#but these songs i still stand by to this day

[animamii]

Junior year rolls around and ohh has highschoolsweetheart!Eren changed.

You hear him before you see him—his voice cutting through the morning hum of students catching up after the summer break. It’s familiar, unmistakable, and yet, when you turn around, your breath catches in your throat.

Oh.

This was not the Eren Yeager you left behind in sophomore year.

Gone was the lanky boy who used to trip over his own feet during gym class, the one who wore those wrinkled short-sleeved button-downs with the same rotation of black skinny jeans and scuffed Converse. The Eren standing before you now was… different.

Taller. Broader. The summer had done something to him—his arms, his shoulders, his entire build had filled out in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a moment. His hair, once perpetually messy but in a boyish kind of way, had grown out just enough to curl at the ends. He still had that same wild energy, the same excitement in his eyes as he grinned at you, but there was something undeniably new about him. And he was pretty. Not that he wasn’t always attractive—he was, and you’d never denied it to yourself. But this? This was unfair.

“y/n!!” He reaches you in a few easy strides, completely oblivious to the way your brain is currently buffering. Before you can even react, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders like it’s nothing, pulling you in for one of those classic Yeager side hugs, all warm and familiar and way too casual for the internal meltdown you’re having.

“Dude, I haven’t seen you all summer!” he exclaims, ruffling your hair in that annoying way he always does, like you’re still kids and he doesn’t look like he walked straight out of a teenage coming-of-age movie. “Why’d you ignore my texts? I was about to file a missing person report.”

You blink. He’s looking at you like he hasn’t changed at all, like he isn’t standing there all tall and golden, like he isn’t suddenly one of the hottest guys in school. And you? You’re still standing there like an idiot, trying to piece together a response.

“I— I was busy,” you manage to say, and it’s only half a lie. You had been busy, but you’d also needed space. Space to sort out the mess of feelings that being best friends with Eren Yeager had turned into over the years.

Eren, being Eren, doesn’t notice your internal crisis. “Pfft, busy. You mean ghosting me?” he teases, nudging your side. “I should’ve just shown up at your house.”

You scoff, regaining some of your composure as you roll your eyes. “Like my mom wouldn’t have loved that. She’s still convinced we’re secretly dating.”

Eren barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he tosses it back. “She’s been saying that since middle school. At this point, I think she’s just manifesting.”

Your heart lurches at his words, but you shove the feeling down. This is Eren. Your best friend. The same guy who used to perform Justin Bieber songs in the middle of the quad for you. He might look different now, but he’s still him. Even if the way people are starting to stare at him—at you two together—is making your stomach twist in a way you’re not quite ready to admit.

The first day of junior year had barely started, and yet, you already felt like you were walking through some alternate reality. Eren was still draped over you, arm slung around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world, completely oblivious to the way people were looking. Correction: the way people were looking at him. It was impossible to ignore. You could hear the whispers as you walked down the hallway together, the way heads turned when he passed.

You roll your eyes, scoffing as you nudge him off you, but the warmth of his arm lingers on your shoulder. “Yeah, well, she’s gonna have to give it up eventually. We’re not dating.” You don't know if you say it to convince yourself that there is no possibility it would become reality.

Eren grins like a bad little kid, his eyes glinting in that Eren Yeager way that usually spells trouble. “Not yet.”

Your heart does this annoying little skip in your chest, but you quickly shove him with more force this time, scowling to hide the smile that forms against your own will. “Shut up.”

He just laughs, dodging your next attack like the menace he is. “Damn, I missed you,” he grins, and there’s something about the way he says it—casual, easy, genuine—that makes your stomach flip. You hate how easily he gets under your skin. How he annoyingly burrowed his way into your heart.

Before you can retaliate, a group of girls passes by, whispering not-so-subtly behind their hands. You recognize some of them—volleyball girls, cheerleaders, a couple of girls from your English class—but they barely spare you a glance. Their eyes are all locked on Eren. And he knows it. The worst part? You know he knows it, too.

One of them, a tall blonde with perfectly curled hair, flashes him a bright smile. “Hey, Eren,” she says, twirling a strand around her finger like it's a damn high school movie. You're usually a girl's girl, but right now you were shooting daggers at her.

Eren, to his credit, doesn’t look phased. He just tilts his head, grinning in that annoying way that makes your blood boil. “Hey.”

That’s it. Hey. And yet, the girl giggles, and you want to die. It’s like some cruel joke. Last year, nobody would have given him a second glance. He was your Eren—goofy, loud, a little dorky, always getting himself into trouble. Now? Now he’s on the varsity football team, his arms are looking a little too good in that fitted black tee, and suddenly he’s the guy every girl is looking at.

You hate it. You don’t even know why you hate it, but you do.

Eren barely acknowledges them, turning back to you like nothing happened. “Anyway,” he says, slinging an arm over your shoulder again like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. “What class you got first?”

You shake yourself out of whatever weird haze you’re in, clearing your throat. “Uh—math. Mr. Moblit.” Your eyes scan over the salmon pink piece of paper that held your class schedule, and Eren leans in just a little too close to read it.

He groans, dramatically throwing his head back. “Ugh, lucky. I got stuck with Mr. Shadis.”

You snicker. “That sucks.” You can't help but smile when you see the same characteristics from Eren. Even if he did look fine ass hell, oh so different from last year, he still acted the same.

“I know, right?” He sighs, dropping his head onto your shoulder in fake despair. “If I fail, just know it’s because Shadis has it out for me.”

“You fail because you never pay attention,” you remind him. You've had plenty of classes with Eren, with him always sitting next to you. He would be doing anything but pay attention.

“Okay, but, like, who even uses calculus in real life?” Eren squints his eyes, and you can feel every little movement he does as his head rests on your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you for the second time, ignoring the way your skin tingles where his head was resting. “Come on, dummy. We’re gonna be late.”

He groans again but follows after you anyway, falling into step beside you like always. Like nothing’s changed. Except everything has changed. And you’re starting to realize you have no idea what to do about it.

Lunch rolls around, and you find yourself dragging your feet through the cafeteria, still processing the weirdness of the morning. You’re not sure what to make of Eren’s sudden glow-up—or the way your chest does this annoying little flutter every time he looks at you like nothing’s changed. All the effort of trying to get over your little crush on Eren was wiped clean, the boy really had a grip on your heart now.

