple hundred thousand on a lavish vacation wasn’t out of the ordinary, either; but a million, maybe even more, on a ring that you could have only ever asked of him in your dreams was another thing completely.

And, sure, even a few million didn’t mean much to you or Eren at the end of the day, but it wasn’t just the price; it was the object of the money, too. To accept a house, or a car, or a jet for that amount is something you could rationalize; but a ring seemed foreign, and far out of your league.

Then there was the display and value it held beyond money. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, but more than that, it’s tailored to your exact liking. The synthesis of your aesthetic and everything you could ask for, garnished with the memory of Eren in the very design; the diamonds you love, the flowers that remind him of you, and the way they stems wrap around each other and the petals meet in the middle.

A small gasp leaves your lips and instinctively, you reach to clutch the ring in your hold. There was no way this was an engagement ring... Eren hadn’t proposed to you when he gave it to you—in fact, he was so casual about it, that it had you stunned that he hadn’t thought to consider that other people might think it meant something more than what he intended it to be.

But, looking back, it seems like you’re the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Because Eren told you, even then, that he’d wanted you forever; you didn’t know how to hear him. It was all right there—not just in the ring, but in all his gifts, in the entirety of your friendship.

Eren loves you, more than you could ever know.

“It’s an engagement ring,” you say aloud, but more to yourself than to Mitchell, “Oh my god, it’s an engagement ring.”

Mitchell can’t do anything but smile at your revelation. You’re practically bouncing off the walls, connecting the puzzle pieces of your relationship in the middle of the street at damn near midnight, but you don’t care; because it finally feels right, and it finally, finally all makes sense.

“He, but he never pro—oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill him.”

You feel elated and confused and happy and murderous all at once. Eren wanted to marry you; Eren loved you. He wants you for the rest of his life, and you’ve been too blind to see it this entire time.

Still, you think that maybe a verbal proposal might have helped to open your eyes a bit.

“Mitchell, I have to—”

You’re cut off by the echo of your name coming from the opposite end of the street, and you can just barely make out of Eren’s figure in the faded lights of the street lamps. His name falls from your lips like a whisper, and you hardly register Mitchell’s amused, soft laughter from beside you.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, patting you on the shoulder, “I better get back to Carla. Something tells me you two have a bit to talk about.”

You can barely nod at him, eye still wide and stunned, but a smile on your face even in your fearful anticipation. You don’t have time to thank him before he turns away, bidding you goodnight; and then you have something else to focus on, as Eren’s footsteps grow louder, and his silhouette grows sharper the closer he gets to you.

He practically crashes into you, chest heaving, hair wind-swept and wild from his running. He puts his hands on your shoulders, to steady himself physically and mentally, labored breaths ghosting over the top of your head.

“Hi,” he finally squeaks; and that stupid, big, dopey grin is on his face.

It’s ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that you can’t help but greet him back. The two of you stand there, smiling like fools for god knows how long, before the realization strikes you for a second time.

Eren opens his mouth to finally speak, but a pained squeal leaves his lips instead as he feels the back of your hand slap his chest. “Ouch—hey, what was that for!”

“What the hell do you think you were doing proposing to me without telling me?” you screech, packing another punch to his chest for good measure, but it’s a poor barrier and does nothing to stop your tears from falling, “You’re an idiot, I should kill you for this, you know that, Eren Jaeger?”

Eren laughs softly, only to be heard by you in close proximity. He takes your offending hand in his, and reaches for your other, pulling both of them between your bodies. He can feel tears welling in his own eyes, as he looks down at the necklace, glimmering perfectly under the moonlight.  

“In my defense, the first thing you told me to do when I gave it to you was to return it.”

“I might not have said that if you told me what it meant,” you can hardly choke out a laugh through your tears; and Eren can’t stop his from falling either, “It’s insane, you know. This whole thing—to ask me to marry you at 19. For me to not realize until we’re 21.”

“I know,” Eren agrees, inching closer even though there’s barely any room between you, “I know. But I know I love you, every version of you. I always have, I always will.”

You close your eyes as Eren’s hands move to your face, gingerly sweeping your tears away from your cheeks. He feels too close, it feels like too much; but you don’t want him to move.

“You know... if you had asked me, then,” you start, blinking your eyes open with a sniffle; you’re met with Eren’s emerald greens one with far too much hope and love glimmering in them, “I—I don’t even know what I would have said.”

“And if I asked you now?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, slowly raising your hands to wrap around Eren’s wrist, and lower them to your neck, before looking at him again, “Ask me.”

Eren blinks, carefully trailing his hands up and around your neck, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your necklace. He hardly lets the chain pool into his hand before it’s tossed aside, and the ring is still between his thumbs and index fingers as he lowers himself on to one knee.

“You are the love of my life, and there’s not a single version of life—a single version of you, or me—where I don’t want to be with you forever,” Eren says, “And you know how shit I am with my words, but I fucking mean it. I swear to you, that I’ll do my best every day to show you how much you mean to me; marry me, and I’ll prove it to you, I swear, I will.”  

Your lips are wobbling at Eren’s confession below you, and you can just barely beckon him upwards in your state. He’s hardly back on two feet before you’re pulling him against you, ghosting the word “yes” on his lips before you kiss him.

You both melt into the kiss, Eren’s hands skillfully cupping your cheeks, while he keeps the ring in his hold and bruises your lips together.

“You don’t have to prove it to me, Eren,” you assure him, hand shaking when you pull apart and let him slip the ring onto your finger—where it belongs, “You already have.”

For his first birthday as a married man, Eren requested something intimate. He wanted just a small celebration with all of your mutual friends, some good food, alcohol, and lots of fun.

Supposedly simple and intimate for him entailed renting out the top floor of the Whitney, which was currently encasing an exhibit portraying some kind of abstract modern art that allowed for a very drunk Eren and Armin have to entertain themselves by trying their best to recreate the paintings using very flawed couples aerial yoga.

The art, paired with the dimmed lighting, Jean’s choice selection of overtly sexual music, and Eren’s pick of overpriced champagne also meant that Marco, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha found everything ten times funnier than they were—which meant they were a million times louder than usual.

Jean stands next to you by the bar, watching as Eren attempts to hold Armin above his head by holding on to just his waist. They’re unsuccessful, of course, resulting in both boys toppling onto the ground as the majority of their older friends laugh along.

“Lucky me, I get to take him home at the end of the night,” you drawl, turning to the bartender to order another drink.

She smiles, easily preparing your martini and sliding it you with an inquiry. “That’s your boyfriend? The tall one with the brown hair?”

“No,” you sigh, eyes closed for a moment before taking the glass between your fingers. “That’s my husband, unfortunately.”

× even more notes: this fic. is my baby. it’s been a draft of mine for over two years at this point. it’s gone through various fandoms but i’ve never quite been able to complete and post it, so i’m very happy that it’s finally here! i hope you all enjoyed, and i just wanted to say that i’m glad to finally have been able to share this with you all!

[aminiatureworld]

Insecure

Characters: Scaramouche, gn!reader

Premise: It is hard not to take the hurtful words of others to heart, even when they are strangers.

In which the reader becomes insecure about their behavior and habits.

Word Count: 2,022

Warnings: Degradation of reader (not by partner).

Author’s Note: Genius title I know. This is the first time I’ve written fic in months so if it’s a little rusty I’m sorry. Hopefully I haven’t completely dropped off the face of the Earth for everyone, and hopefully you’ll enjoy the comeback!

My greatest thanks to the patience of the people who have requested something from me. I hope that this particular request comes out well and that it is up to snuff. I will post Xiao’s part of the request soon, though probably not until after the 15th.

Scaramouche

“Honestly, I don’t think they’ve ever had an original thought in their life.”

Your head snapped up as the voices that had been floating around you came into sharp focus. From outside the tent you could hear some recruits chatting. Focusing yourself on their conversation you wondered if being the partner of a Harbinger would give you the rank to chew out whoever the gossipers were.

“You’re right about that. Honestly, I don’t know why they insist on opening their mouth when they have nothing important to say. I guess being the partner of a Harbinger really does go to your head.”

Your breath caught in your throat at that comment. Surely they weren’t… Realizing that listening to this conversation was a mistake you turned back to the paperwork you had been working on. However now your brain refused to listen to you, insisting on continuing to listen to the conversation despite your desperate wish not to.

“I really must. I guess you have to become a suck up to date someone like that though.”

“You could just keep quiet and let your comrades get on with it. We don’t need to hear a broken record, especially not one that makes such irritating noises.”

“Honestly. I wish I could just tell them to shut up.”

“You know that Scaramouche would have our heads if you did. They’re always hiding behind him. In battle, at the meetings; honestly it’s a miracle they haven’t faded into his shadow yet. They really haven’t had a single original thought in the past year have they?”

“Did they ever?”

The laughter of the gossipers echoed around your head, rattling in an unpleasant sort of way. You could feel your pulse accelerating, as the world around you began to hyperfocus and anxiety bloomed in your chest. Standing up you slipped out of the tent, grateful that the opening was opposite of the voices. You didn’t know where you wanted to go, only that it was far away from the camp and from the people who apparently thought you a puppet.

