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junowritings · 8 months ago

Note

Could I request pre-romanced but interested Astarion (spawn), Gale, Halsin, and Rolan each reacting to Tav, in a moment of desperation, transforming into a silver dragon to save him from death. The kicker? Tav did not remember that they were a true dragon due to the tadpole wrecking their memory and is just as caught off guard by this revelation as he is.

Oh now this was too much fun to write! I ended up trying to generate a different scenario for each of them bc it was fun to imagine the context for each of them! :D

Astarion

♡ What a foolish thing; to let your guard down. Astarion knows better than most that nothing good would come of doing something so utterly stupid, no matter how safe. And yet he makes that very same pitfall after a battle with gnolls goes awry. Most of the beasts had been knocked off the nearby cliff-face, an underhanded tactic but he knew well to make use of the terrain even at the cost of any worthwhile loot. The rest had been picked off easily, and when Astarion buries his dagger into the gnoll prone beneath him the tension in the air finally seems to ease - the battle is over, for now.

♡ He’s still picking bits of viscera from his clothes, bemoaning the effort it’s going to take to pluck the gore from the decals when he spots you across the battlefield. You’re helping Karlach pry her axe free from getting a bit too gung-ho on an enemy’s skull, and he watches your face scrunch up from the effort with a snort. You catch his gaze when you look up, returning his fanged grin with an unamused huff of your own. It’s a sweet sight, even marred by blood and dirt, and Astarion makes a move to rise to his feet intending to amble over and watch you either succeed or count the axe as a loss. That was the plan-

♡ Until the carcass beneath him lurches, a screaming mass that in its death rattle bowls them both straight over the edge. And in the blink of an eye he’s in freefall, barely catching the look of horror on your face before he slips from sight.

♡ It’s nowhere near as graceful as the tales make believe. The wind bites at Astarion’s face and whips around him hard enough that his ears ring as hands try to grapple for purchase against the wall of the cliff. Nothing catches, only grabbing fistfuls of dirt and catching on rocks that crumble away beneath his fingers. No, no, no this was not how he was going to die; but there’s nothing to hold, nothing to see but the vast expanse of sky above his head as though taunting his very fate-

♡ And something else. Something large and scaled and burning silver as wings fan out enough to block out the sun as it appears practically out of thin air.

♡ A dragon. As if things couldn’t get worse?! Astarion’s cursing just about every force in the universe that he can think of as the beast plummets to close the distance. It’s there in seconds, a rippling wave of silver that swelters the very air as a taloned hand shoots out and catches him around the midsection. He expects to be eaten, maybe plucked to pieces right there and then; instead the dragon’s body rolls mid flight, curling close around the vampire spawn like a protective shield as the ground rushes to meet them.

♡ The landing isn’t gentle, having been too close to the ground to take flight. Both hit the earth but it isn’t the fatal fall it could have been. At one point he slips from the dragon’s talons, and by the time he’s wormed his way free he’s marred by dirt and spitting leaves alongside the plethora of curses in his vocabulary. But he’s alive.

♡ He certainly wasn’t complaining about that, but his head is still spinning with the ‘why’ of it all - where had that beast come from? Why hadn’t it killed him when it had the chance? He’s already looking for his dagger that had been lost in the fall as he scrambles to his feet, whipping around to face the dragon as he hears it stir. But he doesn’t find it. No, instead he finds-

♡ You. The last of the draconic visage crumbles like burned parchment, and you slump to your knees in the gouge your previous form had carved into the earth. Your hands tremble as you bring them up to your face, inspecting them like you’re checking that they’re truly there before your head shoots up to look at the vampire spawn you’d just saved. There’s a wild look in your eyes, confusion evident as you mirror his own slack jawed expression and trip over yourself to get back onto your feet with a scream of “What was that?!”

♡ At first he doesn’t believe your pleas of ignorance, and doesn’t get why you’re trying to protest so hard that you didn’t know. It’s not as though he hasn’t kept secrets from the group before - it’s not as though he willingly shared he was a spawn holding hands around the campfire like a jolly old fellow, did he? He’s not going to fault you for keeping your secrets so long as it’s not getting him killed.

♡ But then he catches you pacing later that night back at camp, muttering to yourself of how you could forget and mulling over what else you’d lost with the tadpole. That kind of panic isn’t easy to fake, and you aren’t even aware of the audience to fake it. Has that tadpole altered your memories that thoroughly? A disturbing thought.

♡ Of course he’ll be the first person to encourage you to use this ‘new’ form of yours to your advantage - why wouldn’t you? It’s not everyday that someone finds out that they can turn into a hulking magical creature at the drop of a hat, so why not make the most of it? Not to mention it will be excellent for both combat and persuading anyone who makes the mistake of thinking that you’re easy prey.

♡ Of course that brings the whole other question of - why the hells did you jump after him?! Did you think your little friend in the artifact would somehow save the two of you again?! You hadn't even hesitated to reach for him; to protect him…Astarion doesn’t know whether to throttle you over your own self sacrificing logic, or kiss your damned face until any thought of risking your life like that again goes out of the window.

♡ Perhaps he’ll do both - he hasn’t decided yet.

♡ Plus, he’ll never admit it, but the camp feels a little safer knowing that it’s got a fire breathing, flying scaled powerhouse for a leader - might move his tent just a little closer to your own after that realization.

Gale

♡ Wizards and close combat rarely mix well together. It has been somewhat of a running gag between the pair of you since the first tussle back at the grove when he nearly went sailing off the rocks he’d been casting from when a sword got far too close to his flank for his liking. You’d been there to save him, of course, biting back a teasing comment on his ‘graceful trip’ and trying not to chuckle as you’d helped the man back to his feet when it was all over. Gale naturally had been just as quick to remind you that even with his lack of tact for fisticuffs he was just as capable at keeping you as safe as you kept him. As he’d proved with a well timed magic missile not even one fight later,.

♡ The understanding was mutual - he’d protect you with all of the magic at his disposal, and you would do what you can to shield him on the battlefront. As you got closer, and the wizard got the opportunity to know you better, that protection evolved to something deeper. Something more than just having one another’s back out of necessity; the thought of any harm coming to you in the first place had been a sour notion, but now it was downright unthinkable. You took every blow meant for him without hesitation; pushed back any blade or arrow meant for him even if it led to adding a few more scars to your repertoire. And gods if you didn’t look absolutely stunning doing it.

♡ This time is no different. The sounds of battle ring in his ears, the clashing of weapons striking drowned out only by the roars of a group thrust into combat. Considering just how many unique faces make up their party (with a githyanki warrior, a renowned hero of the coast, and an excitable yet combustible tiefling - to name a few) Gale is surprised that bandits would even try their luck against this gaggle of adventurers. But where your group has skill, theirs has numbers, and this fight has been going on long enough that everyone is exhausted, frayed and running out of steam.

♡ He watches you on the other side of the battlefield, weapon clutched tightly in clenched fists and eyes burning with the fire of combat as you call out to your companions. You’re trying to pinpoint everyone's locations, caught up in the fighting as your weapon comes down on a bandit’s head. Multiple voices call out to you and Gale opens his mouth to join them, the air around crackling as he rears back to cast another spell. But the words barely get past his lips before he feels a solid blow to the back of the head and for just a second his world goes white. There’s a kick to his back and the world topples before he hands on him.

♡There is a fist wrapped up in his hair and a blade so close to his gut to breathe is a risk. One of the bandits - how had they gotten so close without him noticing? Had he gotten complacent thinking he was safe from his vantage point? A knee digs into him and the wheeze he lets out is pained as he attempts to throw the bandit off. But Gale’s not a fighter, and it’s getting harder to think straight when another hard yank knocks his head against the ground with a harsh crack. Magic pulses at his fingertips as they rake up dirt, the words forming in his mouth hoping to get them out before that blade decides to get familiar with his insides. If only he could just-

♡ What comes next happens suddenly. A rush of air, an unrelenting wave of heat and the weight suffocating him is gone. The bandit’s body is hoisted up in a cushing jaw, only able to get out little more than a scream before they’re essentially ragdolled across the field. The threat of an imminent gutting is gone, but Gale finds himself unable to breathe once again as he realizes what exactly has descended upon him.

♡ Multiple times his size with several layers of thick silver hide, and adorned with thick leathery wings, a dragon prowls overhead. Slitted eyes scan across the battlefield, taking in the carnage and what remains of the stragglers that Gale’s companions haven’t taken down with a surprisingly clarity. It’s…looking for something? No, someone - your companions. He watches the creatures head tilt, letting out something akin to a billowing rumble before setting its sights back on the wizard still very much pinned beneath it.

♡ The dragon’s head leans down, a huff of air feeling sweltering against his face as he comes face to snout with the creature that could easily turn him into wizard-chow with but a bite of that wall of teeth in its maw. But it doesn’t; instead it lets out another huff and there’s a ripple that seems to shake every single scale on its body before it’s shifting. It shrinks, morphs, changes into someone all too familiar as you drop down to your knees. Poor Gale almost gets a limb to the gut again as you slump down beside him, shaking off some sort of daze as you come back to your senses. It’s you - that dragon was you?

♡Gale doesn’t realize he’s shouting till he hears your own voice shouting along with him just as confused and panicked. Surely the pair of you must look like fools, unable to get out any kind of coherent word as your brains catch up to. You end up having to cover his mouth with your hand so that there’s enough quiet to actually process what has just happened, but Gale doesn’t miss how utterly lost you look about the whole ordeal - clearly this is as much news to you as it is to him.

♡ Once things have calmed down (and he’s checked to make sure he didn’t infact get punctured by a stray talon on the way down) Gale is absolutely fascinated. Nothing short of a kid in a candy store, this man is enthralled by the implications of your transformation. He knows you’re shaken of course, and he gives you time to do whatever you need to to ground yourself before he thinks to act upon any of his burning questions. He hopes to shed some light on things by working through these questions with you, hoping that they’ll spark some recollection you couldn’t remember before.

♡ He’s tactful, tries to be subtle but you can tell that he’s clearly excited to learn about the origins of this ability. Is it related to your bloodline? Or were you perhaps cursed? Could this be some kind of advanced wildshape unbefore discovered? It doesn’t hurt you, does it? The last question gives the wizard pause, and he can’t quite relax till you assure him that the process doesn’t cause you pain.