You end up at your usual lunch table, the one you share with Ymir and Historia, Sasha too but she was going to the culinary club's welcome party because duh, Sasha isn't going to miss out on extra free food. The two of them are already sitting, bickering about something stupid, but the moment you drop into the seat next to them, it’s like they both sense something’s off. They can feel the energy radiating off of you, the look on your face when something is bothering you. Ymir eyes you with a raised brow, and Historia’s gaze flickers to the door, where Eren is walking in, looking effortlessly cool, chatting with Armin as they make their way toward your table.

“Oh, boy,” Ymir mutters under her breath. “You’ve got that look on your face. What’s going on with you and Yeager?”

"How do you know it's something between me and Eren?" You raise an eyebrow, a little frustrated that she knows you so well.

"It's always about Yeager," Ymir and Historia say in unison, giving you that look of obviousness.

You roll your eyes. “It’s nothing. We’re fine.” A deep sigh still escapes your lips as you open the bottle of apple juice your lunch came with.

“Mmmhmm,” Ymir hums skeptically, but she doesn’t push it. Historia, on the other hand, flashes you a concerned smile. Her brows perch up with sympathy.

“You sure? You’ve been acting… different.” Her voice is soft, almost too knowing, but it’s enough to make you squirm.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” you say, the words coming out a little sharper than you intended. But it’s not like they’re wrong. You have been acting weird. And it’s all because of Eren, damn that boy.

Your thoughts are cut short as Eren plops down next to you, his familiar arm slinging around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yo! What’s up, guys?” His voice is as loud and cheerful as always, but there’s something in the way his eyes linger on you that makes your stomach twist. Ymir raises an eyebrow, but Eren doesn’t seem to notice. Historia’s gaze flits between you two, but she stays quiet, focusing on her lunch.

“Hey, y/n,” Eren says, his voice a little softer now, and you feel your heart race. “You doing okay?” Your eyes flicker to him, seeing his pretty face in a concerned look as he stares at the side of your internally panicked face. It's enough to make your insides ache, enough to make your heart beat a thousand times faster.

“Yeah, just… tired,” you reply, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal, even though your mind is anything but calm.

“You sure?” His expression softens, and for a second, it’s like the world fades out, leaving just the two of you. His hand, warm against your back, feels like it’s burning right through your shirt. “You don’t look fine.”

You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks. “I’m fine, really.”

Eren nods but doesn’t look convinced. He leans in a little, lowering his voice so only you can hear, “If you say so. Just know, if you need anything, I’ve got your back, yeah?”

Your heart stutters at his words, the genuine concern in his voice tugging at something deep inside you. But the moment is interrupted by the loud cackle of a voice from across the table.

“You hear that, Historia?” Ymir teases, her grin far too knowing. “Eren’s looking out for y/n. Makes me wonder if you’ve got competition, huh?”

Eren laughs, unbothered, and flicks Ymir’s ear. “Shut up, Ymir. You know it’s just—” He looks at you for a moment, his grin faltering, then shrugs it off. “Just what we do. We're best friends. Nothing weird.”

You feel your heart drop a little, but you brush it off. “Right. Nothing weird.” It's almost as if you're trying to reassure yourself, which, let's be honest, you really were trying to. Trying to convince yourself that it's all in your head.

But the way Eren’s smiling at you, like he knows more than he’s letting on, makes your pulse race. His eyes linger a little too long, and you wonder if he’s trying to figure something out, too. The tension is palpable, thick enough that even Ymir and Historia seem to sense it. They share a glance, but neither of them says anything. Instead, Ymir kicks you under the table—hard enough to make you wince.

“Aye, stop thinking too much,” Ymir's expression says, clearly reading you like an open book. She doesn't even have to say anything for you to understand what she's trying to say “Just enjoy the moment. Eren’s not going anywhere.” And for the first time today, you almost believe her.

The conversation drifts as you try to settle back into the easy rhythm of lunch. But the moment is short lived. The clatter of trays and the loud chatter of students fills the air, and before you can catch your breath, a new wave of noise arrives.

Reiner, with his usual cocky grin, leads the pack of jocks toward your table. His broad frame and confident swagger draw attention the way Eren’s used to, but this time, you can’t help but notice the way the girls at nearby tables watch Reiner too. He’s got that easy, good-looking charm, but there's something about Eren that just hits different, even now, when the jocks are slowly taking over the cafeteria’s social pecking order.

“Yo, Yeager!” Reiner calls, leaning over the back of your seat, making you jump in surprise. “You ditching us for the weirdos?”

Eren’s arm drops from your shoulders as he shifts his attention to Reiner, but not without a small, teasing grin. “If you’re calling them weirdos, I think you’ve got the wrong table, man.”

A few of the other guys laugh, though it’s more because it’s Eren, and he’s got that goofy, unpredictable humor. The girls now huddled around your table all stand up a little straighter, their eyes darting toward Eren, and you feel a sudden, sharp pang of frustration deep in your chest. You try to ignore it, to keep the casual mask in place, but something’s different now. The subtle tension between Eren and you—it’s like it’s palpable to everyone but the two of you.

Reiner, not one to let Eren off easy, takes a seat beside him, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Come on, man, we’ve got practice in an hour. I’m dragging you back, and we’re gonna talk strategy, not... whatever this is.” His eyes flick over to you, and you swear you catch a hint of amusement in them. It’s like he knows something you don’t.

Eren glances back at you, his expression a little unsure, like he’s debating whether to stay or go. For a brief moment, his eyes soften, but then, in typical Eren fashion, he shrugs and grins, looking more at ease than you feel. A part of you hopes he'll choose to stay, just to reassure you that things really didn't change.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. But only because you’re begging.” He stands up, brushing his hands off as if he’s wiping away the conversation, like he doesn’t even see the way your heart drops when he stands a little too far away from you now.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck. All that leaves your mouth is a disappointed huff of a breath. Eren turns back toward you, like he’s about to say something, but then his attention shifts to the group of jocks calling him over.

“Later, y/n!” he calls, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder. “Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

You’re left frozen, your hand still halfway raised as you force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. Reiner slaps Eren’s back in that overly friendly way he always does, and Eren just laughs, falling into step with him as they make their way to the other side of the cafeteria. You hate the way your stomach twists watching them go. It’s like they’re speaking an entirely different language—one you’re not part of. The table around you is quieter now. Historia looks at you, her expression sympathetic, but Ymir—well, she looks way too smug for your liking.

“Wanna talk about it?” Ymir teases, but it’s not unkind.