Reaching a small lake you sat down on the rocky bank, trying desperately to find a thread of focus to quell the unease building in you. You knew that you should ignore, that people were often cruel, especially members of the Fatui. There was no reason that you should take your gossip to heart, that you should believe the cruel musings of two strangers over your own heart. You had your own opinions, of course you did! You were a human after all, one that had their own mind, that knew firsthand that their beliefs did not hinge on those of your partners.

Still the voices gnawed at you, and you found yourself going down a long list of conversations and interactions. When was the last time you had publicly disagreed with Scaramouche? Had you ever? Sure, the idea of causing a scene was mortifying, but you must have argued at some point and time. And if you hadn’t, well what did that mean? Did it mean that you truly had stopped relying on your own experiences. Had you just become another sycophant?

You felt as if cold water had been poured on you. Curling up into yourself a worry suddenly came to mind. What if you were a sycophant? What if Scaramouche found your presence irritating? The idea filled you with dread, with a loathing that surprised you in its intensity. Oh archons, what if he hated you? What if he saw you as he saw the other clingers and graspers that he so often derided? These questions spun around in around in your head, until you found that you could not rid yourself of the thorns that had sprouted in your mind and around your heart.

You decided to stay at an inn that night, unable to find the courage to go back to camp, not even to write a missive. Time. You just needed time to figure stuff out. Besides, maybe Scaramouche would realize that he preferred it this way. Maybe, maybe… You couldn’t even begin to think of what that might entail, what would happen if the love of your life were to prefer you out of his sight. Even beginning to imagine such a scenario left you with a pain is your heart, one that left you gasping. For now you focused on getting a room, and making sure that you were allowed to eat the food by yourself.

The smell of wonton soup filled the air as one of the workers brought a platter to your door. Accepting it grateful, pressing two dozen mora into the astonished worker’s hand, you breathed in the comforting smell. Suddenly aware of how hungry you were you began to dig in, ignoring the still hot temperature in favor of your mind being distracted by the task of filling your stomach with food.

You were about halfway through your meal when you heard a knock on the door. Expecting that it was another staff member your heart flipped at the sight of your partner, face flushed, eyes slightly wild, at your door.

“So this is where you are.” Scaramouche spoke in a hoarse voice, a dark look in his eyes.

“Hello.” You managed to make out, unsure whether or not to shift your gaze to the floor.

Scaramouche said nothing in reply, merely staring at you. He seemed on the verge of speaking, opening his mouth for a moment, before clamping it firmly shut. Nudging his way past you he walked into the small room, he sat in the only chair, bearing and expression more imperious than ever.

“Well,” he spoke, voice constrained. “I do not know why you wish to have our evening briefing here, but since you insist on being irrational I will humor you.”

A sinking pit in your stomach at having inconvenienced your partner once more – surely this would not endear yourself any more with him – you shut the door and walked over to the bed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” you said with what you hoped was a smile. “You don’t have to humor me with anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Scaramouche replied. “You really are acting irrational today. I don’t know what brought on this stunt, but I’d like to know what caused you to first disappear without a trace, leaving me to go after you, then refuse my company when I do find you.”

“I’m not refusing your company. I’m just, well, I…”

“You what?”

“I…” you swallowed. You didn’t want to say it, put the words out into the world, knowing you might well get the answer you were dreading the most. Yet you had to say something! “I, I didn’t want to inconvenience you. I’m sure that you have generals who are much smarter than I am. And I know that you find people who just parrot back your thoughts annoying. You don’t have to humor me, I’m sure it’s very annoying.”

For a moment there was silence. You glanced at Scaramouche, seeing a blankness on his face you could almost read as shock. Was he surprised that you had picked up on such a thing? Or was it something else? It was hard to tell in your anxiety filled state.

“When did I ever say that I was humoring you?” Scaramouche finally spoke up. “When have I accused you of parroting back my thoughts?”

“Well, never.”

“Then why would you assume any of it?”

A variety of emotions ran through you, overwhelming you. Embarassment, fear, shame, even hope. Mingling around they settled for a moment as you stared into the face of your lover. Though his tone was rough and his expression slightly irritated there was a clearness in his eyes, one that called you to confide in him. Before you knew it words were flooding out of you, the burden that you had been carrying around all day finally lifting slightly.

Scaramouche listened closely. Other than the slight tightening of his fist you could barely make out any reaction. However there was a tension in him when you had finished with your story, and the look in his eyes was one of unabashed anger.

“You should have seen who those idiots were. To disparage their superior is unforgivable for a member of the Fatui. They ought to be punished for it.”

“They were just chatting.”

“Just being insubordinate!” Scaramouche shook his head in disgust. “They’re scum. How dare worms say such things about you.”

“You don’t have to get so upset. It’s not like they’re wrong after all,” you mumbled. “I don’t disagree with you in public, or even that often in private. I don’t fight as well as you; the amount of times you’ve had to protect me is shameful. I’m really, I’m not much use on my own am I?”

You glanced down at your hands, only to see as they were wrapped in your partners. Lifting your gaze your breath caught in your throat at the view of your lover’s face hovering mere centimeters away from your own, gaze fierce, dark locks brushing the tip of your nose.

“Do you truly believe such ridiculous things about yourself? About me? About the Fatui? If you think that you would have risen so far in rank without any purpose than you must truly be a fool. If you think that I would fall in love with such an unworthy person than you must think very badly of me.”

“I don’t!”

“Then trust me when I tell you this.” Scaramouche lifted one of his hands up to cradle your jaw, leaning in even closer. “You have no reason to believe such worthless trash that they have said about you. None of it is true.”

The last of the weight lifted off your shoulders, and before you knew tears were building up at the corners of your eyes. Tears of hurt and tears of relief.

Scaramouche drew you into his shoulder, touch gentler than his words and tone of voice might imply. For a while he said nothing, merely stroking the back of your head as you dampened the front of his shirt. When you stopped crying however he spoke up again.

“I cannot imagine why you should ever believe such foolish things. I do not choose my lovers on a whim. And I do not continue to consort with those who have become sycophants. It is not in my nature to be kind or gracious. If I truly thought such things about you, I would not continue to want you by my side.”

The words were harsh perhaps, but you had no doubt of their veracity, nor of the fact that, in his own perverse way, Scaramouche was attempting to comfort you. Allowing yourself to smile for the first time since you’d heard the conversation you looked up at Scaramouche. He was smiling too, a soft small thing that barely turned up the corner of his lips, though his eyes seemed almost to be shining. It was all too much for you, and you reached up to press a soft kiss against your partner’s lips.

“We should be heading back.” You broke the silence.

“Why? Since you have put all the effort into running away, and I to tracking you, we might as well make the best of it.”

There was mischief in Scaramouche’s voice, and you were glad to follow it.

“Very well. Thank you.”

“I did nothing but enlighten you to the truth.”

“Still. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being so kind.”

Scaramouche sputtered at that, his cheeks flushing a light shade of red that had you giggling.

“I love you,” you blurted out, so overwhelmed by the sudden emotion in your heart.

Scaramouche scowled. Muttering something about idiots he pulled your head once more to his chest. You did so gladly, nuzzling into him slightly.

Though it was soft, almost hesitant, you did not miss the murmur he gave you in return, those words that meant so much to you.

“I love you too.”

[sagesolsticewrites]

I posted 879 times in 2022

That's 879 more posts than 2021!

208 posts created (24%)

671 posts reblogged (76%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@burninlovebutler

@karamelcoveredolicity

@sagesolsticewrites

@troubleinapinksuit

@sassy-ahsoka-tano

I tagged 795 of my posts in 2022

Only 10% of my posts had no tags

#austin butler - 436 posts

#elvis (2022) - 278 posts

#elvis 2022 - 265 posts

#austin butler x reader - 147 posts

#austin butler imagine - 133 posts

#austin butler fic - 129 posts

#elvis biopic - 114 posts

#elvis baz luhrmann - 112 posts

#austin butler fanfiction - 105 posts

#sage speaks - 101 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#no this definitely isn’t code for ‘i don’t have a plot yet i literally just heard this song and wanted to write something’ definitely not 👀

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Romance Will Reign Supreme | Austin Butler x Reader

Request from Anonymous: wondering if you could please write Austin Butler and his non-famous girlfriend shyreader are hanging around at the amusement park. Austin is so deeply in love with her & the two of them are just being an adorable couple and everyone is shipping them so hard, just hardcore fluff. Thx and I love your fics btw

a/n: posting this early as a HUUUGE thank you to y’all for 400 followers!! I honestly can’t believe it y’all are so sweet 🥺 to the dear nonnie who requested this: i hope it’s okay I made the reader gender neutral here! As a genderfluid person myself (though I lean more fem most days), I’m working on writing more gender neutral inclusive language in my fics! (in case you were wondering, the title is from a Tangled song! who knows which one it is 👀)

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: a couple swear words, inaccuracies about California & Disneyland, Austin being adorable, I think that's it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!

Thank you so much to my bestie @austin-butlers-gf for helping me with this!

Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍

“Babe, you ready to go?” Austin calls from the hall.