♡ Depending on if your memories came back after your first transformation, you’ll only be able to give him so many answers. Feel free to practice your abilities around him though. At first he keeps a safe, out of the line of fire-distance, but it doesn’t take long before he inches closer until he’s close enough to run a hand along your flank if you allow him. There is an almost reverent touch alongside his curiosity as he marvels at the sight of you - breathtaking, is the only word he can find to describe it as you extend a wing for him to examine.

Halsin

♡ Halsin has lived long enough to see many beings, experience many things. But he’s not fool enough to simply assume that he’s seen all that this world has to offer. There are still plenty of things to discover, many days and events he has yet to live amongst these new companions that have stumbled their way into the druid’s life.

♡Every moment with you has been a shining example of that fact - from the tadpole in your skull that you somehow manage to resist with each passing day, to the very way you approach the world around you. You somehow always managed to leave Halsin guessing, trying to wrap his head around the impossibility of you - regardless of you background, regardless of your creed or the life you lived before the tadpole, you remained a walking anomaly. Once which kept him on his toes, wondering what facet of you that you would reveal to him next.

♡ Of course he had done the same for you - you’d just about knocked your whole team over when he’d transformed after you’d first rescued the druid; recalled to you events and moments in his life that had anyone else told you, you would have called bullshit. It was a mutual exchange - you were open to him, and so he would do the same for you. He trusted you after all, and hoped you felt the same for him.

♡ That trust extended to the battlefield as well. Halsin’s desire to protect extended to the entirety of your party, naturally, but you were under a watchful eye with this man. Your penchant for the disregard of your own safety left much to be desired in the ways of keeping you safe; the needs of others or obtaining what you want often put above your own safety in the throes of a fight. Your habits of getting into trouble were something he grows far used to by now, so Halsin willingly takes the mantle of your protector, if only to save you from all of the scratches and scars that you’ll no doubt earn yourself down the road with your current mindset.

♡ Such as now. Within a wildshape, Halsin acts as a defensive shield for the other companions in a fight against a stray goblin raiding party. The leftover dregs of the ones from back at the temple that were set on hunting the party down long after the fall of the cultist once housed there. Teeth and claws rip and tear into goblin flesh and bone with ease, the bear acting as an utter powerhouse shrugging off each and every hit as though he was being poked with sticks and not swords. Things look to be over swiftly, as alongside the attacks of yourself and your other companions the goblin’s ranks are quickly dwindling - having either been felled by your defense or fled once they realize it was not a fight so easily won. With luck, you’ll all be back at camp before sundown.

♡ It is you who warns him that that’s not the case. He hears your voice, hears your scream of his name and Halsin cranes his head in an attempt to seek you out worried that something had happened to you when he wasn’t looking.

♡ But then a blinding light bursts against his side and he roars, loud and anguished at the sudden pain that washes over - some kind of explosive, brutal and all too effective against the druid. It’s enough for him to drop, barely still clinging to his wildshaped form as he braces against the earth in a bid to get back to his feet. What’s left of the goblins swarm, threatening to overwhelm him in his vulnerability and Halsin prepares himself for the approaching onslaught that closes in on him.

♡ Then something slams overhead, the squeals and cries of the goblins drowned out by a blinding roar that rings in the air like a toll as something impossibly large lands above Halsin and the goblins barricading them from their assault behind the wall of its body. A thick sweltering heat takes over, emanating from scales that glint like fine silver as the large body of a dragon settles overhead, and the area around them becomes alive with noise and chaos in its wake.

♡ The very ground trembles under thick clawed footfalls - the trees groaning barely avoiding the wrath of this dragon as it rises to its full height and lunges for the attackers. The goblins never stand a chance - whichever ones weren’t smart enough to scarper before are taken out with little more than a snap of jaws and the swipe of a tail. Large claws break into the earth below, digging deep as though to ensure the dragon doesn’t move an inch from the druid’s side even as the last of the goblins are reduced to shreds.

♡ When it is all over the creature visibly loses its hostility as it rounds once again upon Halsin. A firm nudge to his side, as gentle as a beast of this size can be and Halsin manages to push himself back to his feet, shedding the form of his barely clinging wildshape as exhaustion settles heavily upon his shoulders. By this point he knows that it means no harm, head pressed to his side until he’s firm in his stance before slinking away and circling around the druid as though appraising, checking for more damage. When none is found there’s a twitch, a shift in its tail that works its way up to its skull as though its very being is unraveling before Halsin’s eyes - and that’s exactly what happens.

♡ Scales and talons shift and rend, giving way to familiar flesh and a face the druid has all but committed to memory. This time he is the one to offer support, large hands coming up to brace upon your shoulders as you stumble over yourself looking about with a bewildered expression. “That was…what did I…?” Your words are met with a gentle assurance that that can be tackled in due time - it’s better to tackle those questions with a clearer head after nursing your injuries. And he’ll be right there will you, even guiding you back to camp till you practically insist that you’ll be fine on your own.

♡ Halsin has heard of many species and many abilities, but nothing that’s quite like a dragon shifter. At least, not one like you seem to be. You seem just as distraught by that knowledge, alongside the fact that this appears. Yet another thing that the tadpole has taken from you, if your belief to have had this ability before is true. It isn’t much different than using wildshape, as you learn once you talk through the experience with Halsin - what you were feeling before, what you were thinking. You admit that the only thing on your mind had been protecting him when you’d turned, horrified at the sight of him hurt and just out of your reach to save. The look of momentary surprise on Halsin’s face melts into something far softer at the revelation, a gentle praise at your own thoughtfulness to protect others that may leave you feeling bashful.

♡ Halsin actively encourages you to shift whenever you feel the desire to do so. Learn more about this form and what it means to you; refamiliarize yourself with a part of you that you’ve been separated from for such a time. He’ll talk you through it should you express any need for support, but he knows that you’re more than capable of controlling this aspect of yourself just as you have before. Of course he’ll also be admiring you the whole time, nothing but honest praise about the power of your form and the beauty of this other part of you.

Rolan

♡ It was a mistake to have ever come to the shadowlands - now Rolan is losing everything. Cal, Lia, his very own life; all of it is going to be snuffed out by the oppressive darkness which has defiled every inch of this place, and he’s powerless to do anything to stop it. All he had wanted to do was to make a life for his family, to make Rolan a name that they and others could be proud of. But every good deed seemed to only make things worse in the end - hells had even that one act of kindness saving those damned kids been rewarded like this? Not even his attempt to save his siblings had worked and now he was facing perishing in a land where death was never kind, as though the world was giving him one final kick when he was down to remind him of his own shortcomings.

♡ Shadows circle in, lured in by the dwindling embers of his torch which is the only thing barely keeping him alive in this forsaken wasteland. But that is not enough; they claw at the edges of his light, ripping and tearing at the hem of his robes and grasping for his ankles, hoping to get a foothold on the tiefling long enough to drag him off into the darkness to never be seen again. Panic unfurls in his gut, burning brighter than the useless glorified stick clenched between sharp nails as he wrenches himself free of their grasp and stumbles over himself trying in vain to make some distance.

♡ He’s got minutes at the most, moments at the least; and those creatures writhing in shadow and dark have the luxury of biding their time waiting out his final seconds. He’s going to die here - without ever seeing his siblings again. What had he ever done to deserve such a cruel ending?

♡ But it doesn’t end - at least, not here.

♡ A roar breaks through the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, and every hair on the back of his neck stands up as a chill shoots down his spine like a shot of ice. What, had some worse creature come to finish him off? As if being torn to shreds within the shadowlands wasn’t bad enough, now he’s got to contend with something bigger. And gods, is it bigger. Even through the thick smog of the shadowlands it stands out like a beacon of silver, its very scales giving off a faint glow within the darkness as though the shadows themselves are reviled by its presence alone. A feeling sinks within the pit of his chest the moment that he realizes what manner of creature is stalking towards him. A dragon - gods, why did it have to be a dragon?!

♡ The beast is huge, a rippling wall of impenetrable flesh that cuts through the space between them in little more than a few bounds. Wings stretch wide, an impressively intimidating display as taloned hands slam down on where the shadows persist. The shadows dissipate easily beneath its claws but their shriek in indignation warbles uselessly, clearly not expecting the sudden attack in their bid for new prey. What the shadows have in number the dragon compensates for in size, easily swiping down a handful before attempting to latch onto another with its sizable maw.

♡ Rolan can’t tell if it’s doing any damage, but whatever perceived slight this dragon has on the shadows Rolan isn’t going to question. The shadows have their attention turned to the beast; if he has any intention of making it out alive he reasons he needs to get out of here now. But that’s easier said than done when one wrong move could have him meeting the business end of a stray swipe or the lingering shadow taking the opportunity to pounce. He’s going nowhere - not while the fight persists.

♡ Eventually the shadows must decide that facing a dragon isn’t worth the trouble just for making the meal out of the tiefling, and no sooner had Rolan been surrounded, the shadowy figures slink back into the deepest recesses of the darkness. A wave of relief warms his bones at the realization that they’ve slithered back to whatever domain formed them - he’s alive.

♡ But then those slitted eyes land back on him, and Rolan decides his chances may have been better dealing with those shadows. His attempts to escape are thwarted, the dragon rounding on him in a manner far slower than the frantic thrashing of before. No, it’s watching him, and the tiefling is rendered frozen at the curious way it tilts its head as though it recognizes something familiar..

♡ Almost jumps out of his own skin when it nudges him, a quick bump of its head that almost knocks him flat. Rolan barks out a curse, but the winged creature insists on pushing him till he finally takes the hint and moves to where it’s clearly wanting him to go. Gods, this is unnerving and he doesn’t know what it wants until the nudging finally stops and he finds himself staring down at the lump of belongings haphazardly discarded at his feet. And he tenses.

♡ This pack - that lantern - he knows who they belong to at a glance. And no sooner has he put the pieces together that there’s a ripple of energy, a shift in the very air as the dragon before him begins to change. It molds into something else, taking on a form far more familiar - the last face he’d thought to see, but perhaps the one he should have expected.

♡ You just about keel over, clutching your knees and shaking bad enough to match his own as you let out a wheeze. You’re not worse for wear aside from the general health risks of being out in a land so tainted by dark magic, but even as you dust yourself off and look over at Rolan, you once again leave him speechless with a quick quip of “So…that was new.”