You sigh, dropping your gaze to your lunch. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh huh,” Ymir replies, that knowing smirk still lingering on her lips. “I’m pretty sure Eren’s just trying to keep his cool in front of the jocks. You’ve seen the way he’s been around you lately. He likes you, trust me.”

You frown, not sure how to respond. Eren might be acting like nothing’s changed, but everything has changed. And the worst part? You’re not sure if he even knows it yet.

“Don’t worry,” Historia sympathetically adds, her tone reassuring. “He’ll figure it out eventually. You’ll figure it out.”

You give a noncommittal hum, not sure if you're ready to figure anything out just yet. But as you glance across the room, watching Eren laugh with Reiner and the others, you can't shake the feeling that something’s coming. Something big. Some type of shift. You spend the rest of lunch pushing food around your tray, pretending not to notice the way your eyes keep flickering toward the jock table.

Eren looks good—annoyingly, frustratingly good. He’s leaned back in his chair, laughing at something Jean said, that lazy grin plastered across his face like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. His long fingers drum absentmindedly against the table, and when one of the cheerleaders—Annie’s friend Hitch, you think—leans in to whisper something to him, your stomach twists.

You snap your gaze away, cursing yourself. Why are you even watching? You’re not his girlfriend. You’re his best friend. And best friends do not sit there like jealous exes just because other girls are realizing what you’ve known for years—Eren Yeager is stupidly, effortlessly attractive.

“You’re making it too obvious.” Ymir’s voice is flat and teasing. You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s smirking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to have something to do.

“Mm. Right. And I’m straight.” Ymir leans on her fist, watching you with open amusement. Historia sighs, nudging her in the ribs before giving you a softer look.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Historia offers, “he hasn’t actually looked at her once.”

Your eyes dart up before you can stop yourself, and— Historia’s right. Eren’s nodding along to something Reiner’s saying, but his gaze keeps drifting. He’s scanning the cafeteria, like he’s looking for something. Or someone. And then, just like that, his eyes find yours. For a second, time stutters.

Eren’s lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to catch you staring, and for a fleeting moment, something flickers across his face. Something unsure. Something vulnerable. But then Reiner nudges him—too hard, probably on purpose—and Eren snaps out of it, laughing as he shoves him back. And just like that, the moment is gone. You exhale sharply, turning away. You hate this. The push and pull, the way he makes you feel like maybe—just maybe—there’s something more, only to act like nothing’s changed the next second. Maybe nothing has changed. Maybe the only thing different is you.

“You should talk to him,” Historia says gently.

You scoff, picking at your food. “And say what? ‘Hey, Eren, just wondering if you’ve realized you’re hot yet and if that means you’re too good for me now?’”

Ymir cackles, hands drumming on the lunch table as she childishly kicks her feet. “I mean, I would pay to see you say that to his face.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “This is a nightmare. It's never been this complicated with Eren before.” It had always been complicated, but not this complicated.

Historia opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, the cafeteria doors swing open, and the familiar screech of a whistle pierces the air.

“Football team! Practice starts now!” Coach Smith stands at the entrance, arms crossed, his stoic expression already promising death if they don’t get to moving. The jock table groans, but they all start standing, grabbing their trays. Eren stretches as he gets up, his shirt riding up just enough to show a hint of skin, and you swear you hear one of the volleyball girls sigh dreamily. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

Eren turns, catching your expression, and grins. “What’s that look for?”

You school your face into something neutral, a deadpan almost. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’ll survive an entire practice without getting distracted by your fan club.”

He blinks, then laughs—like really laughs, loud and unfiltered. “Pfft, fan club? Yeah, right.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, but then you stop. Because—he’s serious. He really doesn’t see it. All the stares, the whispers, the way girls—entire groups of them—are looking at him like he hung the damn moon. He doesn’t even notice. Eren’s still just Eren, in his own head. You should be relieved. Maybe you are. But mostly, you just feel confused and overwhelmed.

“Well, try not to get tackled into the ground,” you say instead, grabbing your drink to take a sip.

Eren grins, nudging you lightly as he starts to walk away. “Aw, you worried about me, y/n?”

The drink nearly chokes you, the cooing tone of his voice making you feel uneasy and bashful. “Not even a little.”

He just laughs, throwing one last lazy wave over his shoulder before jogging after Reiner and the rest of the team. And you? You watch him go, stomach twisting, hating the way his absence already feels like a weight pressing down on your chest.

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows over the football field. The team is mid-drill, running play after play under the sharp bark of Coach Smith. Eren is breathless, sweat slicking his skin, but his mind isn’t really in it. Not fully, anyway.

Because you’re sitting on the bleachers, and you’re laughing at something Historia just said, and it’s distracting as hell. His gaze keeps flickering toward the bleachers, toward where you’re sitting with your friends. You look relaxed, leaning back with one knee pulled up. He can’t hear a word from this far, but that doesn’t matter. He knows your expressions by heart—every little eye roll, every laugh, the way your lips purse when you’re pretending to be annoyed but aren’t really.

He’s staring again.

“Yeager! Focus!” The loud shout of Coach Smith jolts him out of his trance, but it’s too late. Whooosh.

Eren barely ducks in time to avoid a pass he wasn’t paying attention to. Jean groans in exasperation, throwing his head back and smacking his hands on his pads. “Dude, wake up! What the hell are you even looking at?”

Eren shakes his head quickly, clearing his throat. “Nothing,” he lies, trying to mask the way his heartbeat kicks up. Grabbing the football that he failed to catch, slackly tossing it back to Jean.

Jean, of course, is already following his gaze, his eyes landing exactly where Eren doesn’t want them to. The smirk that stretches across Jean’s face is almost unbearable. “Right. Nothing.”

Eren scowls, shoving Jean as he jogs past. But before he can settle back into formation, something shifts near the bleachers—movement that immediately snags his attention. Someone’s walking up to you. Eren’s brows furrow as he squints. The guy is tall, lanky, his bright red hair messy in a way that seems purposefully unkempt. He’s wearing a ripped band tee, chains dangling from his jeans, and—oh, great. Floch Forster.

The guy moves with a swagger that makes Eren’s teeth grind. Ripped jeans, faded punk band tee, chains dangling from his belt loops—he looks like he just crawled out of a basement concert. Floch has always been a talker, a surprisingly smooth one at that, and judging by the way he leans in, he’s in full flirt mode. Eren watches, growing tenser by the second. He expects you to roll your eyes, wave him off, something. But you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. Why aren’t you moving away? Eren’s jaw tightens. Then Floch takes another step closer. That’s it.