“Yeah!” You reply, grabbing your bag from where it sits on your bedside table. You step out into the hall, double-checking you have everything first— phone, sunscreen, wallet— before turning to your boyfriend, asking for about the twentieth time that day, “And you’re sure it’s okay I’m coming with you? I know you said it was a cast meetup, I don’t want to intrude on anything—“

“Y/N,” Austin places his hands on your shoulders, the sincere look in his eyes cutting off your nervous rambling, “I want you to be there. Besides, everyone loves you. They all practically begged me to bring you along.”

You nod, reassured for the moment. “Right, yeah. Thank you.” You give him a small smile, feeling a little bad that your anxiety keeps getting in the way of what’s supposed to be a fun day.

“Always, sweetheart.” Austin replies, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling you along to the car waiting for you.

Dating a famous actor, especially as the painfully shy, decidedly not-famous person you were, wasn’t always the easiest thing. But Austin did his best to keep you out of the public eye, and the castmates and colleagues he introduced you to were always the sweetest people. Like, for example, Baz, Dacre, Luke, and Olivia, whom you were going to meet up with at Disneyland today for a celebratory “the press run is over!” hangout.

“Y/N!” Olivia squeals as you head over to meet everyone near the entrance inside the park. She rushes over to hug you, Luke and Dacre not far behind her.

“‘Wow, Austin, it’s great to see you, how are you?’ Oh I’m great, thanks for asking, guys,” your boyfriend complains jokingly as his colleagues shower you with attention.

Olivia turns to him with a playful smile, “Oh hush, I was stuck with you for two years, I hardly ever get to see them!” She punctuates her sentence with a final squeeze around your midsection, releasing you to rejoin Baz and his wife, Catherine. The two of them greet you, mischievous grins on their faces, and you soon realize why as they pass out Elvis-themed mouse ears. The pink and black ears are bedazzled and covered in pearls, with a giant gold “EP” on one ear and the iconic “TCB” lightning logo on the other.

The group gushes over them as they put them on, Austin taking the liberty of putting yours on as if he were placing a crown on your head.

“You look adorable, sweetheart,” he says with a smile, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. An “awwwwe” goes up from the group as they watch the interaction, and a heat entirely unrelated to the California sun floods your face. You’re quick to focus your attention on your shoes until the focus turns to the day’s activities, Austin pulling you close as Baz goes over the plan: find rides to go on together before the lines get too long, find food, walk around to take some pictures with characters, and there might be time for people to go off and do their own separate things before meeting back up to say goodbye at the end of the day.

You enjoy the slower paced rides: the teacups, It's A Small World, all the usual ones, but you start lagging behind a bit as the group heads towards a… very large rollercoaster. Apart from Olivia, who shoots you a slightly concerned look that you wave off with a small smile, most of the group doesn’t notice, too engrossed in the conversation they’re having. Austin, however, isn’t so easily convinced. He hangs behind to walk by your side, intertwining your fingers and saying softly, “I know you don’t really like these kinds of rides. If you want we can just hang out and go get some food or something while they go…”

You hesitate, glancing over at the rest of the group chatting excitedly. “I… I don’t want you to miss out on all this stuff just because of me—“

“If I get to spend more time with you, I’m not missing out on anything, I promise, sweetheart.” Austin assures you with a sweet smile. “Hey guys!” He calls to the group ahead of you two, “I’m kinda hungry, I’m stealing Y/N to go get some food with me. We’ll meet you guys after, okay?”

Warmth floods your chest as he draws all of the attention to him, the group waving him off with a “have fun you two!”

You squeeze his hand in thanks as the two of you turn to walk away, and he squeezes back, looking at you with a soft smile. The line at the ice cream stand he drags you over to is short enough that you’re able to enjoy the Mickey-shaped treat before it’s time to meet up with the others again.

You meet the others at the exit to the ride, Olivia yelling something about how Luke was “absolutely terrified the entire time!” — with Luke vehemently denying it — as you make your way to Café Orleans for “some real food,” as Baz had put it.

Austin is practically glued to your side throughout the meal and even afterwards as you’re making your way through the park to take pictures with characters. It’s sweet, but eventually you have to extricate yourself from him to rehydrate, going off in search of refreshments.

He sighs, slouching at a table as he awaits your return. Olivia slides into a chair near him with a smirk.

“They just went to get a drink, they’ll be back in a minute, Aus.”

Austin blushes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “I know, I just…” he trails off, unable to explain exactly how he’s feeling; he hasn’t felt this attached to someone in a while, but after getting to spend so much time with you since the press run ended, it’s hard for him to pull himself away.

Olivia gives him a soft, teasing smile. “Don’t worry, Aus, it’s cute how much you care about them. The two of you are honestly adorable.”

“Yeah, I…I really love them,” he says finally.

See the full post

824 notes - Posted July 28, 2022

#4

New Look | Austin Butler x reader

Request from @beardedbananaspyrascal: Hey I was thinking that you could write about Austin getting back from his first time out for Elvis and he comes back home with his black hair

Word count: 371

Warnings: a couple swear words, gets a tiny bit suggestive at the end but I think that's all. As always, let me know if there's anything I missed!

Please like/reblog if you enjoyed!

Your foot tapped anxiously against the hardwood floor as you awaited your boyfriend’s return home. He had been away prepping with Baz for his biggest role yet: Elvis, and you ached to see him again.

“I’m gonna look a little different, baby,” Austin had warned you over the phone, refusing to FaceTime you to keep his new look a surprise. 

“Well I can’t wait to see your face again, no matter what you look like,” you had replied, mind racing at the possibilities of what this “new look” could entail.

The jangle of keys at the front door jolted you out of your thoughts and you raced to the foyer to greet your boyfriend in person for the first time in what felt like forever. 

“Hey hon—“ your jaw dropped as you took in his face. Gone were his gorgeous blond waves and in their place was a clean swoop of silky jet black hair.

“Hi baby,” he said with a nervous laugh “I did, uh— I did say I’d look a little different, right?”

“I— yeah, but—“ your mind buffered as you tried to find the words. Of course you loved the blond, but you couldn’t have imagined how incredible he would look with dark hair. You stepped closer, grasping his face and pulling him in for a brief kiss, “You look amazing, honey.”

He grinned, dropping his bags carelessly on the floor as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you flush to his chest, dipping to press his lips to yours. 

“I missed you so much,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I missed you, too,” you sighed as your arms wrapped around him and your hands found their way into his new silky black locks.

He pulls back a bit, looking vulnerable. “You really think it looks okay? It’s gonna be like this for a while.”

“You look fucking gorgeous, honey, I promise.” You beam. “Now,” you grabbed his hand, “I believe you promised me you were going to make up for all the time you’ve been gone, so get over here.” You pulled him over towards your bedroom, a mischievous sparkle in your eyes.

“Lead the way, baby,” he smiled, eyes soft. “I’m all yours.”

842 notes - Posted July 7, 2022

#3

Trouble | Austin Butler x fem!reader

A cast outing after filming Austin's "Trouble" performance prompts you to finally confess your feelings.

Warnings: a couple swear words, possible spoilers for Elvis (2022), but I think that's it!

“CUT!”

Baz’s voice carried throughout the stage as the scene came to a close and Austin slid out of the police car, grinning and breathing as though he had just sprinted for miles, sweat dripping down his hair onto his face, snaking its way under the collar of his shirt. He was almost immediately surrounded by extras cheering and clapping, a near replica of the raging crowd that had surrounded him in the actual scene.

You, however, were frozen near the edge of the stage, brain frantically trying to process everything that had just happened. Images of Austin on his knees in front of the audience, cupping a girl’s face, laying onstage screaming into the mic flashed across your mind, doing absolutely nothing to calm the flush on your face. You had harbored a crush on Austin since he was brought on as Elvis and his latest performance had assured you that those feelings weren’t going away anytime soon. 

You saw Austin exchanging congratulations with Tom, Richard, Helen, and Baz, praising the rest of the cast surrounding him. His eyes continued sweeping the crowd, seemingly searching for someone, when his gaze met yours across the sea of actors and crew alike. Your breath caught in your throat, unable to tear away from his icy blue gaze, and you were sure he could read every thought racing through your mind about what exactly his rendition of “Trouble” had done to you. Embarrassed, the flush in your cheeks intensified, but Austin only gave you something that looked remarkably similar to a knowing smirk, his gaze burning into you for a split second before returning his attention to the crowd around him.

You let out a shaky breath. At least this was the last scene of the day and you could go home.

Some time later you were finally out of hair and makeup, and no sooner had the thought of curling up on your couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s crossed your mind when Olivia waved you over to her car.

“Come on! We’re all going out for drinks!”

Unable to find the energy to refuse, you slipped into the car with her. She playfully nudged your shoulder as you made your way to the cast’s usual bar.

“So, that ‘Trouble’ performance, huh?”

You stiffened imperceptibly. “Yeah, it was… quite a show.” you said in the most casual tone you could manage.

Olivia rolled her eyes, “Come on, please just admit you have feelings for Austin already. You’ve been giving him serious heart eyes every time you see him, it’ll be so much easier if you just tell him.”

You blinked “Wha- Have I really been that obvious?”

“Well, to me and Natasha and everyone… yeah. Kinda. If you’re asking if Austin has noticed? I’ll have to get back to you on that one. But trust me, he definitely likes you too.”