♡New? NEW?! You mean you just suddenly discovered your shifting abilities, like some twisted epiphany?! The pair of you must be a right sight, huddled around the moon lantern with him slack jawed and you looking more confused than you have any right to be after that stunt. It’s too much to process, and he’s still reeling from the near death experience and everything that has happened in such a short amount of time. Doesn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as he would have in his right mind when you urge him to go back to the inn - you’re grateful for that, or he might have insisted on coming with you even more.

♡ He doesn’t get to grill you on your abilities until everyone is finally safe. Many are enjoying what little respite they can get before they move on to the next place away from here, and he catches you finishing up your own business at the inn hoping for answers before you leave. Like Astarion, he has doubts that you didn’t know. Really? Not even an inkling to the draconic blood in your veins or where it had come from. Tries not to be frustrated at the shrug you offer in response, having to remind himself that this is a new development for you - he’s not going to pry you with questions when you’re likely still struggling to wrap your head around the prospect yourself.

♡ Once Rolan realizes what had triggered your transformation he goes uncharacteristically quiet, staring hard at your face as though trying to gauge your bluff. When he finds none his voice breaks with his gratitude, hiding the shake behind a cleared throat as he breaks eye contact suddenly struggling to meet the sincerity in your gaze. That was…perhaps he needed to rethink what exactly that - he - meant to you another time; in a place where there’s not always life or death on the line.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 gale #bg3 halsin #bg3 rolan #gale dekarios #astarion x reader #tav x astarion #gale x reader #gale x tav #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #rolan x reader #rolan x tav #request #anon

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ddarker-dreams · 11 months ago

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play fighting — chrollo lucilfer.

Hot cocoa is a staple when cooler weather starts setting in.

By your reckoning, it could find a place on every tier of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. A warm, decadent cup with wisps of steam rising from the swirling surface. This mouthwatering mental image is what led you to the kitchenette. Dutifully following the package’s instructions, you rip into the chocolatey package by the serrated edge and get to work.

All the while, a pair of inquisitive eyes track your every movement. You can’t imagine why the sight of you in fluffy pajamas pulling milk from the fridge has Chrollo’s rapt attention. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping on his own concoction. Earl gray tea, if the scent is of any indication.

Your masterpiece is almost complete. Now, for the finishing touch — marshmallows.

Alas. You’ve encountered a problem. The marshmallows are stored in a cabinet that evades your reach. To make matters worse, Chrollo has perched himself right where you’d need to climb up. Should you list clairvoyance among his many capabilities? Logically, you know that feat eludes him, but your suspicions remain.

“Is something the matter, dear?”

Ah, you forgot that you’ve been silently squinting at him while the gears in your head spin. Round and round they go, never producing a viable solution.

“No, not at all,” you dismiss. His gaze never leaves yours, even as he takes another sip of his drink. You can see it in his eyes, that ‘oh, really?’ look. You don’t appreciate that look, for you receive it often, thanks to your shenanigans.

“Your drink’s getting cold,” he points out.

Very astute of him.

The way you see it, this can go a few ways. One, you could ask for his help in procuring your garnish. You could, but… he regards you with such bemusement, finding pleasure in every little thing you do. You’re tired of the court jester role. Asking him for something almost always guarantees that you’ll be putting on a metaphorical cap and bells.

So you cling to your pride. You stand close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, as your target necessitates such sacrifice. Straining while on your tiptoes, your fingertips brush against the damnable cabinet handle, gold and mocking. Vigilant as your efforts are, they’re ultimately fruitless. Your prize remains just out of reach.

Huffing, you turn to face Chrollo, who has no right to look as innocent as he does.

“Could you…” you trail off and shoo him with your hands. You hope that gets the message across.

“Can I ask why? I feel perfectly content here.”

Of course he does.

You’re unsure what spurs on your next action. Pettiness? Irritation? Righteous anger? Who knows. You rest both your palms flat against his bicep and push, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle, which, in truth, is a fitting description. He doesn’t so much as budge. The full weight of your body and strength combined amounts to nothing. You can’t comprehend how hard his muscles feel beneath his shirt, it’s like you’re touching a wall.

Although it’s quiet, you hear it. A breathy chuckle escapes his lips.

Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as you go from your nice, secure spot on the floor to being lifted high. Two large hands settle right above your hips, holding you in place. Your reflexes kick in and you squirm. Fortunately, Chrollo’s grasp doesn’t falter. You realize what he’s getting at and make quick work of opening the cabinet and getting your stupid marshmallows. He brings you down. You only relax when your soles touch solid ground.

Chrollo gives your hips a playful squeeze.

“Try again,” he whispers near your ear.

You want nothing more than to scamper off, but his body envelops you, cutting off any escape. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, clutching a bag of marshmallows, your Hello Kitty slippers askew.

You sigh.

Life certainly has its challenges.

Should you start with elbowing him or stomping down on his feet…?

#this isn't even play fighting. darling is ready to throw hands for real #yandere chrollo x reader #hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #scara and blade will be next .#my stuff

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e-hibiscus · 10 months ago

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Pairing: Rahu x reader

Warnings: NSFW, Transfem!Rahu, oral

Author’s Note: Rushed & not proof read| not uber happy with it, but i just wanted it out of my drafts

Minors DNI! | NSFW! under the cut

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Desperate. That would be one way to describe the expression etched onto Rahu’s face at this moment. Her unwavering loyalty and desire to heed your command have left her utterly helpless to your actions as she hasn’t been given the order to move– to even touch you. Each action you took was with deliberate care, riling up the sinner to the point where she’d like nothing more than to grab your hips, flip you over, and ravish your body in the only way she knows how. Well and deep, until her cock molds itself into the velvety walls of your pussy. However, now there’s little she could do.

It was taking every ounce of self-restraint to exhibit her self-control as your hands start wandering down, unblucking her belt while planting soft kisses along her neck, collarbone, and chest. You’ve long since removed the offending piece of clothing. Leaving her top exposed and sculpted body out for display for you to worship. For only you to touch.

You have yet to go further in freeing her erection. Her cock remains in the confines of her pants, straining against the material while shifting around in hopes to get some stimulation. She’s left desperate and needy in your hold.

Rahu hasn’t been able to see for the past half-hour. Her discarded tie acts as her make-shift blindfold, though not tight, remains fastened over her eyes. She could feel every little sensation as she was left seated at the edge of the bed with you sitting upon her lap.

Your hand presses down on the aching bulge in her pants. The breathy whine escaping Rahu’s lips is loud despite the muffling from her mask. The way her chest quickens with its rise and fall shows how hard she’s trying to hold back. Knuckles white, Rahu grips the sheets to maintain control. It doesn’t help that she can feel the dampness of your core staining her pants as you continuously ride her thigh instead of using her throbbing cock.

“Poor puppy, you’re getting so worked up.” Your words came out breathlessly beside her ear causing the woman beneath you to shudder. Your hand grips onto Rahu’s chin, tilting it to the side so your lips can meet the sensitive skin of her neck.

The way your lips feel on her skin was like fire. Rahu lets out a muffled groan as your teeth lightly nipped at her pulse point. Gods, how much willpower Rahu is using just to simply stay put. The mere seconds you were by her neck felt excruciatingly long, but Rahu could do nothing more but let out a shaky breath lest she loses control.

She wants nothing more than to rip off the blindfold so she could see your face. The pure bliss that crossed your face as your hips glide along the material on her thigh. Rahu could hear how your voice tapers higher as you’re just about to cum. The sinner can only imagine your face. How your eyes roll into the back of your skull as you cum with your hands clinging to her body.

Why did you have to cover her eyes? Rahu doesn’t understand. She was being good, wasn’t she?

Once you pull away, freeing her cock from the confines of her pants and boxers, you can see how hard she has become. How much of a mess Rahu is reduced to.

Your hand glides along her shaft, fingers ghosting over the tip before collecting the liquid there and pumping it along the entire length of Rahu’s cock. Your touch in general felt like fire, but in a good way. Warm enough for her to want to lean into your touch yet too much at the same time. This has her moaning shamefully, much to Rahu’s own embarrassment.

Pride blossoms in your chest seeing Rahu unravel in such a way. Gradually, you’re chipping away at her control. Seeing the usually in-control and level-headed Rahu get needy and desperate was something you don’t get to see often.

The fact she couldn’t touch you was driving her insane. At the very least, Rahu wants her lips on yours, but the mask stays on. Like a muzzle, it prevents her from reaching your supple lips or marking her claim on the soft skin of your body. She wants to be able to touch you– to have her lips on yours. Her desperate pleas for more contact manifested into another whine.

At this you slowly pull away, removing all physical contact from Rahu for a moment, leaving the poor woman confused by your actions. Her confusion was short-lived though as she felt your hot breath between her legs. Despite sitting down, her legs already felt weak in anticipation.

“You’re going to be good right, Rahu? Remember…” Your command was absolute, “No touching or we’ll have to start all over again m’kay?”

You stick your tongue out, offering nothing more than a few kitten licks to the tip of Rahu’s cock. Your hands wrapped around her shaft as you offer the bare minimum of stimulation for her. She’s breathing heavy, breath beginning to go ragged as you start taking her length in your mouth.

An hour of teasing had Rahu on edge. You’ve stopped every time the woman was about to be pushed over the edge. Rahu’s hands kept finding their way into your hair when you start deepthroating her cock. This time though, Rahu kept her hands to herself, the needy whine escaping her lips doesn’t go unnoticed as you suck her with fevor.

“Please, please, please, m’gonna cum… Don’t stop now.” Rahu’s body was trumbling from the sensation of your mouth wrapped around her cock for the nth time. You softly moan as Rahu’s grunting at each bob of your head. You can feel her cock twitch and throb in your throat until her orgasms washed over her.

Being deprived of her sight had her body shuttering from the sheer intensity of each wave of the euphoric feeling. Ropes of her cum came spurting down your throat. Her thick and warm cum filling up the cavern of your mouth has Rahu tense. Some of it dribbled out of your mouth as you pulled away, whipping your mouth clean as you watched Rahu’s body relax and slump slightly.

You gently pull down the tie covering her eyes. You’re pepperng her face with kisses as Rahu finally gets to see you. Your fingers brush away the pretty tears before pushing your lips against Rahu’s. Tasting herself on your tongue has her moaning. Pulling away, Rahu’s needy expression spoke for herself.

“C’mon puppy,” Your hand gently pushes the sinner so she’s laying down in the sheets, hair splayed out as you cage her underneath your smaller frame. “Let me ride you first, and then you can fuck me silly for the night. Does that sound good?”