Eren doesn’t even realize his feet are moving until Jean grabs his jersey. “Dude, where are you—?”

“I’ll be back,” Eren mutters, ripping himself free and jogging toward the bleachers before anyone can stop him.

You hadn’t expected company, least of all from Floch Forster. Historia had just nudged you, muttering something about incoming trouble, and before you could even react, there he was—Florian “Floch” Forster, king of misplaced confidence, leaning against the railing like he had all the time in the world. You don’t hate Floch. You don’t like him, either, but he’s harmless enough. He’s always been a little too flirty, but in a way that’s more for show than anything else.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his signature gaudy smirk already in place. “If it isn’t the prettiest girl in the bleachers.”

You exhale through your nose. “Oh, god.”

Floch grins, clearly unfazed. “What? That’s a genuine compliment. You’re breaking my heart here, y/n.” His tone is cocky, almost annoying.

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “Do you even have one?” A grin forms on your face, it felt kind of good to banter and maybe knock him down a peg.

“Oof.” He presses a dramatic hand to his chest, cheesing way too hard. “Harsh. But hey, I like a challenge. Y’know, if you ever wanna find out, I could show you—”

“You couldn’t,” you cut in. It's a little abrupt, shocks Historia a bit at the snappiness, but it just comes out.

Floch laughs, plopping down beside you with zero hesitation. “Alright, alright, I’ll cut to the chase.” He leans back on his palms, eyes flicking toward the football field before settling back on you. “How long are you gonna keep pretending your best friend isn’t in love with you?”

You choke on your drink, sitting up straighter now as you sputter a cough. “Excuse me?”

Floch just raises a brow, looking entirely too smug for your liking. “Come on, y/n. The guy stares at you like you hung the goddamn stars. It’s actually painful to watch.”

Your face burns, but you force a scoff. “You’re delusional.”

Floch shakes his head, watching your reaction closely. “Am I? He’s been in love with you since, what, forever? But the dude’s an idiot, so I get why you’re waiting. He’s probably still convinced you’re out of his league.” Out of his league?

Something about that statement makes your stomach clench. That’s not true. Right? Floch doesn’t miss the flicker of doubt in your eyes. His smirk stretches a little wider, sensing an opening.

“But y’know,” he continues, shifting closer, voice dropping just slightly, “if he’s not gonna make a move, maybe you should let someone else have a shot.”

Your lips part, caught off guard. “What?”

Floch leans in just enough for the air between you to thin, to start smelling like his axe cologne. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs. “Maybe you should let someone who actually sees you take you out sometime.”

Oh, you think, heartbeat stuttering slightly. Although your mind was still half focused on what he said about Eren. Before you can formulate a response, something shifts in the air—sharp and tense.

“Oh, hell no.”

The voice is unmistakable. Your head snaps up just in time to see Eren—sweaty, breathless, and looking pissed—hopping the railing in one effortless motion.

Floch doesn’t move. He just smirks. “Well, speak of the devil.”

Eren doesn’t respond, his fists clenching at his sides. His green eyes—usually filled with something bright, warm—are now dark with irritation.

“What the hell are you doing here, Forster?”

Floch tilts his head, all mock innocence. “Relax, man. Just having a friendly conversation.”

Eren’s jaw ticks. “Yeah? Well, have it somewhere else.”

The tension is thick, electric with an almost uncomfortable tension. You glance between them, unsure if you should intervene. Maybe you should, but all you can do is look up at Eren. The way some strands of hair stick to his forehead, the way his thick brows are furrowed. The way he almost seems territorial over you.

Floch exhales, shaking his head like this is all some kind of joke. He shifts his gaze back to you. “Really? You’re just gonna let him chase me off like that?”

You hesitate. And that hesitation is all Floch needs.

He incredulously chuckles under his breath, standing up and dusting himself off. “Man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Eren’s jaw tightens. “See what?”

Floch flashes one last cynical smirk before turning to leave. “Nothing, man. Nothing at all.”

And just like that, he’s gone, his chains jingling as he strolls down the metal steps like he hadn’t just stirred up a storm. The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.

You exhale, crossing your arms as you finally shake out of your daze. “That was so unnecessary.”

Eren scoffs, finally looking at you. “He’s a dick.”

You narrow your eyes. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Eren looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a split second, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes. His lips part like he wants to say something—something important—but instead, he just shakes his head.

“Forget it.”

And with that, he turns, hopping back over the railing and jogging toward the field without a second glance. But you know better. It wasn’t nothing. And now, you don’t know what to do about it.

Eren doesn’t look at you for the rest of practice. Not once. It’s infuriating. From your spot on the bleachers, you watch as he throws himself back into drills like he’s got something to prove, pushing harder than necessary, muscles taut with tension. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed in concentration—but you know him. You know when he’s actually focused and when he’s just using the game as an excuse to run from something. You also know what—or who—he’s running from.

You exhale, frustrated. It’s not like you wanted Floch’s attention. Hell, you would’ve been fine never speaking to him again. But Eren had stormed over like he owned you, like it was his problem to handle, and now he won’t even look at you? It was all too confusing.

Eren misses a catch from Bertholdt, taking off his helmet and throwing it to the ground with an audible 'fuck!' that echoed around the football field. Running a hand through his sweat drenched hair, the frustration in his face is super evident.

Historia, sitting beside you, hums in amusement. “That was deliciously messy,” she murmurs, sipping from her water bottle. "The whole situation. Possessive Eren, the little bicker, everything."

“It’s annoying.” A scoff leaves your lips and you can't help but stare at Eren with a confused and irritated expression.

“Oh, it’s both.”

Ymir snickers, her sunglass covered eyes looking at the way Eren is still pouting. “Dumbass is jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “He is not jealous.”

Ymir glances at you with an expression so patronizing you want to shove her off the bleachers. “Right. He just lost his entire mind over Floch flirting with you for no reason at all.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because—yeah. The thing is, Eren isn’t the jealous type. He’s never been possessive over you before, never given you any reason to think he cared about who talked to you. He’s always been the annoying one—flirting playfully, ruffling your hair, teasing you about your nonexistent love life like it was all some big joke. And maybe it was. Maybe he was just messing around, just playing into the dynamic you’d always had. But today felt different. And that scared you more than anything.