“He definitely doesn’t, but I appreciate the vote of confidence” you replied, the tone of your voice signaling that you definitely didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

“Alright, I’m just saying,” she said “you never know what might happen.”

Your only reply was a shrug, and before you knew it the two of you had pulled up to the bar where Natasha and a few of the others had already grabbed a table. In what seemed like no time at all, the table was filled with a cacophony of laughter and eventually, thanks to Olivia, the conversation turned to the scene that was still on everyone’s minds.

“Austin, I’m sorry, but can we please talk about how incredible that ‘Trouble’ performance was?” Olivia smiled at her co-star.

He let out a shy laugh, “Well, thanks, Liv. I mean,” he gestured to the rest of the cast around the table “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you guys.”

More people jumped into the conversation to heap their praise on Austin when Olivia spoke up again, “I’m serious, you were absolutely amazing. I know (Y/N) enjoyed it.” She nodded over to you.

You froze as the attention of everyone around the table turned to you. You knew Olivia was only trying to help, but you still wanted to sink into the floor as you mumbled “Yeah, it was, um. Seriously amazing. You did an awesome job.”

You cleared your throat, excusing yourself and pushing your chair back from the table as you made your escape out the back door into a small alley dimly lit by the few lights outside the bar.

You leaned against the brick wall of the building trying to gather yourself, but before you could do much of that, the door next to you opened and Austin stepped out into the alleyway. 

“Hey, you okay? It seemed like some of the stuff Olivia said back there kinda… got under your skin a bit.” he said, moving to lean on the section of brick wall next to you.

You shook your head. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

He frowned, concerned. “Hey, now. If something’s upsetting you, I’d really like to at least try to fix it.”

“Why do you care?” you huffed, not caring that you sounded like a petulant child at this point.

“Wha-“ he stammered, confused, “Why do I care? Because you’re my friend, and-“

See the full post

1,039 notes - Posted June 30, 2022

#2

Can you do a blurb where austin uses the Elvis voice against you and just the back forth of him practicing doing the voice?!!! You are doing gods work!! Ily!

Hi!! Thank you so much for requesting! Here it is, darling, I hope you enjoy!

Baby | Austin Butler x reader

Warnings: none, I think? Let me know if there’s anything I missed!

You knew your boyfriend was completely dedicated to his latest role, feeling the pressure of portraying the King of Rock and Roll. What you didn’t anticipate was exactly how good Austin would sound putting in the work to sound like Elvis.

He had been watching interviews and performances religiously and, with the help of his dialect coach, was determined to perfect that iconic Southern drawl. So, he had started using it in conversations with you. But when he noticed how it made you weak in the knees, well… he learned how to use that to his advantage.

“Babyyyy,” he whined from his spot next to you on the couch, “would you mind grabbing me a soda from the fridge real quick?”

It was one of the rare lazy days the two of you had. You were curled up on the couch together, you with your copy of Emma and Austin with his copy of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, lounging in the living room of his place in Australia where he was currently filming. Elvis was playing softly in the background, as usual.

“You’ve got legs of your own that work perfectly fine, you can get it yourself,” you teased, nudging him with your foot.

He turned to you with those big blue puppy dog eyes he did way too well. You opened your mouth, ready to shut down whatever plea he had, when he said oh-so-slowly, “Aw c’mon, baby, please?” in that damn husky drawl he’d been working on for weeks.

You felt your face flush, and a victorious smirk crossed his face.

You immediately tried to school your face into a neutral expression. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Butler,” you said, returning your attention to your book.

He moved closer to you, close enough you could feel his breath on your neck. “Baby,” he crooned, his lips brushing your cheek,

“Darlin’…” his mouth moved to that sensitive spot just under your ear.

“Sweetheart…” he drawled as his lips worked a trail down your neck.

Just as you had begun to melt under his attention, he returned to the topic that had started this whole situation. “Please,” he breathed against your neck, husky Southern twang warming his voice, “grab me a soda from the fridge.”

Your half-lidded eyes flew open and you pushed yourself off the couch, face flushed. He smirked, knowing exactly what the warm Southern drawl, among other things, had done to you.

“This is just because I want to get myself a snack and I might get you a soda if I feel like it,” you insisted, rushing off to the kitchen before he could see how affected you were.

“Whatever you say, baby,” Austin called after you, still in that same drawl, “whatever you say.”

1,189 notes - Posted July 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

“i can’t keep kissing strangers, pretending they’re you.” | Austin!Elvis x fem!reader

12 years ago, Elvis chose his career over you. What happens when he shows up at your door asking for a second chance?

a/n: this is entirely based on a dialogue prompt I saw from @twelvegods: “I can’t keep kissing strangers, pretending they’re you.” apparently it was a really good prompt because it inspired all 8,735 words of this lol. I I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it <3 Thank you all again so so so much for 500 followers!!

Word count: 8.7k

Warnings: a couple swear words, lots of angst in the first half, Y/N has trust issues oops, I think that's it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!

Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍

“I’m gonna marry you someday.”

That’s what Elvis Presley had said to you when he was just 20 years old and his career was starting to take off, thanks in large part (as Elvis said) to the Colonel. And you, being the young girl in love that you were, believed him.

What a fool you were.

You managed to stay together for another year before the Colonel, his claws digging into Elvis’s heart and soul to bleed all the green he could out of him, managed to convince him that appearing single would be what was best for his career— he had to let all those screaming girls believe they had a chance with him, after all.

“Baby please,” Elvis pleaded, “this is for my career. I promise it won’t be for long. We’ll get back together, you’ll see.”

You shook your head, “No, Elvis. I’m not gonna sit around waiting for you like some damsel in distress. If you want me, keep me. But otherwise…”

You paused, waiting for him to say something. Begging, pleading, praying he would say something, that you had managed to change his mind.

When he said nothing, you exploded.

You had screamed and cried, and he had screamed and cried, and you had taken your things that had made their way into his room in Graceland and stormed out of his life for good, only pausing to give him one final sincere “I love you” before you walked out the door.

The last image you had of him (that wasn’t on a tv screen or poster) was of him standing in the foyer in Graceland, tears streaming down his face, refusing to chase after you.

You hoped that time would eventually heal your wounded heart, but apparently whoever said time heals all wounds was a fucking idiot because it was now just over a decade later and you were still as in love with Elvis Presley as you had been when you were one of the only girls in the world who knew his name.

He, evidently, didn’t feel the same.

That much was clear, at least, based on the way he was still overly flirtatious with his audience in his shows, not to mention the rumors about relationships with his movie co-stars. In his shows, before he went off to Germany, he had taken to stepping down into the audience and kissing practically every woman in the room. That alone cleared any remaining doubts from your mind that he still thought about you in any capacity, despite that little voice in the back of your head that still held out some futile, desperate hope.

You’re about to curl up on the couch with some tea and your copy of Anne of Green Gables — exactly what you need on a rainy day like today — when someone knocks on your door.

“You expecting anyone, Y/N?” your friend Annie calls from the hall. You had been living with her for about 5 years down in Louisiana, after the memories in Memphis had become too much, and you loved it.

“Nope,” You call back, wondering who on earth would be knocking on doors in this weather. “If it’s one of those door-to-door salesmen, slam it in his face again.” You suggest with a laugh.

“Will do,” comes her reply, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

You turn you attention back to your book as the door opens, and nearly spill your tea all over yourself as you hear a sultry drawl you hadn’t heard in person in over a decade.

“Hi Annie… is Y/N here?”

There’s a moment of silence where you’re sure Annie is as stunned as you are, then:

“Maybe,” she replies curtly, “What do ya want?”

Annie knew the whole story of you and Elvis, and she had sworn that she’d never let you get hurt like that ever again.

“Please, Annie, I just wanna talk to her.”

See the full post

2,003 notes - Posted August 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[bartxnhood]

Hey there, can you write the 18 prompt with Andrew! Peter Parker x reader?

hi thank you for the request !! i hope you enjoy this <3

prompt: “hear my heartbeat? just focus on that.”

title: anxiety

warnings: this fic deals w anxiety & panic attacks. along with not doing well in school.

enjoy !

over the years you’ve always found ways to deal with your anxiety. usually walking away from the problem, taking a few breaths, and clearing your mind worked pretty well. you could always return to the social gathering or back to assignments. graduation was just a few months away, you weren’t prepared for the real world at all. you had been rejected from the colleges you applied for, maybe you should’ve expected it since your grades weren’t as good as your boyfriends.

sometimes you’d compare yourself to him. he was just so smart, he knew a lot, like a lot, a lot. compared to him, you were an idiot.

you knew it wasn’t healthy to do so, but you couldn’t help it. he was just so perfect, not to mention a literal superhero? how could you compare to him even in the slightest? why did he choose you? he could’ve easily had gwen, she was smart like him, she understood all of his references and could match his intelligence.

since the end of the school year was approaching, exams were as well. with the constant pressure of your parents saying they’ve been disappointed in your grades, you figure you’d review and start studying. you knew your life didn’t depend on your grades, but your parents made it hard to think otherwise.

so there you sat at your desk, textbook, notebook, computer, and pencils laid messily on your desk as you read the material again. you just weren’t understanding any of it, as you bounce your leg reading over the scented again you finally sighed and threw your pencil down.

knock knock

you moved your hands away from your hand to look at your window. peter smiled once you saw him, waving at you. you didn’t know what to do for a few seconds, you stared at him then stood up from your chair to let him in. “what’re you doin here?” you asked, shutting your window back when he was inside. he shrugged, “i just wanted to stop by.” he answered, he looked at your desk full of supplies and raised his eyebrows. “what about you?”

you shrugged, heading back to your desk. “mom and dad are upset with me. my uh..my grades” you admitted, avoiding his gaze “i got rejected from every college i applied to” you laughed, it wasn’t funny but you tried your best not to cry.