All you needed was Rahu’s eager nod before she felt your pussy swallow her whole.

#rahu x reader #rahu smut #ptn x reader #ptn smut #🌺.hibiscus writes

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melodic-haze · 6 months ago

Note

YK HOW CLORINDES BUTTON IS FIGHTING FOR ITS LIFE ON HER UNIFORM RIGHT. Then imagine reader noticing it and just tearing it apart and suck her tits. That’s a need fr 🤤

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Clorinde x dom!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Nipple obsession 🫶, she gets kinda perved on a lil bit but that's just people looking at her and her whoreass fit like!!! What!!!!!!!, idk what else ngl

☆ — NOTES: Dude how the fuck do her clothes even work. Like I've been staring at it for a while now like what. How???? Anyway it's 1 am sorry if it isn't coherent

Clorinde's buttons are fighting for their lives and so am I

"Appropriate uniform" my nonexistent left NUT how the HELL!!! Is that allowed!!!!!!!

No but seriously it must be such a struggle to watch her walk around like that. Like what. What why what

You couldn't help but stare at your lover's chest—more specifically, her button-up that was practically struggling to hold on.

"..Clorinde?"

She lifts her head to look at you with a light smile on her face, temporarily pausing her movement to put on her shoes, "Yes, my dear?"

You cleared your throat as you leaned on the wall, looking at your eyes still locked onto that same spot, "Do you not get.. you know, a clothing violation or something?"

"Why?" She tilted her head in what is indesputably, undeniably real confusion, "I do not see why I would."

She probably feels it though. Or at least you'd assume so, with how tight her clothes seem to be on her.

"..Nothing. Just, um," you scratched the nape of your neck sheepishly before shaking your head and forcing your eyes on her own, "good luck at work today."

She nods and says her goodbyes before leaving out the door.

Hm.

When you're outside, for some reason you can't help but notice that people are staring at her awfully lot!! It could be because like she's the Champion Duellist so obvs they'd be in awe.........but it doesn't seem like they're in awe for that reason, with the way they look at her restricted chest when they're close enough. Is it just today that they're noticing this?? Or is it just today that YOU'RE noticing them looking at her??????

Whatever it is, it's pissing you off a little (a lot)!!! She has the audacity to say she doesn't know what you're on about when she's being gawked at bc of the same reason YOU were gawking at her for

By the time the day ends you're about to lose it (I would personally 🫶) so you're waiting in your room for her before she comes back, all oblivious to the MANY stares she's had and the. Wardrobe malfunction that was going on there. The moment she gets back, dude POUNCE HER because I fuckin would 😭😭😭

Don't give her time to even think of anything—not like she'll need the time, she'd abandon all trains of thought for once the moment you're both in the mood. Kiss her HARD, she'll happily let you and your tongue lead like a familiar dance between the two of you

What ISN'T familiar, though, is when you grasp onto the opening part of her button-up and tug on it. And not tug on it normally like you would to suggest that she takes her clothes off, nonononono I mean FORCING IT TO SPLIT

She breaks the kiss to ask you what you're doing and that you're putting a LOT of force into-- OH SHIT IT POPPED OPEN!!!! The buttons didn't really need any encouraging by that point but with your help it popped off to god knows where 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ but colour her SURPRISED she did NOT expect you to do that

Or did she

Anyway she's quite literally about to complain to you, saying that that was her clothes you JUST ripped open what the heck!!!! But then you kinda easily shut her up the moment you tug her bra down and start paying attention to her tits

Bite em hard, suck em real nice and leave a VERY obvious mark on them so that she thinks twice about wearing things that will DEFINITELY expose her at any given minute. Play with her nipples too, and don't forget to give attention to the neglected side❗️❗️

She'll shut up real quick if you pay SOOO much attention to them, pulling you in even further via holding your head closer to you. She'll even comb your hair too, if you have any :3 though she might accidentally tug on them if you do smth that particularly gives her a shock lol

Atp rip her tights for access too, she won't even care anymore now that you've ripped her shirt open 🤷‍♀️ she says she has more anyway what's one loss gonna do?? Rip it and massage her clit as you don't stop spoiling her breasts, sucking them as if something's gonna come out if you persevere hard enough, and I promise she'll be breathing so fucking heavily as she begs you for more. More of what? She can't even clarify, the ever so composed Duellist is at an utter loss!!!!!

Plunge your fingers in and you can feel how wet she is, how Easily your fingers just slip into her and move in and out, how her folds practically flutter around your digits from every lick and suck of her nipples like a bitch starved AND possessed

If you curl your fingers a certain way and suck on her tits at the same time too???? Oh FUCK you're ripping out SUCH a huge orgasm from her that has her bucking her hips and grinding them into your palm and you need to fuck her through it!!!! Fuck her through her high and bring her down......and even after that she kinda don't gaf if she's absolutely dirtied her attire atp or made a mess as she drags you off for more, hat probably on the ground and forgotten

She'd care when you're like DONE done though, with her sighing in such a way that you do feel like you should probably help bc you DID still rip her shit apart 😭

But yeah dude everyone can stare all they want but only YOU get the privilege of going feral and tearing her clothes apart just to touch her and taste her in any way you can. Mark her up so that underneath her clothing, as embarrassing as they are, are all the proof that everything under the fabric?? That's all for you babe 🙏🙏

It was the day after, and you were looking at her and her clothing once again.. along with everyone else's looks on her, once again more filled with a mix of filtered lust and quite a bit of jealousy from some of the women due to how form-fitting her attire was.

She did say that she'll make a note to buy some looser versions of her outfit, but...

At the end of the day, it was Clorinde's decision to wear what she wants to wear. And it's not like it's ever hindered her work before—if anything, the fact that it's the way it is probably helps with her mobility somehow, especially when such a chest is sure to be a nuisance when she moves around so much.

..You can't really help but feel a bit jealous of your girlfriend, though. Or maybe possessive?maybe, but such a word feels like you want her all to yourself.

(You do, but still.)

But then you realise that maybe such worries are unfounded after all, especially when you overhear someone speaking of a dark mark on her neck, which she describes as a nasty bite on patrol.

You know it wasn't some random bite though, and it seems that she knows full well she's lying, especially when she sees you and gives you a small smile before pretending to scratch her neck to reveal that dark mark you had inflicted.

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badger-tales · 16 days ago

Text

Everywhere and Nowhere//F.W x Reader (1)

a/n: So uhhhh, i went a bit crazy with this fanfiction (Sorry) and the entire fanfiction ended up being 25k words (YIKES) so i'm going to post it in 5 parts i hope you understand. also this isnt really like a whole fic its kind just a bunch of diffrent scenes throughout her time at hogwarts.

word count: 7.1k

request: Hiiii! :) I was wondering if you could do a oneshot about a fred weasley x reader idea I've had for forever where the reader was a hat stall for a really long time. To the point she had to be put aside to be sorted later. Plot twist, she never gets sorted. I always wondered what would happen if the sorting hat couldn't decide what house to put someone in. I imagine she would have a room in the faculty tower or something, and because she doesn't have a house but she is a student, she would be able to figure out how to get into every common room. I'm really tired right now, so sorry if this sounds really bad, I promise it sounds better when I'm coherent. You don't have to do this if you don't want to, though 🫶

Thanks sm!!!

The Sorting Hat’s Dilemma:

The Great Hall buzzed with life—waves of excitement and nervous energy bouncing off the walls as students leaned forward in their seats, eager to see where their classmates would be placed. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the evening sky, but Y/N barely noticed the twinkling stars overhead. Her stomach churned with anticipation as the Sorting Ceremony unfolded. Names were called out, one by one, and the Sorting Hat seemed to make its decisions almost instantaneously—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin. Each declaration was followed by cheers and applause as new students were welcomed into their houses, their faces lighting up with relief and pride.

But as Y/N watched, her own heart pounded harder, her palms growing clammy with each passing moment. Her name had yet to be called, and the knot in her stomach only tightened with every student who found their place.

Then it happened.

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

The sound of her name rang out, reverberating through the Great Hall like a spell, and for a split second, the room seemed to fall away. Her legs felt heavy as lead, but she forced herself to move, her feet carrying her toward the front. The stool loomed in front of her, and she could feel hundreds of eyes following her every step. Her heart was beating so loudly in her chest she wondered if everyone could hear it.

She lowered herself onto the stool, the old wood creaking beneath her as the Sorting Hat was gently placed on her head. Her hands rested awkwardly in her lap, trembling ever so slightly, though she tried to still them. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she stared straight ahead, willing herself to stay calm.

And then… silence.

Long, stretching silence.

Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed hard as the Hat finally spoke, its voice curling around her mind like an inquisitive whisper.

“Hmm… curious,” it mused, its tone slow and deliberate. “Courage… yes, I see that. But there’s more... a deep thirst for knowledge, an eagerness to learn. Loyalty too, quite strong. But... oh, ambition. That’s interesting. Yes, you have ambition.”

Y/N could feel her pulse racing in her ears. It felt as if the whole hall had faded into the background, the sound of shuffling feet and hushed whispers blurring into white noise. She sat there, trapped in this strange limbo as the Hat pondered her fate. It was agonizing, this waiting. Everyone else had their answers so quickly, but for her—time dragged on painfully slow, each second stretching like an eternity.

She could feel the weight of the stares now, the way the other students leaned in, watching her. Why was this taking so long? Her chest tightened as her mind spun in a whirlwind of anxiety. Was something wrong with her? Was she not enough for any house?

"I see all the traits... all of them strong," the Hat continued, its voice a strange mixture of fascination and hesitation. "But no single one dominates. You belong everywhere... and nowhere."

Her breath hitched. *Nowhere?* The word echoed in her mind, leaving a hollow feeling in its wake. She could feel heat creeping up her neck, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. The whispers around the hall grew louder, more questioning, more curious, and Y/N felt her chest tighten, her vision blurring slightly as she blinked back the sting of unshed tears.

How was this happening? She had dreamed of this moment, of finding her place, but now she felt more lost than ever.

Professor McGonagall’s firm yet gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. "You may step aside for now," the professor said, her voice carefully composed, though Y/N could sense the uncertainty hidden beneath.

Y/N nodded numbly, sliding off the stool on shaky legs. She kept her gaze down, avoiding the sea of curious faces as she made her way to the side, her feet feeling heavier with every step. A strange emptiness bloomed in her chest—an aching void where certainty should have been. Everyone else had a home now, a place where they fit. But her? She felt like an outlier, hovering on the edge of something she couldn’t define.