You wait for him by the locker room. It’s a stupid idea. You know it’s a stupid idea. You could’ve gone home, could’ve ignored the way your pulse has been pounding ever since practice ended, ever since he stormed off like you did something wrong. You could’ve pretended it didn’t bother you—the way he looked right through you for the rest of practice, the way his body went stiff when you so much as moved in his direction, the way he threw himself into drills like he was trying to hit something that wasn’t there.

But you’re still here. Waiting.

The late afternoon sun is sinking lower in the sky, drenching everything in a honey-gold glow. It should be pretty, peaceful even, but the knot in your stomach makes it hard to appreciate. The air is thick, humid from the lingering heat of the day, and your skin feels sticky, uncomfortable. The locker room door swings open in intervals, groups of players filtering out, laughing, talking about parties, weekend plans, things you can’t bring yourself to care about.

Then—finally—he steps out. Eren.

You feel his presence before you even see him, your body going still, your heart stuttering in your chest. He looks good. Unfairly so. His hoodie is loose over his shoulders, damp hair falling into his face, a few strands curling at the ends. His skin is still flushed from exertion, the glow of the sunset catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat where the collar of his hoodie has slipped down just enough. He’s effortlessly attractive, in a way that makes your stomach twist with something you don’t want to name.

He notices you immediately. Stops in his tracks. Something flickers across his face—something unreadable—but then it’s gone, replaced by a carefully neutral expression, like he wasn’t just throwing a damn fit over you and Floch thirty minutes ago.

Your arms cross tightly over your chest. “You ran off.”

Eren exhales, looking past you, jaw tight and thick brows furrowed. “Didn’t run.” His voice is flat, clipped. You know him too well to miss the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his shoulders are tense even though he’s trying to look casual.

You take a step closer. “Eren.”

His jaw ticks. “What?”

That’s all he says—short, sharp, like a blade cutting through the space between you. It makes irritation flare in your chest, a spark igniting beneath your ribs. He’s the one who lost his mind over nothing. He’s the one who got weird. And now he’s acting like you’re the problem?

You grit your teeth. “Are you seriously mad at me?”

His head snaps toward you so fast it nearly startles you. “Mad at you?” He lets out a dry, humorless scoff, running a hand through his hair, making the damp strands even messier. “I’m not—Jesus, y/n. I just don’t get why you were even entertaining that guy.”

Your stomach drops. The word entertaining rubs you the wrong way, makes your irritation flare into something hotter. “I wasn’t entertaining anyone,” you snap, voice tight.

Eren exhales sharply, shifting his weight like he’s trying to hold something back. “He was all over you.” yeah, he was dragging it.

Your lips press together. “And?”

His eyes darken, flickering with something upsetting, something raw. “And I didn’t like it.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it slams into you like a physical force. Your breath catches. The words linger between you, heavy, charged with something neither of you can name but both of you can feel. Your heartbeat is erratic, hammering against your ribs. You’re staring at him, searching his face for answers, for clarity, for anything—but he’s already looking away, already forcing his expression into something unreadable, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire world shift on its axis.

He knows. You know he knows. And that terrifies both of you.

He inhales sharply, like he’s about to say something else—but then he stops himself. A muscle in his jaw twitches before he shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say quickly, stepping forward, voice urgent, desperate. “Eren—”

But he’s already turning away. Already walking. And this time, you don’t try to stop him. Because the truth is—You’re just as scared as he is.

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the space he left behind. Minutes? Seconds? It feels longer than it probably is, but the weight in your chest doesn’t go away. You don’t get it. You’ve had arguments with Eren before. Dumb ones. Stupid ones. He’s annoyed you a million times, and you’ve annoyed him right back. But this? This hurts in a way you don’t know how to process.

Because it felt real. Because it felt like something cracked open between you—something undeniable. And because deep down, in the part of you that you’ve tried to shove away for years, you know the truth: You don’t want him to be okay with other guys flirting with you. You don’t want him to treat you the same way he treats every other girl. And if today proved anything—if the way he reacted, the way he looked at you was any sign—maybe he doesn’t want that either. Maybe he never did.

Eren’s hands are clenched into fists as he walks, barely registering the conversations around him. His heart is still pounding. His body is itching with leftover adrenaline, but it has nothing to do with practice. What the hell was that? His own words play back in his mind, over and over. "I didn’t like it." What the fuck was he thinking, saying that out loud?

He’s been reckless before. He’s flirted with you for years—always playfully, always in a way that he could pass off as a joke. But that? That wasn’t a joke. That was raw, unfiltered, stupid.

Because he can’t have you. Because you don’t see him that way. Because even if you did, he’s not good enough for you. You’re y/n. You’re his best friend. The girl who somehow makes everything in his life feel a little easier, a little lighter, just by being around. The girl he’s been in love with since he was old enough to understand what love is.

And you deserve someone better. Someone who isn’t just figuring out his place in the world. Someone who isn’t Eren Yeager—impulsive, reckless, always getting himself into trouble.

But even knowing that—Even knowing he should stop—He still turns around, just for a second, just to look back. Just to see if you’re still standing there. And when he sees you—arms crossed, head slightly bowed, looking like you’re caught up in your own spiral—It fucking kills him. Because if he wasn’t such a coward, he’d tell you the truth. That he doesn’t just like you. He’s yours. He’s always been yours. But it’s too late now. And it’s all his fault.

[issues4him]

Hi hi hiiiii! You should do something where blue collar Rafe comes home from work and is kinda in a crabby mood because of something that happened that day, but then he walks in the front door of his house and can smell a really good dinner cooking and he can hear her emmet talking. He eases up after dinner but is still tired and kinda just softens up and melts right into readers arms while she scratches his head or back or something? Idk lol but please and thank you! I love your stuff!!!

blue collar and burnt out but softened right up by the warmth of his home and the woman he loves

the screen door creaked, hinges groaning under the weight of rafe’s heavy hand as he pushed it open. his boots hit the porch with two dull thuds, slow and dragging. he looked like he’d walked straight out of a dust storm—shirt clinging to his back with sweat, dirt and oil smeared across his forearm, baseball cap pulled low over tired eyes. he was pissed. not at you. not at the kids. just the kind of day that left his jaw tight and his shoulders locked from the second the sun came up. broken machinery. lazy crew. his foreman bitching about timelines like rafe could wring miracles from dirt. so yeah, he was in a mood.

he stepped inside, and the first thing he noticed, wasn’t the toy dump truck in the hallway or the trail of wren’s dress-up beads scattered across the hardwood. it was the smell. garlic, butter, and something rich and slow-cooked. something warm. something homemade. his stomach growled loudly, aching for food. then a sweet little voice broke through his ears.