“y/n..” peter started, walking over to you trying to console you, but you pushed him away. “don’t..” you hung your head, he nodded and stepped away from you and sat on your bed . “i’ve just been so stressed out recently.” you cried. “i cant understand the material. i don’t know what i’m doing, i just lost my chance at college. peter what am i doing so wrong?” you turned to him.

“y/n, it’s okay. i can help you study if you’d like. you just had to ask” he tried smiling at you but you looked away. “no. it doesn’t even matter anymore” you sighed. “i’m not as smart as you, or gwen. i’m a failure pete.” you wiped your eyes.

peter hated hearing you talk like this, you were brilliant to him. the most enchanting person he’s ever come to know. school didn’t define you, and he thought you knew this. “cmere” he opened his arms, you hesitated but finally let him wrap his arms around you. “don’t say that love” you cried in his arms, all you’ve wanted is comfort.

“hear my heartbeat? just focus on that” he hummed into your hair, rubbing small circles on your back. you listened for the faint thumps, it steadied your thinking and you managed to get a few deep breaths in. it was all over, your worries passed as you laid in peters arms.

“there ya go. everything will be fine. we’ll work it out. we always do.”

[bl00dgutsgl0ry]

Just a Little Reminder

Pairing - Xiao x Fem!Reader

Warnings - 18+ NSFW SMUT DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU ARE A MINOR, blood mentions, degradation, VERY SLIGHT dollification (like I mean it’s mentioned maybe ONCE), spitting, face fucking, this is just some nasty** sex man.

Word Count - 2.2k

Other Comments - It’s been so long since I wrote a good smut fic so this was nice and refreshing to write. It’s a break from all the angst you guys have been requesting for some ungodly reason. Anyway hehe enjoy you freaky weirdos.

      Xiao’s day could not get any worse. Something happened overnight that caused the gods to curse his day. Nothing was going correctly. He didn’t know why he felt so restless, maybe because he hasn’t seen you in a couple of months. Being an Adeptus had some drawbacks, one of them being that they could never leave Liyue. That didn’t exactly work well with your carefree spirit dragging you all over Teyvat, rightfully earning the title of a Traveler. That meant you left his side for an unknown amount of time, you always came back of course but you leaving never got any easier on Xiao. He was protective of you, and you not being in Liyue where he could secretly keep an eye on you made him anxious. The feeling of anxiety was not something new to Xiao, but it was different from the anxiety he had experience with. He was never anxious over a mortal's safety and well being. It almost made him unnerved how much you had already subconsciously changed in him.

      Xiao never really had much need to venture out of Wangshu Inn, so when he did he always wanted to immediately relax on the balcony at the top of the inn he resided in. Some days Verr Goldet would bring him some freshly made almond tofu, when he gratefully accepted once the young woman made it back downstairs. As he was staring out past the railing, he saw a familiar silhouette approaching the inn. Something sparked in him when he saw the way you limped up the stairs of the ground floor towards the elevator. Within seconds, before you could step onto the elevator Xiao grabbed you suddenly jumping back up to the top of the balcony. You squealed quietly, your arms quickly finding their way around Xiao’s slender neck, absentmindedly remembering to avoid the large spikes coming off of one of his shoulders.

      Before you could even think, you felt your back land on the soft bed the two of you shared at night. Sure Xiao never really slept much but the sentiment was nice. It also worked for these little moments. Xiao’s sharp canines poked the side of your throat causing a soft gasp to escape your lips.

      “Xiao- Hey wait… I just got here.” Your voice a little bit above a whisper as you bashfully looked at the man hovering above of you. 

      “When you were leaving for this little expedition, you promised me you would return uninjured. Are you really that stupid that you would break such a promise to me? I guess I have to remind you what happens when you make me upset (y/n).” The way Xiao’s voice rumbled low in his chest made warmth bloom in your chest, as everything slowly began to get warmer. Your face was beat red as you felt Xiao’s callused hand grab your cheeks and push your face to the side; giving himself better access to your throat. You once again felt Xiao’s sharp canines graze your throat, alongside his long tongue lapping at the delicate skin. Suddenly a sharp pain shot from your neck as he bit down, immediately licking your blood away, pleasure beginning to  bloom from the mark. 

    Xiao slowly slid down your body, undoing your shoes and tossing them away. After that was done he rose back up, roughly undoing your skirt and pulling it off before once again throwing it away somewhere, much of the same work was done on your top and before you knew it you were left in nothing but your undergarments; while Xiao was fully clothed. Your cheeks got even redder as you felt a little embarrassed, trying to cover your face with your arms. Xiao’s hand shot to grab both of your wrists and slam them onto the bed above your head, a loud growl coming from him.

     “Don’t you even dare try and hide your face from me. You are going to face your punishment head on. Oh and don’t even think about making any noise lest you want an even worse punishment.” His sharp gaze softened for a moment, eyes silently making sure you actually wanted to do this. When you gave him a quick small nod his eyes immediately snapped back to the cold harsh glare he wore mere moments before. He began attacking your neck and collarbones with harsh hickies and sore bites. Your breath began to hitch in your throat, as you tried to hold back whimpers of pleasure.

     Agonizingly slowly Xiao made his way down your body, leaving bruises and bloody bite marks all the way down. You were shaking from the pure ecstasy coursing through your veins. Xiao ripped your panties with his teeth exposing your most vulnerable spot. The cold air that hits your hot wet lips, causing a shiver to wrack its way through your body, your clit pulsing with excitement. You looked down to see Xiao’s piercing auburn eyes staring back into yours, head so close to your core.

     “Don’t you dare cum tonight you filthy whore.” Was all that left his his lips, before his head was shoved between your thighs, his long tongue diving deep into your dripping cunt. Your hand flew to your mouth as you tried to hold back loud moans. You were so desperate and needy from not seeing Xiao for so long. Xiao lifted your legs above his shoulders, hooking both of his arms around your thighs, his hands roughly kneading at the soft flesh; his tongue getting deeper from the new position. Soft muffled moans were beginning to fall from your covered mouth, your free hand trying desperately not to grab at his head, instead gripping the sheeting as tightly as possible. The noises coming from the man below you were obscene, loud slurps and laps being amplified by the otherwise silent room.

     Your nerves were on fire, the familiar coil in your stomach beginning to tighten. Despite tightly covering your mouth, your moans were as clear as day. Xiao pulled away from your pussy, lips shining from the slick of your arousal. His hand quickly gripped your wrist and ripped it away from your mouth.

     “Stop embarrassing yourself by trying to muffle your moans. If your gonna sound so much like a whore you might as well let it be known that your my whore to all of Liyue.” With that Xiao went back to attack your clit with his tongue, occasionally fucking it in and out of your cunt. Loud moans began falling out of your mouth, almost shocking yourself with how loud you were, and how you couldn’t care less about who heard you; you were flooded with euphoria and oxytocin. Your moans spurred Xiao on as his pace on your clit was relentless, not only that but he had unwound one of his arms and inserted a couple of fingers into you.

     You were getting finger fucked and eaten out at the same time, your breathing was beginning to get incredibly labored as your moans rose in pitch and volume. Your free thigh began to tremble against your lover's head as you got closer and closer to the edge; trying desperately to hold yourself back from cumming. Xiao felt the familiar flutter of your walls as you got closer and closer to cumming, and he suddenly pulled them out of you as he halted all actions. You whimpered loudly, thighs shaking desperately yearning for release.

     “Xiao please… please Xiao please let me cum… I’m sorry I broke the promise I won't do it again please Xiao.” Your voice was already wrecked and you sounded pitiful as you saw a smirk pull on your lovers lips. He was fucking laughing.

     “You are fucking disgusting you know? You are so desperate for me you are making yourself look stupid. You aren’t cumming yet. Now shut up and be my useless little fuck toy hm?” You opened your mouth to beg again, but Xiao shut you up by spitting in your mouth and closing it with his hand; forcing you to swallow. That action shot right down to your clit, and you needed him inside you now.

     You opened your leg wide open, hoping that would incentivize him to get on with it already. He knew what you were trying to do and rolled his eyes before standing up and beginning to disrobe. Your eyes were glued to him as his toned pale chest shone with a soft gleam of sweat. Then he began taking his pants off, letting the now loose waistband fall to the ground. Your mouth was basically watering from how horny you were.

     Xiao tightly gripped you thighs and pulled you towards the edge of the bed, which caused you to think he was finally going to fuck you; much to your surprise though he straddled your head as he looked down at you expectantly. Xiao’s cock was just one of those that you could only describe as pretty. It was long yet a little slender, and he kept himself well groomed.