As she stood there, away from the students celebrating their placements, a deep uncertainty settled into her bones. Where did she belong? Would she ever find her place at Hogwarts? The applause and laughter of the hall felt distant, muffled, like she was watching from behind a foggy window. She wanted to disappear, to slip away before anyone could ask her the question she dreaded most:

"What house are you in?"

But she didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

---

First Night in the Faculty Tower

Instead of the warm, bustling common room Y/N had pictured in her head, filled with laughter and the chatter of new friends, she found herself being led through winding corridors to a much quieter part of the castle. Her footsteps echoed against the cold stone floors as she followed a professor up a spiraling staircase, away from the throngs of students still settling into their new houses. Her heart sank further with each step, dread creeping into her chest like a fog rolling in on a cold night.

Finally, they stopped in front of a plain wooden door in the faculty tower, the key clicking in the lock with a soft finality. Y/N stepped inside and took a hesitant glance around the small room—a bed tucked into the corner, a wooden desk that looked more functional than inviting, and a single window offering a narrow view of the grounds below. The room was practical, yes, but it was also hollow, missing the warmth she had imagined for her first night at Hogwarts.

The silence pressed down on her, thick and unyielding. There were no lively conversations echoing through the walls, no shuffling of feet as excited students unpacked and claimed their spaces in shared dormitories. There was only stillness—a sharp, aching kind of quiet that made the room feel even smaller. The absence of house banners on the walls only made it worse. She had thought she would be enveloped in the colors of her new house, surrounded by the symbols of a home she could belong to. But here, there was nothing.

The bed creaked softly as she sat down, the mattress firm and unfamiliar. She ran her hands over the cool fabric of the blanket, trying to ground herself in the moment, but all it did was remind her how far she felt from everything she had dreamed of. Hogwarts had always seemed like a place full of wonder and magic, where students forged lifelong friendships in cozy common rooms or whispered about their days before falling asleep. She had imagined laughing with housemates, sharing stories in the flickering firelight, bonding over the excitement of this new chapter.

Instead, she was here—alone, in a room that felt more like a waiting area than a home.

Y/N lay back on the bed, her eyes drifting to the ceiling, which was nothing more than plain stone. She tried to close her eyes, to lose herself in the sounds of the castle, but even that was a cruel reminder. Faint echoes of life drifted up from the halls below—distant laughter, the muffled chatter of students who were likely already bonding, swapping stories about their Sorting or talking about classes they were excited to start. It felt like another world, one she wasn’t part of. She could picture them, groups of new friends gathering in their respective common rooms, their faces lit with excitement and nervous anticipation. They were beginning their Hogwarts journey together, while she remained on the outside looking in.

A tight knot formed in her chest, and she curled up on her side, pulling the blanket over herself as if it could somehow shield her from the loneliness that seemed to press in on all sides. It didn’t help. The emptiness lingered, a hollow ache that made her want to sink deeper into the mattress and disappear.

She stared at the wall, her thoughts spinning in quiet desperation. Was this how her entire year would go? Trapped in a limbo between houses, neither here nor there? Somewhere down below, students were finding their people, forging the connections she so desperately longed for, while she lay alone in this temporary room, wondering when—*if*—she would ever find her place.

The moonlight filtered weakly through the small window, casting faint shadows on the floor, and Y/N felt an overwhelming sense of isolation settle over her. She had waited for this moment for so long, had dreamed of it, and now it felt like a cruel twist of fate. Instead of the thrill of a new adventure, she felt adrift, like a ship lost at sea, with no land in sight.

And in that vast, quiet room, the most painful realization of all hit her.

She was alone.

---

Navigating Hogwarts

The first few weeks at Hogwarts passed in a blur of overwhelming sights and sounds, but for Y/N, it felt like she was caught in a strange, invisible bubble, separated from the vibrant life around her. Each morning, she made her way to the Great Hall, where the long house tables were filled with laughter, chatter, and clinking silverware as friends swapped stories and gossip from their new Hogwarts experiences. For everyone else, the school was bursting with possibility—a grand adventure waiting to unfold. But for Y/N, there was only a quiet sense of disconnection.

Without a house to call her own, she found herself in an awkward limbo. There was no designated seat for her at the Great Hall, no table that she belonged to, so she floated from one spot to another, often settling at the far end of whichever table had the most space. It was as if she were a ghost among the students, present but not truly seen. She ate her meals in near silence, the low hum of conversations all around her making the quietness of her own experience even louder.

No one actively avoided her, but no one truly reached out either. There was an unspoken curiosity that lingered in the air whenever she entered a room—an unsorted student was a rare oddity, a puzzle that most didn’t know how to solve. Some would give her sidelong glances, as though they wanted to ask her questions but couldn’t find the words, while others simply pretended she wasn’t there, their attention focused on the friends and connections they were quickly making. Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider looking in, watching the world unfold around her but never really becoming a part of it.

Classes were no easier. While other first years formed tight-knit groups with their housemates, learning the ropes of Hogwarts life together, Y/N was on her own. The castle’s vast corridors were a maze of moving staircases, hidden doors, and twisting passageways, and without housemates to guide her, she often found herself wandering in circles, trying to decipher the confusing layout of the school. Every hallway looked the same after a while—grand and beautiful, but also cold and unwelcoming.

Her isolation extended beyond just the physical spaces. When the rest of the students returned to their common rooms after classes, retreating to the warmth and safety of their dormitories, Y/N was left with nowhere to go. The common rooms were off-limits to her—those vibrant, cozy spaces filled with laughter and house pride were worlds she couldn’t access. There were no house points for her to earn, no pride to share in, no cheers or commiserations over wins or losses in Quidditch or lessons. It felt like being cut off from something essential, like a missing piece of herself she couldn’t quite find.

Every day, after her classmates vanished into the hidden entrances of their common rooms, Y/N wandered the castle’s empty halls, trying to fill the strange void that settled deeper in her chest. She would linger by the windows, watching groups of students gather by the fire in the courtyards or walk down to the Quidditch pitch in the afternoons. Their laughter and easy camaraderie drifted up to her like a reminder of everything she was missing.

At night, the faculty tower became her refuge, but it was a cold comfort. Climbing the spiral staircase to her small room felt like a slow march into isolation. Each step seemed to echo her loneliness, bouncing off the stone walls as if to mock her. She could almost hear the distant sounds of other students in their dorms—soft conversations, hushed laughter, the rustling of blankets as they settled into their beds, surrounded by friends and a sense of belonging. But here, in the faculty tower, there was only silence.

Her room, though practical, felt like a prison. The bed was neatly made, the desk was organized, and the window offered a view of the grounds that seemed picturesque in the daylight—but none of it mattered. The emptiness was suffocating, pressing down on her chest each night as she sat alone, staring at the blank walls. It was as though the room itself was a constant reminder of what she didn’t have—a house to call her own, a group of people who understood her, a sense of belonging that had been promised but never delivered.

Y/N often found herself lying awake at night, the weight of her thoughts pressing in. Where did she fit in this world? What was she supposed to do when everyone around her was building connections, forming friendships, and growing into their new lives at Hogwarts, while she remained untethered, floating between spaces? It felt as if the castle itself was rejecting her, keeping her at arm’s length while everyone else found their place within its ancient walls.

And in those quiet moments, when the rest of the school was asleep and the distant sound of laughter had faded, Y/N felt truly alone. More than anything, she longed for someone to reach out—to see her, to talk to her, to make her feel like she wasn’t just a mystery to be puzzled over. But each day, the sense of isolation grew stronger, and the walls of her room seemed to close in, trapping her in this strange limbo between belonging and not.

Each day was harder than the last, and with every step she took through the halls, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was all Hogwarts would ever be for her—an endless search for a place she couldn’t seem to find.

---

Watching from the Shadows

Y/N often found herself drawn to the entrances of the various common rooms as if by some invisible pull, lingering just out of sight as students slipped in and out, laughing, chatting, and disappearing behind walls she couldn’t breach. The one that intrigued her most was Gryffindor Tower. There was something magnetic about it, something alive in the way the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open to reveal the warmth within, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls as students emerged, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Their laughter would echo down the corridor, bursting forth in waves of joy that only seemed to deepen the quiet of her own solitude.

She would watch from a distance, careful not to get too close, but close enough to imagine what it might be like. To belong to something bigger than herself. To be one of those students who had a place to return to after a long day of classes and wandering, a place where people would notice if she wasn’t there. She imagined what it might feel like to push open that portrait hole and step inside, greeted by friendly faces and the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth. The very thought of it made her chest ache with longing.

But the idea of actually trying to sneak into a common room—without a password, without permission—felt like too much. There was something about the invisible barrier that made her feel even more separate, as though the very walls of Hogwarts were reminding her that she didn’t belong to any house, didn’t have a key to any door. It was a reminder that she was always on the outside, looking in.

Instead, Y/N found her own sanctuary in the one place that didn’t seem to demand a password or permission—the library. The towering shelves of books became her silent companions, their endless pages offering her a sense of refuge from the bustling life she couldn’t quite be part of. The smell of parchment and ink, the soft rustle of pages turning—it all soothed her, wrapping her in a quiet comfort. Here, in the rows of books, she could lose herself in stories and knowledge, and no one asked questions about who she was or where she came from.

Madam Pince rarely disturbed her. As long as Y/N kept to herself, the librarian allowed her to linger, and Y/N was grateful for the unspoken understanding between them. It was a kind of peace—this quiet haven where no one stared at her with curiosity or confusion, where no one whispered about the unsorted student who wandered the halls alone. She could spend hours tucked away at a corner table, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across her open books. It was here, in the stillness of the library, that she could almost pretend she belonged somewhere, even if it was only in the pages of a book.

But even in the sanctuary of the library, the loneliness lingered. It clung to her, an ever-present shadow that no amount of reading could fully dispel. The silence that had once felt like a balm for her restless thoughts now felt suffocating at times. When the library closed for the night, the vast space became hers alone, and yet it wasn’t the comforting solitude she’d hoped for. It was a cold, echoing emptiness that made her feel small in comparison.

Sometimes, Y/N would stay long after the other students had left, lingering in the rows of books as the quiet deepened and the shadows stretched across the floor. In those moments, when the library felt like her own private common room, she would try to convince herself that it wasn’t so bad—that maybe this was enough, this self-imposed retreat where she could be alone with her thoughts and escape the reality of her situation.