“mama, can i stir it now?” emmett called from the kitchen.

wren babbled something in return, a sing-song sound that bounced off the walls as she clumsily knocked something over. and then, your voice. sweet. soft. steady. “not yet, baby. let it bubble just a little more.”

rafe stood there for a moment, boots still planted by the door, fists still clenched. he could feel it—all the tension in his back, the tightness in his temples, the way the whole damn day had wrapped around him like a vice. then he exhaled. the air in the house smelled like comfort. sounded like peace. felt like home. he walked through the hallway slowly, one hand reaching up to adjust his cap. his boots left faint prints on the floor, and he didn’t care. he’d clean it tomorrow.

as he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes landed on the scene: you were at the stove, stirring something thick and creamy in a pot, hair up in a loose bun, that soft worn t-shirt of his hanging off your shoulder. emmett was standing on a step stool beside you, clutching a wooden spoon like it was a sword. wren sat in her high chair, legs kicking as she played with a half-eaten roll. rafe didn’t say anything. just leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and watched. you glanced up and smiled. “oh—hi, baby.”

he tried to answer, but his voice cracked a little, so he just nodded and stepped further in. the food was plated ten minutes later. the four of you sat around the little table in the corner of the kitchen, the one with the chipped paint on the legs and crayon marks etched into the wood. emmett talked nonstop, proudly telling rafe how he helped “stir the whole thing without spilling once,” and wren kept giggling between bites, her fingers sticky and her face smeared with something orange. rafe listened, nodded, even chuckled once or twice, but he was still quiet. still a little stiff. still carrying the weight of the day in his shoulders, in the lines around his eyes.

after dinner, you bathed the kids while rafe rinsed the dishes, hands working on autopilot. you carried wren off to bed, her body warm and heavy against your chest, and emmett soon followed with his usual protests that faded the second his head hit the pillow.

when you came back down, the house was quiet. the dishes were done. the stove wiped clean. the lights turned low. rafe was sitting on the couch in the living room, elbows on his knees, hat tossed onto the cushion beside him, one hand scrubbing over his face. you walked over slowly, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, between his knees. your hand reached up, fingers combing gently through his messy hair, your other hand resting on his thigh. he melted. just like that. his body slumped forward, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your neck, pulling you close, like he needed to breathe you in to stay grounded.

you scratched lightly at the back of his head, your nails trailing through his hair, and his grip tightened around you, like he couldn’t get close enough.

“i had a real shit day,” he mumbled against your skin, voice low and hoarse.

“i know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “i could tell the second you walked in.”

he huffed out a breath that was half sigh, half laugh. but then he went quiet again. his face stayed pressed against your collarbone, his breathing even but heavy. you scratched down his back this time, slow, rhythmic.

“but you’re home now,” you murmured. “you can let it go.”

he didn’t say anything. just held on a little tighter. and that was enough.

[jjeongkii]

Spring love — Jungkook one shot

finally posted something we cheered 🙏🏻

bf!jk × reader

summary — You surprised Jungkook with a spring picnic, where you both shared laughs, kisses, and paint, creating a sweet memory together.

warning — none! just jungkook being that sweet but annoying boyfriend who loves you so much 💕💝💘💓

word count — 1,157

song recommendation — Still With You - Jungkook | Lover - Taylor Swift

It was a perfect early spring day, the weather finally warming up, leaving behind the ugly chill of winter. Sunshine filled the sky, and happiness seemed to radiate from every corner. Honestly, who even likes winter?

It was March—spring's start—and you had decided to surprise Jungkook with a surprise picnic. Both of you loved the outdoors, walking around, and discussing absolutely everything. you worked so hard to prepare your picnic spot, laying out the soft blanket on the grass.

You'd brought a little raspberry chocolate cake, snacks, fresh fruits, and juice. You even brought a little canvas and paint so that you could paint after lunch. When all was ready, she got out your phone and sent him a text.

"Hey Kookie, can you come to the park? I want to show you something."

Your phone vibrated almost instantly.

"Coming right now."

Damn, that was fast. Guess he was eager to see you. You played with your dress as you waited. It was a nice blue one, perfect for the springtime.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was getting ready too, fixing his hair. He wore a simple white shirt and some ripped blue jeans—a common combo, but somehow he made it look effortlessly hot.

As you waited, a wave of nervousness built up inside you. But you knew Jungkook loved moments like this. He always loved it when you went out of your way to do something special for him. It made his heart flip every time.

Jungkook headed towards the park, his eyes scanning for you. And when he finally spotted you, standing there with the sun softly caressing your skin, he was rendered speechless. The blue dress, your hair gently swaying with the wind—it was something he could never get used to.

He approached from the back and kneeled, a teasing smile spreading across his face. "So, all dressed up for me, huh?" he joked, nudging your shoulder gently.

You hit his arm lightly, a blush working its way up your neck. "Shut up," you muttered, trying to hide your embarrassed face.

"Aww, my baby's already blushing? Adorable," he chuckled, sitting down next to you.

Jungkook's grin swept over the picnic setting, his eyes landing on the canvas and paints. "You're going to let our inner Picassos out?" he inquired, an eyebrow arching upwards. "Since, you know, I'm terrible at painting."

You dismissively waved your hand. "Jungkook, you don't have to be Picasso. I just figured it'd be something fun to do after we ate.

You spent the next bit of time enjoying yourselves together—eating, chatting, stealing little kisses between bites of food. Everything seemed like it should be. The sun was out, the air was fresh, and everything just felt right. You even fed each other, laughing at the mess you made.

Jungkook had given you a chocolate-covered strawberry, but the melted chocolate had dropped onto your lips. He gently laughed, leaning in closer to wipe it away. "You're always such a mess, aren't you?"

"Hey, not my fault you feed me like I'm some cow," you joked, making him laugh even harder.

After your little food fight, you grabbed the canvas and the paintbrush, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "Well, ready to bring out the Picasso within you?"

Jungkook laughed, grabbing his own canvas. "Oh, I'm ready. Let's make the art world proud," he replied, squeezing paint onto the palette.

You had always been very skilled with a paintbrush. You'd gone to art school when you we're younger, so it came second nature to you. But even though Jungkook had seen your talent before, he couldn't help but be amazed by your work every time.