     You eagerly took his dick in your mouth, trying your best to fit him all the way in; reminding yourself to keep breathing through your nose. Then Xiao started moving, harshly shoving his dick deep into your throat, your nose pressed against his body. Before you could get your bearings of you now deep throating Xiao, he just as harshly pulled out them thrusted back in; beginning to ruthlessly face fuck you. You were desperately trying to maintain your breathing but you just couldn’t with how hard Xiao was fucking into your mouth, so you tried your best to hold your breath and hollow your cheeks; trying and failing to suppress your gags. Xiao loved the choking and gagging sounds you made, his animalistic movements becoming erratic and uneven.

     He quickly pulled out of your mouth and fell back to the side of you before he came, not wanting to cum just yet. You coughed as you took in loud gulps of air, before attempting to even your breathing out. Xiao maneuvered your body and flipped you onto your stomach, hand coming down to rub your ass. You felt Xiao line up the tip of his dick to your entrance. You whimpered and wiggled your hips, and suddenly felt that same hand that was just gingerly rubbing your ass, come down and smack hard against it. You yelped and gasped at the sudden pain and pleasure that shot through you. Then while you were still in shock he shoved himself deep inside of you, ripping a pornstar-esque moan from your throat. Xiao groaned low in his chest, struggling to see straight from how tight you were.

     “You’re so fucking tight (y/n) relax you slut.” Despite his words, Xiao was pistoning in and out of you at an ungodly speed, your moans unabashedly flowing throughout the inn. Loud grunts could be heard coming from behind you as Xiao kept fucking your brains out. You were so blissed out, eyes rolled into the back of your head, and tongue lolling out of your mouth. Your mind was so clouded, as tears fell from your eyes. There was some twisted part of Xiao that relished in seeing you cry, you just looked so pretty and wrecked. He knew you were gone when all that would come from you were calls of his names and incoherent babbling.

     Both of you were reaching your limits, and you were reaching them fast. Blaring white hot pleasure filled yours and Xiao’s senses, overwhelming the both of you as you came. You wall clamping around Xiao forcing a loud snarl to come from behind you felt a final sharp bite on the back of your shoulder.

     Xiao stayed in you, rocking his hips lightly; gently letting the both of you ride out the rest of your highs. After that he pulls out before walking into the bathroom and running a rag under some warm water and cleaning himself off. He grabs another clean rag to dampen and come back over to your crumpled form, your mind still foggy and completely blissed out. Xiao gently cleans you up and tucks you into bed, before grabbing a glass of water for you and setting it on your side table. He then slinks into bed next to you and pulls you close to him. He’ll take a look at your “injuries” in the morning.

[sukirichi]

dutifully yours. [01]

Attached to the could’ve been’s of a promised happily ever after with the Crown Prince disguised under a scheme for power and greed, you are torn between choosing your happiness — or abandoning it to fulfill your duty as the future Queen.

→ unedited bcos i’m brave lazy. implied patriarchy. angst in future chapters. pure romance and fluff for now. royalty au. eventual smut. prince naoya !! i love him sm i could cry. this fic will break me, okay. naoya is close to canon but with my twist if that makes sense. drama in future chapters. oh and listen to this while reading <3

→ massive shoutout to my besties for always hyping me and helping me uwu, i present this token of prince naoya being an ideal husband okay cry cry i love him sm im crying. anyways pls enjoy bcos i poured my heart out to this and bcos i want more people in the naoya fucker club :>

one | next (to be posted)

Ever since the day your mother taught you how to read, you’ve had your nose buried in a book. Losing yourself in different worlds, swooning over fictional princes, and fantasizing for a love story ripped out of fairytale itself with such burning, passionate romance – you’d been through it all, dreamt of it all. And yet, you struggled to stop yourself from tugging at your dress.

The tight corset hadn’t even been the main focus of your worries, and neither was the heavy rivière resting on your collarbones.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” Beside you, your mother pursed her lips, fingers decorated with jewels stopping in their movements of fanning herself. The temperature hadn’t been particularly high inside the limousine that evening. You supposed it was the mere sight of you tugging and gulping audibly every now and then, gloved hands running over the hems of your collar.

You ducked your head down. “Sorry, Mother. I can’t help it.”

“Dear, your anxiety is written all over your face,” she sighed, turning your face to her as she cupped your cheeks. Smiling tenderly like a mother always did, your heart felt soothed even by the slightest bit. You wished she could keep holding you like this – like you were a fragile flower she was afraid of breaking; a fragile flower that needed more care handled than most. Tonight, however, you felt a hundred years older. Like you’d accidentally clicked on fast forward and got launched to the future. A future that seemed so unclear yet so...perfect. So right.

“How would the Prince fancy you if you’re sweating bullets like that? It’s not a good look for a marquess’ daughter.”

At the mention of the Crown Prince, your heart sank again. “My apologies, Mother. I’m just rather nervous. It’s the Crown Prince we’re talking about here.”

“He is quite the looker, isn’t he?” she giggled behind her fan, “Strong and handsome, as well.”

“My ladies. You are not fantasizing over the Crown Prince in my presence, are you?”

Crossing her leg over the other, your mother leaned forwards, elbows on her knees as she winked at your father. The marquess had his torso half twisted from the passenger seat, glaring playfully at your mother’s unabashed features. “It is of no seriousness, My Lord. I’m simply easing your daughter’s nerves.”

Your father sighed in worry. “What’s got you so worked up, child? You are beautiful. The Prince would be blind to not notice you.”

Each fibre in your body screamed in desperation for your father to be right. Tonight was not just any other night – the entire Kingdom, including noblewomen, foreign royals, and unwed daughters from honourable families had been invited to the Zen’in Castle for one purpose only: to find his Crown Prince a suitable wife, one that would be fit to be the next Queen as well. As the daughter of the marquess, you’d naturally received the invitation. It felt just like yesterday when the mail arrived and you’d cheered so much in joy the chickens went flying out of their coops, your horses galloping and whinnying at surprise, and now you here – minutes away from the palace where you were soon to be deemed worthy or unworthy to be beside His Highness.

With a shaky smile, you dug your nails into your thighs. “Well, we’ve only met once, Father. I doubt the Prince would remember me.”

“Just smile, darling. You will do great.”

To no one’s surprise, the Zen’in Castle brimmed with people and esteemed guests. Men and women danced with one another as muted chatters and chuckles blended in with the grand royal orchestra, everyone dressed to the nines and making you feel completely out of place.

The moment you’d been welcomed by the knights and led to the palace doors, your dress began to feel tighter than usual, your ribs clenching uncomfortably from the pressure. Your hands had not stopped trembling either, not even when you hid it behind your back and nodded at the people passing by. There were governor-generals, dukes, earls, professors and royal advisors and even families of the royal family’s inner circle of knights. Everyone looked like they belonged here. Chatting amongst one another over the finest of wines or discussing conspiracies on where the Kingdom of Zen’in would be in the next sixty years of the future King’s reign, no one here seemed to be out of place.

Everyone except you.

A warm hand was suddenly placed on the small of your back, making you gasp. Your mother’s smile was nothing short of warm as she held you close to her one last time, leaving a kiss on your forehead. You didn’t even realize how much you shook until she clasped her hands with yours. “Calm down, dear,” she reminded, “You’ll be on your own now. This is where we leave you since we’re not supposed to mingle with potential princesses.”

“Mother!” Your eyes widened in embarrassment. Looking around frantically, you bit your lip in fear someone must’ve heard.

Of course, while it would be no surprise most guests – if not all – hoped that their daughter would be the Crown Prince’s chosen fiancée, it still felt wrong to boldly assume such when you could barely keep up with the events of tonight.

However, your mother merely laughed. “I am proud of you, dear. Never forget that. It doesn’t matter whether you are chosen or not. We’re only here for formality and respect to the King and Queen’s demands.”

“You say that as if the Crown Prince really would not bother with me.”

“We didn’t mean that,” your father cut in, a flute of champagne already nested between his calloused fingers. Ever since you arrived, he’d been snatched away by fellow earls and barons, disappearing into the crowd for a ‘hearty conversation over one’s lands.’ You knew better than that, though. That statement always translated to which leader got to have more chances to wine and dine with the King, to which your family was ridiculously reminded of that you’d been stationed to the most faraway land where even hearing news from the royal papers was but a privilege.

“Just be yourself, alright? And enjoy the party. It’s about time you met with girls your own age and made some friends.”

“I – Father, wait!”

A slender young woman slithered to your side out of nowhere, her golden brown eyes following the silhouettes of your parents. It wasn’t long before they completely disappeared. Left alone with the stunning woman that was – for some reason – dressed in a plain black curve hugging dress too modest for tonight’s appropriateness, you took three steps away in caution. “You must be from way up North,” she noted, her head to the tipped to the side. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

God, was she beautiful. Long, thick eyelashes and short hair chopped in messy yet elegant curves, you struggled to hold her gaze. “Oh, yes, I come from the Terratian Borders. My family is stationed there under His Majesty’s orders.”

She hummed to herself. “The Terratian Borders are mostly forests and fields, no? The last time my family and I visited there, I came across the loveliest dandelions I’ve ever laid eyes on. Shame they died on the way back,” offering her hand – again, bare and empty with decorations yet still littered with faint scars and cuts – she beamed at you. “I’m Mai, by the way. Mai Zen’in.”