But deep down, the ache remained. No matter how many books she read or how long she spent in the peaceful corners of the library, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing out on something vital. Somewhere behind those closed doors, other students were forming bonds, sharing stories, and creating memories that she would never be a part of. And no matter how quiet the library was, no matter how much solace she found there, it wasn’t the same as belonging.

Y/N would lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of her small room in the faculty tower, and wonder what it would be like to have someone to talk to, someone who might invite her into their world. But those thoughts always remained just that—fantasies. In the morning, she would rise, make her way back to the library, and lose herself in the familiar routine, hoping that maybe, one day, the loneliness wouldn’t feel quite so heavy.

But even in the peace of the library, she couldn’t escape it entirely. No matter how quiet or calm the space was, the emptiness within her never seemed to fully fade.

---

The First Quidditch Match

The first Quidditch match of the season had transformed the entire school into a whirlwind of excitement. Everywhere Y/N turned, students were decked out in their house colors, faces painted with bright stripes of red, gold, green, and silver. The buzz of anticipation hung in the air like static, and Y/N, despite herself, felt drawn to it. Gryffindor versus Slytherin—it was a rivalry that seemed to pulse through the very walls of Hogwarts, and she couldn’t help but be curious.

As she made her way toward the Quidditch stands, the roar of the crowd grew louder, and a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety tugged at her chest. She didn’t have a house to cheer for, no colors to wear, no allegiance to stand behind, and the thought made her feel like a spectator in her own life. Still, she climbed the stairs to the stands, scanning the sea of students all gathered in their respective sections, their shouts and chants blending into a chaotic symphony of school spirit.

Y/N chose a spot near the edge of the stands, far from the thick of the crowd. It was safer there, away from the crush of house pride and the boisterous groups that filled the center rows. She sat down, pulling her cloak tightly around her as a cool breeze swept across the pitch. The seats around her filled quickly, but no one seemed to notice her presence—everyone’s focus was on the field, where the players were mounting their brooms and preparing for takeoff.

The match began with a shrill blast of the whistle, and the sky above the pitch exploded into movement as the players shot into the air, darting between one another with incredible speed. The crowd erupted into cheers, the noise so loud it seemed to vibrate through the stands. Students were on their feet, shouting, chanting, fists pumping in the air as they screamed the names of their house teams. The energy was palpable, buzzing through the air like magic itself, but Y/N felt a strange disconnect from it all, as if she were watching through a veil that separated her from the rest of the world.

Her eyes flicked between the game and the students around her, but more often than not, she found herself watching the crowd rather than the players. The passion they shared was contagious, their faces lit up with excitement, their voices raw from cheering. Gryffindor and Slytherin students shouted at each other from across the stands, playful taunts mixed with fierce loyalty to their houses. Even students from other houses were swept up in the rivalry, joining in the chants, their faces bright with enthusiasm.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on a group of Gryffindors just a few rows down. They stood huddled together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, their faces flushed with excitement as they shouted support for their team. They moved as one, reacting to every near miss, every score, every tumble in perfect harmony, their collective pride binding them together in a way that felt almost tangible.

She couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be part of that—to stand among them, to share in that collective pride and thrill of the game. To know that, win or lose, you were part of something bigger than yourself. The cheers, the laughter, the groans of disappointment when a player missed a catch—it was all part of the same experience, something she could observe but never fully participate in.

The game itself seemed to fly by in a blur of action and noise, but for Y/N, time felt slower. She clapped politely when Gryffindor scored, but there was no one to turn to, no one to exchange excited glances with. The disconnect was sharp, a constant reminder that while everyone else seemed to be united in their shared love for their house and the game, she was just… there. A spectator. An outsider.

When the final whistle blew and Gryffindor emerged victorious, the stands erupted into a frenzy of celebration. Red and gold banners waved in the air, and Gryffindor students poured out of their seats, hugging each other, laughing, shouting their triumph to the sky. The noise was deafening, a jubilant roar that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.

Y/N remained seated, watching quietly as her classmates embraced, their faces shining with pride and joy. She felt like a shadow in the corner of a bright, vibrant world—present, but not truly part of it. For them, this was a moment of unity, a celebration of house pride that would be talked about for days, maybe even weeks. They had something to belong to, something to root for, something that tied them together in a way that Y/N could only observe from a distance.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as the wind picked up, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd faded, leaving only the echo of her own thoughts. This was Hogwarts for them—a place where belonging was tied to house colors and shared experiences, where victories like this one were celebrated together. For her, though, it was just another reminder of how different her experience was.

When the crowd began to thin and students made their way back toward the castle, still buzzing with excitement, Y/N stood up slowly. She cast one last glance at the field, where the Gryffindor team was being swarmed by their housemates, lifted onto shoulders and carried off in triumph. It was a moment of pure joy, but it wasn’t hers.

With a sigh, Y/N turned away from the celebrations and began to walk back to the castle, her footsteps quiet and unnoticed amidst the roar of victory behind her.

---

A Moment with Professor McGonagall

One afternoon, a few months into the school year, Y/N found herself being summoned to Professor McGonagall’s office. The corridors of Hogwarts felt both familiar and strange to her now—she knew every twist and turn of the path, yet the sense of belonging that others seemed to carry so effortlessly still eluded her. She wondered, as she made her way toward the stone staircase that led to the deputy headmistress’s office, what this meeting could be about. She had been waiting for weeks for some kind of resolution, and yet nothing had changed.

When she entered the office, Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk, her expression serious but not unkind. The large windows let in beams of golden afternoon sunlight, casting a warm glow over the books and trinkets that lined the shelves. Despite the inviting atmosphere, Y/N’s stomach twisted with nerves. She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, until McGonagall gestured for her to sit.

"Miss Y/N," McGonagall began, folding her hands on the desk in front of her, her sharp eyes softening just a little. "I understand this has been a rather challenging start to your year. I wanted to speak with you personally because I don’t want you to think that we’ve forgotten about your... situation."

Y/N sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The word *situation* hung in the air like a lead weight. She nodded, her heart beating a little faster, though she wasn’t sure what she was expecting to hear. "I appreciate that, Professor," she said quietly, though her voice felt distant, as if the words weren’t really her own.

McGonagall’s eyes were steady, and though her tone remained formal, there was a hint of something softer beneath her usual strict demeanor. "The Sorting Hat’s indecision is... unusual, to say the least," she continued, her voice measured. "In my many years here at Hogwarts, it is rare for the Hat to hesitate, let alone to leave a decision unresolved."

Y/N shifted in her seat, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She had heard this before, had felt the weight of those same words for weeks now, yet they hadn’t provided her with any comfort. Everyone else had been sorted within moments, their futures defined by the houses they would call home for the next seven years. And yet she—she had been left in limbo, with no direction, no place to belong.

McGonagall seemed to sense the turmoil beneath Y/N’s calm exterior. "But please understand," she said more gently, leaning forward slightly, "it does not mean you don’t belong here, Miss Y/N."

Y/N nodded again, but the sinking feeling in her chest remained stubbornly in place. "It’s just... hard," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone else has somewhere they fit. They have a house, a family. And I..." She trailed off, her throat tightening as the words she hadn’t been able to say out loud until now finally bubbled to the surface. "I just feel... lost."

For a moment, there was silence. McGonagall’s gaze softened further, and she let out a quiet sigh, her normally strict posture easing ever so slightly. "I can imagine it must be difficult," she said, her tone softer now, almost sympathetic. "But you are still a Hogwarts student, no matter what house you belong to—or don’t belong to," she added, her lips quirking in a brief, wry smile. "You still have a place here."

Y/N wanted to believe her, she really did, but the truth was, despite the professor’s reassurances, she still felt adrift. She managed a small smile, but it felt more like a mask than anything genuine. "I know," she said, her voice quiet, "but... it doesn’t feel that way."

McGonagall studied her for a moment, her sharp eyes never wavering. "I understand this must feel incredibly isolating," she said slowly, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Hogwarts is a place where tradition runs deep, where houses provide students with a sense of identity and camaraderie. And for you, without that anchor, it is only natural to feel out of place."

Y/N’s eyes flicked up to meet the professor’s, her heart tightening. *She understands,* Y/N thought. But that only made it worse somehow. Knowing that McGonagall could see through her brave front, see the loneliness and uncertainty she tried so hard to hide, made it feel more real. "Sometimes it feels like..." Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should continue. But the words slipped out before she could stop them. "Like I’m just... waiting for something that will never happen. Like I’m here, but not *really* here."

McGonagall’s expression softened further, the lines of her face showing a rare moment of compassion. "It may feel that way now," she said gently, "but these things take time. You are not the first student to feel out of place at Hogwarts, and I dare say you won’t be the last. But you will find your way, Miss Y/N. I have no doubt about that."

Y/N looked down at her hands, her mind racing. "But how?" she asked, her voice small, as though she didn’t really expect an answer. "How do I find my way when I don’t even know where to start?"

McGonagall leaned back slightly, considering her words carefully before she spoke. "I cannot give you a perfect answer," she admitted. "But I can tell you this—belonging isn’t always about where you are placed. It’s about what you choose to make of your time here. The relationships you build, the things you learn, the ways in which you grow. Houses provide a foundation, yes, but it is the people and experiences that truly define your place at Hogwarts."

The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Y/N felt a flicker of something other than uncertainty. Hope? Maybe. But it was small, fragile, like a candle flame in a storm.

McGonagall stood, smoothing her robes as she stepped around the desk. "I know this hasn’t been an easy start to your time here, but remember, Miss Y/N, you have resources at your disposal. The staff is here to help, and you are welcome in any of my classes, any of the library’s shelves, and any space in this castle. Hogwarts belongs to you just as much as it belongs to any other student."

Y/N nodded, her smile a little more genuine this time, though the weight on her shoulders hadn’t entirely lifted. "Thank you, Professor," she said softly. "I’ll try to remember that."

McGonagall gave her a firm nod, her usual strictness returning as she straightened up. "Good. And if you ever need to talk, my door is always open."

As Y/N left the office, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the corridor, she couldn’t help but feel the echoes of the professor’s words following her. Maybe finding her place at Hogwarts wasn’t about waiting for something to happen. Maybe it was about creating it for herself.

But even with that thought in mind, the uncertainty still lingered. The path ahead was uncharted, and Y/N wasn’t sure if she was ready to walk it alone.