As time passed, you both were deeply focused on your paintings. Jungkook was doing his best, and you couldn't resist trying to sneak a peek at his canvas. "Whatcha got there?" you joked, trying to get a peek.

"Nope, no looking," Jungkook said, covering his work. "Patience, baby."

You crossed your arms and looked at your own painting. You added a few more details, your brush strokes becoming more confident.

Finally, after what had seemed like forever, you both finished your paintings. You counted to three, eager to reveal your works.

"On three. One… two… three!"

You flipped your canvases around. Your painting was a beautiful, detailed depiction of a flower field, every petal and leaf showing your attention to detail. You’d clearly put a lot of effort into it.

Jungkook's artwork, however, was of you—sitting as you were now, painting concentratedly. It was pretty good for someone who claimed to be awful at art. It wasn't flawless, but it was created with so much love, you could tell he'd put his heart into it.

"Oh my god, baby… this is so beautiful." You looked at the painting, holding it up, noticing the little hearts surrounding your figure. Your heart skipped a beat. He really loved you, and this painting was proof of that.

"Thank you, my love," Jungkook smiled, leaning in and kissing you on the cheek. "I'm glad you like it."

You felt a wave of warmth run through you as you looked at him. His eyes sparkled with genuine affection, and you could tell that everything he did—every little thing—was filled with love. You leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips, lingering for a moment as if time itself had paused. The still, quiet moment between the two of you was ideal.

"I'm so lucky to have you," you whispered onto his lips, your heart overflowing with emotion.

Jungkook grinned and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you near. "Nah, I'm the lucky one," he replied, his voice gentle. He rested his chin on the top of your head as you burrowed into his chest, the two of you warm in the peaceful moment.

The sun still shone overhead, and the gentle breeze played with your hair, but nothing could be more ideal than this. Just the two of you, surrounded by love, laughter, and art. The picnic could have been simple, but the memories you were making were priceless.

You both just sat there for a while, talking, laughing, and just basking in the simplicity of each other's company. The world around you just melted away, and it was like nothing else mattered. You didn't need fancy plans or material things to be happy—just each other, and these moments that felt like they could last a lifetime.

And when the day began winding down, Jungkook stood up, pulling you along with him. "Come on, let's take this masterpiece home," he said with a playful wink, jerking his head in the direction of your paintings.

You laughed and took his hand, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. "Yeah, let's go. But you're gonna carry your 'Picasso,' not me.".

"Deal," he chuckled, pulling you into his side as you walked hand-in-hand back to the car, your hearts full of joy, and your smiles never fading.

[torus-wife]

TAMING OF THE OBSTINATE MAIDEN OF LAW!

The second part is kinda late because I was busy with school, but here it is! SFW! My reader started crying because of minor familial issues, so I guess she had a teeny bit of angst. Mydei cheered her up, though, but he still received a rejection from her, hehe. Credits to @toastray for the banner below!

You knew you were very stubborn and rude while rejecting your countless suitors, but the audacity of one of your suitors to go and tell your father of your rudeness? You felt belligerent. If it were not for Aglaea, holding you back by thousands of her divine threads, you would have strangled that man with a fragile masculinity on the spot the second time you saw that man.

You received a lecture from your father for that! How could you get a scolding from your father just for that? You loved your father, but you hated being scolded by him, it made you feel guilty for no reason.

The second your father stopped scolding you, you thought you could be fine the rest of the day, but no, your mother just had to slide in a snide comment about your stubborn behavior and how you wouldn't get married because of this behavior.

You knew you wouldn't get married to anyone if you acted rudely with them, you had no interest in staying in a close bind of vows just because the man wanted you as his wife. That's the only reason you were rude to your suitors. No one would want you as their wife this way, you thought. Unlike a certain someone.

Feeling your eyes well up with furious tears, you fled from the presence of your parents, going away to hide in the Grove of Epiphany out of pettiness and pride.

Listen, you had pride, strong self-respect, and high standards because you were brought up in a wealthy household. All your family members loved you, except the snakes in the family, so much so that you had worn gold bangles of the size of your wrists, custom-made, and pure gold anklets since you were born. Do you really think a woman of that household would ever settle for less than you want and deserve?

She sat at the heart of the Grove, feeling her furious tears run down her cheeks pettily. Seriously, she loved her family, but did her mother have to always bring up the topic of marriage when she met her?

Under all that stubbornness and pettiness, there was a sensitive heart and strong emotions you couldn't control no matter how hard you tried to keep them in.

No one saw that sensitivity, they only saw the 'stubborn and annoying Maiden of Law'.

No one but him.

The 'him' was now walking towards her, with his pieces of jewelry now taken off so that she wouldn't know he was approaching.

Mydei was smug when he saw you from the distance, but as he inched closer with bare feet so that you wouldn't know he was approaching, he felt his smugness soften into concern and worry for you when he heard loud sniffles from your standing frame.

He swiftly approached and hugged you standing form from behind, his nose buried into the crook of your neck in a silent offer of comfort, prodding at your gently, "What happened? Why are you crying?"

You huffed loudly, angry that Mydei found you in a bad state of crying, "Why do you care? I'm very clingy, too emotional, and sensitive-hearted, and yet, people only judge me for how I interact with my suitors."

He gently turned your chin to the side, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You cry easily. You can cry over the smallest of things and I would never find it annoying or think any less of you for it. I cherish you every bit, even - or maybe especially - when you're teary-eyed."

His gaze softened as he continued, thumbs still gently caressing your cheeks, "It's just another part of you that I adore. The way you wear your heart on your sleeve - it's beautiful. I find it endearing that something as simple as a sad song or a touching moment in a book can make you tear up. It's a reminder that you feel so deeply, that you have so much love and empathy in your heart. It's one of the things that drew me to you in the first place."

He pulled you closer, the press of your bodies becoming more intimate, his arms still wrapped around you tightly. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and comforting as he spoke.

"You're perfect to me," he murmured, his voice low and rich, "The way you are - it makes you even more remarkable, even more captivating. You're my wife, my partner, my love. And I'm blessed to have you by my side, even if you're crying half the time."

"I don't cry half the time I'm around anyone Mydei, you're exaggerating things-"

He chuckled, a soft rumble in his chest, clearly amused by your denial. "I beg to differ," he teased, pulling back slightly to look at you, his expression affectionate.