Zen’in?

Hands cupping your mouth, you bowed deep until your back ached. “Lady Mai!” you shut your eyes closed, unable to live with the shame. Mai Zen’in; one of the iconic twin pair from the extended Zen’in royal family, both a fashion icon and a legend for being a rumoured female knight. To have her in your presence was an honour. “My apologies for not recognizing you any sooner, Lady Mai!”

“Stand up, I’m not a royal,” she sniggered, “We’re just relatives of the actual monarch, but don’t let the family name fool you. The Crown Prince barely even acknowledges us being of the same blood.”

Albeit hesitant, you followed her gestures of making you stand up. You straightened your back and cleared your throat, fighting the urge to go haywire the moment his name was brought into the conversation. Not only would you be seeing Prince Naoya again in real life for the first time in years, but you’d also made acquaintances with his distant niece. However, his name was spoken with malice.

Frowning, you faced Lady Mai in all seriousness. “Prince Naoya? Why so?” Lady Mai looked at you like you’d grown two heads.

“He’s an ass, that’s why.”

“I-I don’t think he is,” you defended, “The Prince has been nothing but kind to me.”

“I didn’t know he was capable of kindness,” she muttered more so under her breath, low enough you were unsure whether you were supposed to hear it in the first place. Lady Mai then shook her head to herself before stealing a flute from a waiter passing by. Chucking it your way, her face turned dark and grim. “Take it as free advice: stay as far away from his as possible. The Crown Prince is nothing but good news.”

“Is it because he has lots of lovers?” you inquired with a small voice, “Uhm – well – It was an assumption. With a title and handsomeness like that, it would make sense everyone would want to be the Crown Prince’s lover.”

Lady Mai’s lip curled upwards. “Prince Naoya won’t bother with lovers. He is too occupied for that.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Heard from whom?”

“The Royal Declaration from His Majesty himself,” you said, “Was it not the purpose of this ball? To find worthy candidates to be the Crown Prince’s betrothed? His coronation is coming soon.”

“Right. I forgot today was technically a bridal market,” she scratched the edge of her brow, falling silent for a moment. Her eyes scanned the lively crowd for a brief moment – watching with you as everyone laughed and danced to their heart’s content – the grand final event of the routine personal dance with the Crown Prince himself slowly approaching to reality. “You are joining in the festivities, are you not? Later, when he arrives, he shall meet you.”

“I am obligated to as a noble bachelorette, though I doubt His Highness would even look my way. There are far richer noblewomen here and even daughters of duke that would be perfect as his wife. ”

“You may have a point for that,” she hummed to herself, unaware that her agreement to the Crown Prince not paying attention to you left a sting both in your ego and heart. Not that it lasted long, for Lady Mai was already tugged on the arm by another equally fiercely beautiful woman – her older twin, Maki Zen’in. Soon to be governon-general of the Kingdom.

Lady Mai smiled in apology. “I need to go now since I’m not a part of this event. But hey, if ever I come around to visit the Borders again, perhaps you could entertain me?”

“I would be honoured to, Lady Mai.”

“You are sweet and innocent,” it was her sister who spoke this time, glasses perched high on her nose that concealed the wariness of her gaze. “I hope the Crown Prince never gets to your routine.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing; she was talking to herself. Maki does that a lot,” Lady Mai’s forced chuckles were barely heard from the music. “You enjoy the party now. Don’t drink too much lest you want to embarrass yourself in everyone’s eyes and be talk of the Kingdom. Prince Naoya would hate it if you took the attention away from him.”

“Oh, uhm...”

“It’s a joke, Lady Y/N. Relax.”

You bowed once more. “My apologies.”

“The dance is about to begin,” Maki tapped on your shoulder, making you look up right where her eyes zeroed in. And exactly in the middle of the grandiose hall, under the sparkling golden chandeliers where he made all the gold in the world look incomparable next to him, the Crown Prince stood in his fully glory. Blond hair with the ends stained of midnight gelled back to reveal his forehead, the Crown Prince’s beauty never failed to shine. Whether it be in the papers, in the tabloids, in the billboards that you passed on the way to the city, or from way back when you met him for the first time as a naive, innocent teen – Crown Prince Naoya came straight out of a magazine cover.

In the back of your head, you could hear either of the twins murmuring good luck. Maybe both of them had said it – you had no idea. All of your attention, all the sensibility and coherence of your state had been switched the next instant, as if your heart and soul was born for the sole purpose of being bewitched by your Crown Prince.

And as if feeling someone’s gaze on him, the Crown Prince’s eyes trailed over the crowd. Almost boredly, his sharp eyes bounced from one giggling woman to another, the ends of his lips smirking upwards for just the tiniest bit. It must’ve stroked his ego. Until his eyes connected with yours. The Crown Prince’s eyebrows knitted together. You had no idea how you looked in that moment, and quite frankly, you didn’t care. Because the Crown Prince was looking at you, and you were looking at him with hearts in your eyes along with your heart pulsing at the tip of your tongue.

“Let us begin,” his lips moved from the distance, “Play the music. I shall dance with my bride.”

The air shifted in a split second. Murmurs were thrown over the room, women and men alike turning pale. Even the orchestra was stunned from the Crown Prince’s entrance – and it hadn’t even been dramatic to his standards – yet the whole castle fell mum from just a few of his words. A few seconds later, the crowd recomposed itself, and the strings began to dance along with its bows.

You are pushed into the crowd. Nearly colliding into the arms of another, you quietly thank the masked man who was to be your first partner of the night.

All the men joining the dance floor dressed with the intention of making the Crown Prince shine. Prince Naoya stood out from the throng of white as per the colour code, his blood red uniform as both Prince with the  golden crest of the military leader pinned to his right breast. The other men meant to be filler partners until all the potential brides got to their designated three minutes with the Prince were all dressed in black, faces covered behind a plain black mask. None were allowed to talk. None were allowed to utter even a word, and so your partner pursed his lips in displeasure at your apology.

Whatever. You just had to wait a few more rounds before the song finished and transitioned into a new one; the song where you’d been informed would be your time alone with the Prince.

You’d been so lost in your head you barely breathed the entire dance. From partner to partner, you blanked. Your heart drummed so wildly in its cage it begged to come out, and strings of apologies were let out each time your masked partners grimaced for a brief second when their hands came in contact with your sweaty ones. Around you, all the lovely women smiled and danced graciously, mouths moving in unreadable conversations shared with the Crown Prince. Not once did you look at the six partners you’ve danced with. Not once did you worry about tripping on your own feet. Not once did you care that some of the masked men held you a little too roughly for your comfort. Your entire reason for existing in that moment was to witness the Crown Prince himself, mirroring his frown that got deeper and deeper with each woman retreating to the sea of people he’d rejected.

Not once did you even think about being one of them – the girls who’ve ducked their heads down as their parents comforted them over not being the chosen one, of bringing ‘dishonour’ to their families that the mighty Crown Prince had deemed them unworthy. Tears streamed down their faces until black ink followed afterwards, lips trembling from silent sobs.

Despite their broken prides – although there was that minority who simply sighed in relief after returning to their own families – no one would dare interrupt the Crown Prince’s dances.

All of these thoughts crossed your mind too late and at the exact time your masked partner pulled away from you, body half bent in a bow with his arm outstretched to the side. Following where he was gesturing at, your eyes met the Crown Prince’s tall and lean stature, a few blond fringes now fallen from his movements.

Even though a thin layer of sweat shone from his face, Prince Naoya remained ethereal.

And like a snake charmed by the musician’s seductive tone, your feet moved on its own. Fingers stretching until it met with the Crown Prince’s large and warm ones, you were now in front of him. With him. Holding him, touching him, meeting him eye for eye and realizing – gold. His eyes burned a deep shade of gold, elegantly rich and heartbreakingly stunning your heart ached.

Before you knew it, your hands began to tremble, feeling as if your body had been corded into a corset three sizes smaller. You could not breathe, and the Crown Prince took notice.

“You are stiff. Do I make you uncomfortable?” Good Saint. If only possible, you would’ve closed your eyes and basked in the deep warmth of his voice. It reverberated from deep within, breathed out with an air of natural authority and profound confidence it made your knees weak. As if sensing his effect on you (though for the wrong reasons, it seemed), Prince Naoya hummed to himself. “This routine shall last for a few minutes before I can let you go, I’m afraid.”

You instantly realized the implications of your silence. “N-not at all, Your Highness! I am honoured to be dancing with you.”

“There is no honour in a choreographed dance. Everyone will dance with me. It’s nothing special.”

Your heart fell. Prince Naoya not only sounded dejected, but detached as well. As if he found no pleasure or specialty in this event, at a time where he had every opportunity to meet his lover, and that this ball was merely a task to be checked off in his already long list of responsibilities. It wasn’t disappointment, per se, but rather melancholy that left a bitter taste in your mouth. Not because Prince Naoya held little to no regards for something you treasured, but because he sounded terribly alone. Like he was simply waiting for it to end out of discomfort.

“It’s special to me, Your Highness,” you blurted out faster than you could stop yourself. For a moment, you feared you may have offended him, but the Crown Prince only laughs.