---

The Winter Holidays

As the winter holidays approached, the once lively halls of Hogwarts slowly began to quiet. The usual hum of students bustling between classes was replaced by the soft crunch of snow underfoot and the faint echoes of laughter as groups of friends said their goodbyes before heading home for the break. For most, the promise of warm fireplaces, family gatherings, and holiday cheer awaited them beyond the castle walls. But not for Y/N.

She had decided to stay behind. The thought of returning home felt hollow—there wasn’t much waiting for her there, just the cold familiarity of a place that never truly felt like home. And though Hogwarts hadn’t given her the sense of belonging she craved, the idea of leaving, even for a short time, filled her with a strange sort of dread. Here, at least, she could linger in the possibility of something more. Something better.

As Christmas drew near, the Great Hall was transformed into a breathtaking winter wonderland. Towering evergreen trees, draped with enchanted garlands, glittered with lights and ornaments that shimmered in hues of gold and silver. Icicles, charmed to sparkle but never melt, hung from the enchanted ceiling, casting rainbows across the room. Candles floated overhead, their soft glow adding warmth to the scene.

The few students who had remained for the holidays gathered around the long tables, their faces lit with the joy of shared stories and laughter. It was a smaller, more intimate group, and the air was filled with a quieter, but no less genuine, excitement. Y/N had been invited to join them—kind offers from friendly faces who noticed her sitting off to the side—but she had politely declined, unable to shake the feeling that she was still an outsider, no matter how many invitations came her way.

From her seat on the fringes, Y/N watched the others interact. There was something about the easy way they laughed and leaned into one another, their shared history evident in the warmth of their exchanges. She longed to be a part of that closeness, to sink into the comfort of friendship without constantly questioning her place. But even as the thought crossed her mind, a familiar weight settled on her chest. The fear that no matter what she did, she would always be on the outside, looking in.

Her food sat mostly untouched on the plate in front of her, and after a while, the noise of the Great Hall became too much. The laughter, the joy—it wasn’t hers to share. It wasn’t hers to feel. Pushing back her chair, Y/N quietly excused herself and slipped out of the hall, unnoticed amidst the cheer.

The castle was eerily quiet as she wandered through its snow-dusted corridors, the soft glow of candlelight from the sconces casting long shadows on the walls. Outside the tall windows, snow fell in gentle flurries, swirling and dancing in the moonlight. It was beautiful, serene even, but the quiet only made the emptiness inside her more pronounced. The emptiness she had tried so hard to ignore.

She stopped in front of one of the large windows, her footsteps muffled by the thick stone beneath her. The chill from the outside seeped through the glass, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she pressed her hand to the cold surface, her fingers tracing patterns in the fog her breath left behind. Beyond the glass, the world seemed peaceful—snowflakes drifting lazily from the sky, the grounds blanketed in white, untouched by any footsteps. It was as if the world outside the castle was asleep, while she remained awake, caught between two places that didn’t feel like hers.

Her breath fogged the glass as she leaned closer, resting her forehead against the cool windowpane. "Where do I belong?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, as though she were afraid to hear the answer herself. The words disappeared into the stillness of the corridor, but their weight lingered in the air, heavy and unresolved.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel the weight of her question. The uncertainty, the loneliness—it all pressed down on her, tightening around her chest. She had tried to be patient, to give Hogwarts time, to let herself believe that she would find her place. But with every passing day, it felt more like she was drifting further away, untethered to anything solid. Even the castle, with all its magic and wonder, couldn’t fill the growing void inside her.

Y/N opened her eyes, blinking back the sting of unshed tears. She wasn’t one to cry easily, but in this moment, standing in the stillness of the castle, the weight of everything seemed to catch up to her all at once. She wiped at her eyes quickly, not wanting to give in to the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her.

With a deep breath, she pulled her hand back from the glass and let it fall to her side. There was no answer to her whispered question, no grand revelation waiting to make things easier. The snow continued to fall outside, indifferent to her feelings, and the castle remained as silent as ever.

But even in the quiet, even in the loneliness, there was something peaceful about the moment. It wasn’t the peace of belonging, but it was stillness nonetheless—a temporary reprieve from the constant noise of her thoughts.

Maybe, just for tonight, that was enough.

---

A New Kind of Belonging

As the school year slowly drew to a close, Y/N found herself reflecting on how much had changed since she first arrived at Hogwarts. What had once felt like an overwhelming maze of uncertainty was now something different—familiar, almost comforting in its vastness. Without the clear structure and identity that the other students had through their houses, she had been forced to carve out her own path, and in doing so, she found corners of the castle that felt like her own.

She had discovered hidden passageways behind ancient tapestries, secret nooks beneath staircases, and quiet alcoves where the noise of the bustling school couldn’t reach her. There were places only she seemed to know about—places where she could sit in silence and think, without the constant reminder that she didn’t quite fit into the usual categories of Hogwarts life. The faculty tower, once so isolating, had become less oppressive. It wasn’t exactly home, but it no longer felt like a prison either. It was her own little sanctuary, a place where she could return each night without the pressure of housemates or expectations.

The library, however, had become more than just an escape; it had become her true refuge. Its tall, towering shelves, filled with centuries of knowledge, had taken on an almost sacred quality in her life. She spent hours there every day, lost in the scent of old parchment and the gentle rustle of pages being turned. The books, in their quiet wisdom, had become her companions, each one offering a different kind of solace. And as the months passed, even Madam Pince, the stern librarian who once regarded her with suspicion, began to soften. She would nod in Y/N’s direction now, a quiet acknowledgment of her regular presence, as if Y/N had become part of the very fabric of the library itself.

With time, Y/N learned to navigate Hogwarts without needing the structure or guidance that the other students seemed to rely on. She didn’t need house banners hanging in the Great Hall to remind her of her identity. The colors that once filled her with envy had slowly lost their hold on her. Gryffindor’s bright reds, Slytherin’s deep greens, Ravenclaw’s blues, and Hufflepuff’s yellows—they no longer made her feel like an outsider. Instead, they were simply part of the scenery, just one of many things that made Hogwarts what it was.

She had always thought that being sorted was essential to belonging, that without a house she would never truly fit in. But by the end of the year, she realized that maybe she didn’t need the Sorting Hat to tell her where she belonged. Hogwarts was a vast place, full of mysteries and stories that spanned centuries, and there were countless ways to carve out a home within its walls. She had done just that—created her own place, on her own terms.

Standing on the platform at hogsmead station, waiting for the Hogwarts Express to carry her back to the world beyond the castle, Y/N turned to look back at the towering spires of the school in the distance. The sight of Hogwarts, framed against the late spring sky, filled her with a quiet sense of determination. It had taken time—far longer than she had anticipated—but she was no longer afraid of the uncertainty that had once clouded her mind. She might never be sorted into a house, might never wear one of the house scarves with pride or cheer with the other students during Quidditch matches, but that didn’t mean she didn’t belong.

In the end, Y/N had found that belonging wasn’t something that could be handed to you by a talking hat. It wasn’t something dictated by house points or house colors or where you sat in the Great Hall. Belonging was something you created for yourself, and that’s exactly what she had done.

The train’s whistle blew, pulling her from her thoughts. She smiled softly to herself, feeling a sense of peace she hadn’t known she was capable of. As she boarded the train, she cast one last look at the castle, her heart light.

She didn’t need a house to call Hogwarts her home. She had done that on her own, and she knew that when she returned next year, she would continue to carve out her place within its walls—one step at a time.

She would create her own belonging, and that was enough.

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #fred weasely x y/n #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley x reader

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irisintheafterglow · 9 months ago

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HAND ONE - HIGH CARD

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas. in this hand, a duel is fought.

wc: 1.7k

cw/tags: royalty!au/regency!au, fem!reader, first meeting, touya's sass need its own warning

note: SURPRISE !! bet iris starting another series wasn't on your 2024 bingo (it wasn't on mine) but here we are! this whole series is based on this little idea from a few months back and will include swordfighting! fake dating! mutual pining! angst! balls! (the royal kind, not,,, yk) oh and many poker metaphors lol. hope you enjoy this first little exposition chapter :))

likes, reblogs, and replies are greatly appreciated <3

You would admire the spectacle of it all, had it not been for the aching pain in your feet.

The hand-me-down heels from your estranged stepmother made it hard to focus on anything but your breathing as you tried to steady yourself against a nearby column in the palace garden. You could practically hear her shrill screaming in your ears for not doing enough to network among the other young nobles, for failing to present yourself as fit for bearing children you didn’t want. As the people you’d grown up with since birth milled about carefully-tended roses and large-bloomed peonies, you couldn’t imagine how they weren’t sweating all their caked-on makeup off in the stifling June heat. Fishing the lacy hand fan from your clutch, you relocate to a shadier side of the column under the stone walkway lining the garden. An aggressive snap echoes off nearby walls when you flick it open and sigh when the air hits your face.

“You stole my spot,” comes a smooth male voice from the other side of the column. You don’t think the person is talking to you, but then you hear an amused snicker and a small thank you to who you assume is a passing servant. It’s awkwardly silent except for faraway conversations and the breeze blown from your fan until the man clears his throat. “I’m holding out a water to you, if you would kindly look over your shoulder.” Slightly irritated by the condescending tone in his voice, you look and, sure enough, there was a cold glass of water in the stranger’s white-gloved hand. You couldn’t see his face, nor the rest of his body, but something in your gut told you that it was safe. And, if it did happen to be poisoned, at least it got you out of another season. Carefully taking the glass from his long fingers, most of the tension in your body leaves after the first few sips slide down your throat. “Refreshing?”

“Very,” you answer cordially, in that airy tone your stepmother taught you. She said it was a fine way to attract suitors, which made you want to drop your voice several octaves whenever a potential husband drew near. “Thank you. That was very kind of you, Mister…?”

“My identity is irrelevant,” he says quickly and you turn your head in his direction, as if to hear him better. “Nor will I ask of yours, so consider this conversation akin to speaking to a wall.”

“From my perspective, I am speaking to a wall,” you point out and the stranger chuckles under his breath. “May I ask why you aren’t socializing with the others?”

“I could ask the same of you, considering that you’re cowering behind a column.” The jab was evident. Your mouth drops in indignancy and, had it not been for heat exhaustion and your nice spot in the shade, you would have decked whoever was on the other side of this conversation.