And when he did – saint, when he laughed – his eyes crinkled into half moons, pearly whites flashing against the bright lights and his whole chest shook with amusement.

You’d never seen him smile this way before.

Prince Naoya’s laughter didn’t cease. Around you, your gut instincts told that people were now beginning to look; the Crown Prince’s deep rumbles of laughter sounded exquisitely like music as well, after all. “ Is it special to you because you are now dancing and within the Crown Prince’s proximity? As much as I presume how exhilarating it might be for those who mostly see me in the papers and in the tabloids, I assure you, dancing with your Prince is not an honour. Especially when you are all sent the invitations based on your status and not your worthy traits.”

“It’s special to me,” you mumbled, growing shy all of a sudden when the Crown Prince nodded at you to continue. “Because...because it reminds me of the first time we met.”

The Crown Prince hummed in amusement.

“We have met before?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I’m from the Terratian Borders – my father is a loyal servant of His Majesty. You visited the borders when you were eighteen and I was sixteen. Do you remember it, Your Highness? You stormed in my private library.”

Indeed, the young barely-out-of-his-teens Crown Prince barged into your home’s library years ago. You were not previously informed he and his parents would be visiting since they arrived wordlessly, so you were stuck in your chambers as usual, killing time if not for sleeping and tending to the animals. Perched on a ladder, you attempted to reach for a book on the upper shelf when your foot slipped beneath you. At the age of sixteen, you were dramatic enough to say your life flashed before your eyes. You would’ve screamed then had strong arms not appeared out of nowhere, the Crown Prince staring at you with wide, golden eyes as they were now, his breathy rasped as he asked, are you okay, my lady?

The mere recollection of that fateful memory had your cheeks warming in delight. “You were so charming and heroic back then. Even when I had no idea you were a royal, I would have still believed you to be princely,” you said rather absentmindedly, blinking once then twice at your words. “Of course, it’s understandable if you do not remember, Your Highness!”

“My apologies. I do not remember, though Terratia is a wonderful place. Such a shame I was not informed beforehand they had a lovely daughter.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” you cheered back, cheeks and jaw beginning to ache from how wide you were smiling. But could anyone blame you? You felt absolutely silly that you were a breath away from passing out minutes ago, and now here you were, dancing with the Crown Prince and sharing memories with him like it was a daily occurrence. The words it’s true love when you feel at peace with them suddenly rang back at your head from that latest romance novel you read, and you turned away, hoping the Crown Prince would not read your thoughts to your face. However, Prince Naoya’s lips pursed into a thin line, all traces of humour now disappeared. “I’m sorry – should I not have laughed?”

“No, I don’t mind,” he mused with his jaw locked tight, “I just haven’t seen anyone react that way before.”

“Like what?”

“Like my words meant the entire universe to them. I may dare even say you look terribly in love, though I cannot blame you on that one, can I?”

Prince Naoya shook his head the minute the words left his mouth. Forcing himself to believe it couldn’t be real, perhaps, you truly did not know anymore. Your only plan for tonight was to see the Crown Prince and get to live out your dream of seeing him once more even for just a brief moment before you travelled back home while he married another, and yet – “Your Highness, I’m in love with you. I have always been since the day we met.”

You could no longer stop the words. The voice at the back of your head begged you to shut up and not cause a scene, that your time had passed up and people were staring, yet you remained in his arms no matter how much you wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow you whole.

“Please do not misunderstand me, Your Highness. I did not come here to attempt to steal your heart and be your wife, though I will admit I have dreamt of meeting you again for so many moons. I...I only want to tell you this. That I love you and even though it was a brief moment, I think the love I’ve always read about felt real and possible for the first time in my life,” chuckling nervously, you gather to courage to face him, adoration shining for the Crown Prince stood shock still before you, however stunned he may be. “I love you, Your Highness. I love you. And to whoever lucky woman you choose to be your betrothed, I hope she takes care of you and showers you with all the affection you are deserving of. You would make a great King. So God help his Crown Prince, and may you lead us all into a better world.”

Prince Naoya did not budge a muscle. His eyes remained hard on yours, breath warm as his nostrils fumed. With each passing second that he did not speak, you grew restless and tugged your arm away from his hold with a disgraceful smile.

You’d truly crossed your line. The repercussions to be faced for this impoliteness would destroy your family’s honour. You had to leave. “Your Highness? The song has changed. It’s time to let go—”

The Crown Prince inched close enough until his hair tickled your cheeks, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine as he pulled you close, close enough that your lower bodies touched. Skin ablaze with heat, you dared not move an inch. “Do you mean it?” he demanded lowly, his fingers ghosting over your wrist to hold you in place. “Do you truly love me? Not for what I have, not for who I was born to be, but me as a person itself?”

Closing your eyes to shudder in a deep breath, you exhaled. “Of course, Your Highness. Even if you were not born as a Prince, I’m sure I would’ve still loved you in a different universe.”

“But I do not know you.”

“We don’t have to know each other, Your Highness, and we never will. Once you let me go, I’ll return to the shadows where I belong, and I will continue supporting you until the day of your coronation.”

“And if I refuse to let you go?” he clicked his tongue, “What will you do then?”

The Crown Prince’s spicy perfume must be an aphrodisiac or hypnotizer of sorts. Everything he did messed with your mind that it was too late – the music had stopped and people were no longer drinking or chatting. Everyone’s eyes were on you and the Crown Prince. You could only imagine how controversial this position must be; with his lips trailing dangerously close to that sensitive spot in your neck where you nearly moaned. You really needed to leave.

“P-people are looking, Your Highness. You do not want this affair with someone you won’t choose—”

“Who said I won’t choose you?” Finally, he pulled away. But Prince Naoya never once tore his gaze away from yours, nor did he allow you to look at anyone but him as he caresses your jaw so light and feathery you wondered if he was truly there.“Who said I haven’t laid my eyes on you the moment you walked in here? This ball is for naught because of you, Lady Y/N. I’ve already made my choice, and you helped me confirm it as soon as you danced with me.”

“Your Highness...”

“Look at me,” he ordered, your eyes flitting from his pinkish lips to his sharp nose and then to his fox-like gaze. Only this time, Prince Naoya was no longer harsh. “Don’t be scared.”

“But they’re looking.”

“You are with me, of course they’ll look,” he teased, “They wish to be you right now. But ignore them and dance one more time with me.”

It wasn’t like you had a choice, but did it matter? One nod from him was all it took before the orchestra fumbled back to their spots and a new song played, Ode of Moonlight Lovers, and the Crown Prince was guiding you back to where he had originally danced with you.

From the corners of your eyes, you caught a glimpse of your parents with their mouths gaped open; your father looking like he was on the verge of passing out. However, you felt nothing but joy, nothing but the adrenaline pumping through your veins as he danced and twirled you in his arms. When the music stopped and you were both panting for air with silly smiles on your face, it dawned on you that you were with the Prince. No, rather, it was only you and the Prince alone. Even in the sea of people whose faces began to blur, he prevailed crystal clear.

You could recognize him anywhere, find him everywhere.

Prince Naoya stepped impossibly closer until your chests touched, hearts beating as one. Cupping your jaw, he was near enough that he swallowed all your shaky breaths with a small, teasing smile like you both shared a secret the entire world could not know.

“Do I still make you nervous?”

Laughing, you nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“It’s beloved now,” he corrected, face inching closer and closer to a point you could count the number of his lower lashes. “And what do lovers do to seal their union?”

“M-Marriage?”

“Close, but this is much better.”

If anyone were to tell you that you would have a love story ripped out straight from a fairytale, you would’ve laughed at their faces. You were no Cinderella, nor were you a goddess of beauty that could’ve possibly caught the Crown Prince’s eye. Yet, his soft lips were on yours, kissing you with as much passion you could only dream of that you cried.

Strong hands guiding the back of your waist, Prince Naoya dipped you lower to the ground – the grand of finish of his dance. He had chosen his bride.

The crowd cheered and rejoiced all around you, making you smile into the kiss. Fisting his collar to bring him closer to yours, your mouth burst into metaphorical fireworks as soon as his tongue mingled with yours for an experimental taste. He was bitter yet sweet; expensive wine resting on his tongue, yet a delicate vanilla sat heavily on his soft lips that molded with yours. It was a taste you could spend forever being addicted on. And you were crying, crying so much your chest ached and the Prince’s cheeks grew damp from yours. You’d dreamt of this for so long, too long now.

Prince Naoya slowly pulled you away, his thumb wiping the tears away from the pads of your cheeks with tenderness in his touch. However, the Prince was not satisfied. The crowd whooped as he leant down to kiss your forehead. “You are mine now, my princess.”

Looping his hands with yours, the Crown Prince led you out of the castle. The crowd parted naturally to make way for the new couple, and you were left staring at his broad back and the tuft of blond hair where you’d soon find out how soft it would be. Sending one last glance to your crying parents, you waved goodbye. You had no idea where the Crown Prince would take you but you were already bunching your dress up, heart completely filled with trust you did not question it. What mattered tonight and for the rest of your life was that it felt right. That it was him – your beloved Prince Naoya Zen’in and soon to be husband – that you’d follow through the moon and back.