“I am not cowering,” you huff, taking another sip and willing the temperature to decrease just a few degrees. “I am merely…taking a break.”

“Taking a break where no one else can find you? For ten minutes?”

“A woman values her privacy,” you argue. “And as far as I’m aware, you were able to find me quite easily. Perhaps you were the one trying to hide, and I was the one who stole your spot.”

“So, you do acknowledge that you are stealing from me.”

“Space in this garden is not something to be claimed unless you are of the royal family, dear stranger.” You hope he can hear the smirk in your tone.

“And yet, here you are, stealing what is rightfully mine.”

“And yet, here you are, stealing what is rightfully mine,” you echo in a nasally, mocking voice that would have placed you in major trouble if your parents knew how you were addressing others. “Cease your bratty ramblings as if you own this palace.” The man barks out a laugh, a reaction you didn’t anticipate. It makes your heart race a little faster, in spite of your will to stay casual.

“Have suitors ever told you that you’re quite the firecracker?”

“Bold of you to assume they get as far as to speak with me,” you correct without hesitation. Presentations were one of the stupidest parts of your present society, along with those tiny sandwiches and that tea that tastes like boiled shoes. “If they decide to pursue me, that’s their first mistake.” The stranger hums in a low tone.

“Maybe you haven’t found the right suitor, then,” he muses and, before you can answer, the royal bugles announce the beginning of the duels. Excited cheers and the clicking sound of heels on pavement take over any remaining conversations. You whirl around to the other side of the column, anxious to see the mysterious man you were conversing with, but find the other side as vacant as when you first passed it. Slightly disappointed, you find your place along the perimeter of the circular stone courtyard and wait for the king’s advisor to speak.

“Today is a day of celebration,” he begins, and you mutter the rest of his speech that you’d heard for the past four years under your breath. The hair stands up on the back of your neck and instinct tells you that someone was watching you, but you can’t find who it is among the hundreds of people present. You think you’ve found the culprit when you lock your gaze with a pair of strikingly blue eyes, but they disappear before you can identify the rest of the person. “And, as you are most likely already aware, this year we welcome His Highness Prince Touya Todoroki to the presentation ceremonies. Though he is of a royal family, those that wish to court or be courted by His Highness may present themselves as suitors as they ordinarily would.”

“And will the Prince grace us with his esteemed presence, or is he preoccupied with his ordinarily outlandish activities?” Sneers and snide remarks ripple through the crowd and the advisor struggles to regain their attention. That is, until that same loud barking laugh that you heard from the other side of the column cuts through the murmurs and mutters.

The voice that follows makes your blood run cold in your veins.

“How bold to assume any of you are worthy of breathing in my presence.”

“Your Highness–”

“Shut up,” he spits, shivers spreading over your skin as the crowd splits to reveal an unruly mass of spiked white hair. His eyes are paralyzingly bright, cold and narrow while they scan the vermin before him. The rumors that circulated of his intimidating nature paled in comparison to the man before you, tall and lean and radiating the most dangerous aura you’d ever come across. All the previously gloating eyes became that of rabbits hunted by a wolf when they came under his gaze…except for yours. By some odd stroke of Fate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen the Prince before, even though that was physically impossible. Maybe you’d passed another white-haired asshole in the market. “Well? Are we starting or shall you keep gawking until I staple your jaw shut?” The advisor stumbles, shrinking away like a mouse in a lion’s den.

“Yes, Your Highness. May the first Lady to be courted please step forward!”

As the gowns start to swoop and the swords begin to swing, you’re again reminded of just how unnecessary the spectacle of presentation season always was. One by one, daughters of nobility presented themselves to the suitors, who would then step forward and duel one another for the opportunity to court the Lady. The fights were never to the death, of course, but the shame that came with losing more than one duel was close to it; nothing was more embarrassing, however, than having no suitors step forward when a Lady presented herself. It was your worst fear every season, one that you seemingly didn’t need to worry about this time around.

Still, you were met with the same pasty-faced suitor that had been attempting to win your hand for the past several seasons. He’d accumulated significantly more muscle mass since the previous season, but his hot-headed temper and objectifying tendencies were enough of a turn off to send him packing by the end of the first meeting.

“You have rejected me time and time again, but that only makes you more enticing,” he declares, offering his hand to you while you roll your eyes behind your fan. Ladies who already received their matches swoon at his show of masculinity, but it only makes your stomach turn. “I will win you. That is my promise. And, if not this season, then the next, and I will persevere until the only eyes you look for in a room are mine.”

“The only thing I would be looking for in a room with you is an exit,” you mutter. He doesn’t answer, eyeing you like you were a wise investment. Gross.

“You’d do well to accept me.” Your attention darts upward and you meet his stare, irritated at your lack of a response. The volume of his voice drops so that only you two can hear it as he comes to stand inches away from your face. “It’s not like you have the privilege of other options. Marry me or life as a spinster is your only future.”

“I wouldn’t marry you if the entire kingdom was at stake,” you hiss and his mouth turns up in a snarl, ready to bite out a response when the shing! of a sword being pulled from its sheath echoes through the courtyard. A quiet verbal commotion sets into the crowd, but you’re unable to see anything beyond the asshole before you.

"Your business is with me, not her," warns a dangerously familiar voice and the man in front of you stiffens. "Let's get this over with."

“The…ahem…duel will begin once both suitors are in first positions,” the advisor relays with great hesitation. You’d never experienced a duel for your hand, yet it seemed that another man had been dealt into the game. With his face drained of its remaining color, Pasty-face draws his blade like an inexperienced marionette, clunky and jagged, as he takes his place in the circle, allowing you to catch the eye of his opponent, molten blue eyes that make your knees turn gelatinous. The prince was dueling for your hand.

Prince Touya of the Todoroki family was dueling for your hand.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #touya x you #touya x reader #touya x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

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seeingivy · 1 year ago

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funeral

actor!eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting fic

content: depictions of grief, talk of addiction/anxiety

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

songs mentioned: marjorie by taylor swift

previous part linked here

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

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

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

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

“Eren.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eren. Oh my god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it? Who died?”

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

His first thought is you.

“Lana. Is she dead? What are you-”

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

Because it’s Marco.

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

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

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

bertholdt: reiner and i are heading over tonight.

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

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

Eren’s quick to respond to that one.

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

connie: alright. okay, thanks.

eren: phone is on.

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

“Levi.” Hange says, voice nearly cracking.

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

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

“Eren.” Lana says.

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

They wanted a picture. Marco died for it.

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

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

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

In full flesh, that Marco is gone.

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

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

“Thanks kid.”

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

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

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

But he can’t.

“Hi Eren.”

“Y/N.”

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

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

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

That he’s here and he’s got you.

“Anything. What is it?”

“Is he dead?”

Maybe not anything.

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

“Y/N.”

“Is he?” you repeat, voice smaller.

“Okay. Let’s go inside, you-”

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

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

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

He swallows hard.

“Yes. Marco’s dead.”

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

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

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

“Y/N, come ins-”

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

“Wait, is that-”

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

“Is that Y/N?” Levi asks.

“Yeah, she-she was on the porch, I-”

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

“Y/N. You okay?” Levi asks.

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

“It’s just grass. What’s-”

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

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

“We should take her temperature.” Eren says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome back, kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you know how to do is ruin people.

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

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

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

“We?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N’s here.”

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

“Hi guys.”

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

Mikasa and Jean.

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

“Hi princess. Missed you.”

“Thanks, Hisu. I missed you too.”

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

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

“I asked Historia.” you respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really funny story. Sooooo….”

“God. What did you do?” Eren groans.

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

“Was it cool?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she contagious?” Connie responds.

“Connie!”

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

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

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

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

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

You turn to Mikasa and give her a weird look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you?” Mikasa asks.

“Okay, Mika. How are you?”

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

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

“The engagement party looked beautiful, Mikasa.”

She smiles, leaning her head against yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can come back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I found yours! But where is mine?”

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

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

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

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

“Quit moving your hands.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You left it in the bathroom.”

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

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

“Do you want me to leave?” Eren asks.

“No.” you shrug.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

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

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

“Eren?”

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?”

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

“Of course. On set, in the-”

“No, no. I mean, for real.”

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

“I love you guys.”

“Marco. Don’t-” Eren starts.

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

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

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

“Do you think he’s haunting us?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eren. It’s more compl-”

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

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

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

You smile, giving him a nod.

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

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

“That’s a lie.” you state.

“No one believed him.” Eren responds.

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

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

You still love him.

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

“He knows you loved him, Y/N.”

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

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

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

“He knows, Y/N.”

“You don’t know that.”

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

You shake your head, guilt sitting in your head.

“I have something for you.” he murmurs.

“What is it?”

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

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

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

The voice cuts off abruptly, as you laugh.

“Never could hold his drink, could he?”

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

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

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

“I meant that metaphorically, you’re-”

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

“Your new name is Margaret.”

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

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

You roll your eyes.

“Bruce. Your name is Bruce.”

“Bruce Wayne!”

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

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

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

“Does Bruce have permission to say something?”

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning, Con.’”

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

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

“No, no. I don’t want to impose.”

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

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

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Mikasa basically strangled me all night.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to apologize.” Connie says.

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

“Oh. That’s okay, I under-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

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

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

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

“Am I, Y/N? Or is it true?”

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

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

“Connie, that’s enough-”

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

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

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

He frowns, twisting his pen to his fingers.

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

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

He smiles, resting his cheek against his hand.

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, Connie.” you deadpan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus.” Levi says, tone exasperated.

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

“Good morning kiddos!”

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

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

“Oh. Thank you, Eren.”

“Who?”

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

“Bruce.”

“Bruce, indeed.” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

And wander in silence for the rest of the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Hey, you look-”

“Are you serious?”

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

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

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

“Wait-”

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

“Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N.”

“What, Eren?”

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

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

“Oh my god, Eren. I’m so sorry, I-”

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

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

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

“You thought it was like Connie.” he finishes

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

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

You’re here and you’ve got him.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Eren.” you whisper,

“No. No, no. Stop.”

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

“Why are you-”

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

“Why not?” you ask, frowning.

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

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

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

“Y/N. We can’t-”

“Who?”

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

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

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

“Why were you in here?” you ask.

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

The perfect distraction.

“Can you sing it for me?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With Mikasa.” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Today would be nice.” Levi deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

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

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

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

“Damn right you will.” you respond.

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

“Good.”

next part linked here

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

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