"You might not cry in front of everyone, but I know you, love. I know how emotional you can get over the smallest things. It's endearing, really."

"Hmph," You say pettily.

Mydei's lips curled into a knowing, affectionate smirk. He chuckled again, obviously not phased by your stubborn denial.

"That 'hmph' of yours doesn't convince me," he mused, the smirk still present in his expression. "But I don't mind, love. Your stubbornness just adds to your charm."

Guys I finished the second part, I'm too addicted to this duo so I guess it'll go on for more parts, so who wants to be tagged for this mini series

[one-sunny]

Sitting in Silence.

Sanji x reader, short drabble

Summary: Sometimes the days being within a notorious pirate crew can be a bit much. And sometimes this fact doesn’t hit you until there is nothing for you to do. Desc. of anxiety and reader having a bad day. No hurt just comfort.

note: i’m having a bad day and that song from despicable me keeps playing in my head. also that is not relevant to the drabble at all but i feel like it sets the mood LOL

The Sunny was calm for what felt like the first time ever.

The day didn’t result in fighting off rival crews or marines. You were given the chance to relax. To do what ever trivial thing that came to mind.

Nami and Robin have taken to tanning on the deck. Luffy, Ussop, and Chopper fishing while Ussop tells his own exaggerated story. Franky is off in his workshop in his free time and Brook takes to caring for his instruments. Jinbe relaxes under the tangerine trees. Zoro takes a break from training to nap in the sun. Sanji even takes a moment to sit down and relax, a cook book in his lap as he enjoys the sun beaming down.

Yet the frustration was bubbling inside of you. You should be relaxing. Instead your fight or flight was activated for absolutely no reason. Anxiety welling up inside of you and squeezing at your throat.

You sit on the deck among the crew, but with the way your breath kept hitching, you knew that you had to get out. Standing abruptly, you head below deck to the aquarium bar in hopes that watching the various fish swim around would provide some form of solace.

However, staring into the glass only fills you with a sense of longing that you can’t even place. With an exaggerated groan, you throw your hands up, and the fish swimming before you scatter.

Huffing in exasperation, you decide to head to the kitchen. Maybe some tea will help. Or a snack. Or something to take your mind off of your mind.

You find the kitchen to be empty, much to your delight. As much as you enjoyed Sanji’s company at times, you didn’t need him doting on you right now. You just needed silence. Or something. You’re not even sure anymore.

But for now, tea.

You gather the kettle and fill it with water, spilling some onto the floor in the process. Your nerves begin to rise at this. Placing the kettle on the stove top, you click the flames to life, before settling the kitchen counter.

Eyes shut, you try to focus on the sound of the flames and the heating water. It’s not long before the stuttering hiss fills the air. You hop down from the counter to move the kettle from the flames and move to the cabinets to collect a cup.

As you grab a tea cup, your favorite one that Sanji always ensured fell in your hands, you feel it slipping from your grip. You gasp, attempting to save it, but it ultimately crashes to the ground into five separate pieces.

You freeze in place. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t even move to clean it up. You just stare.

“Darling, is everything okay-“ Sanji quickly cuts himself off as he takes in the scene before him. Your frozen state. The cup- your cup- shattered on the floor. “Okay.” He sighs decisively.

You don’t acknowledge his presence, but you feel yourself being swept away and gently placed on the counter. The frustration boils and you open your mouth to protest, but Sanji holds up a hand and gives you a stern look. He doesn’t speak and neither do you.

Instead, he silently sweeps up the shattered remains on the floor.

You stare ahead at the overhead cabinets. Your eyes follow the wood grain and fingers tap against your thigh. You don’t want to talk, but at the same time you want to scream.

Sanji moves in a familiar flow, before he steps into your line of sight, silent still. You glance down to see his offer of perfectly prepared tea in a new cup. A spark of frustration fires in you but the big blue eyes blinking at you expectantly snuffs it out. A simple nod his way, a thanks, you take the cup from him. Remaining silent, he leans back against the counter beside of you and sips his own cup of tea.

With his presence at your side, you feel as if a weight was lifted from your shoulders in a way you couldn’t explain. He wasn’t doting on you and flooding the room with compliments for once. Instead he offered precisely what you need before you even realize you need it. The tea, lavender with just a hint of honey, helps in calming your nerves but you know the brunt of it falls on the man silently sipping his drink at your side.

“Thank you.” Your voice is shaky.

“You don’t have to thank me.” His voice is calm. No pet names offered and no expectations. “You don’t even have to talk, if you don’t want to. I don’t mind sitting in silence with you.”

Your breath hitches at the sincerity in his voice. “Sanji.” You reach out to him, fingers catching the sleeve of his suit jacket. As you peer up at him with watery eyes, Sanji nearly breaks, slowly shuffling closer to you. “I need, uh, can-“ You’re a stuttering mess as you gently tug on his sleeve. He places his cup down, moving yours out of the way, before stepping between your legs to pull you into a tight embrace. You instantly melt into him and bury your face into the collar of his shirt.

Sanji doesn’t speak, squeezing you a little bit tighter when he mistakes the heat rising to your cheeks as something entirely caused by your current frustrations. One of his hands rubs your back while the other remains wrapped around you. It was strangely intimate as you cuddle closer in to him. His hands, something he protects and uses for only the most important things, hold you so close. A deep breath fans across his skin and makes him shiver. A lovesick smile is on his lips despite the situation at hand.

Yet, he can’t see your own smile hidden in his shirt.

Sanji holds you for as long as you need, squeezing you close to him, and you realize that this. This was your something that you needed.

[biggietofu]

Thank you for tagging me boo !! @french-baguette-126 ❤️❤️❤️

Last song: LOVER TOFU FRUIT by Tiffany Day

Favorite color: maybe like a dusty baby blue???

Last book: The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World by Laura Imai Messina

Last TV show: Rewatched Brooklyn 99 (the obsession still stands strong 😔

Sweet/savory/spicy: Sweet!!!

Last thing I googled: cherry almond perfume

Looking forward to: watching six next week/outsiders to go on tour in my city ✊️✊️

Current obsession: Outsiders the Musical (it's really really bad guys, I didn't have my phone w me so I replayed JFT in my head for 20 minutes straight today)

(guys I'm scared pls don't beat me up 😟) @curtis-brothers-hug @sondheim-girly @lucyandlucy @greaserdreams

people i'd like to know better <3

tagged by @assignmentimprobable - thank you friend!

edit: also tagged by @redbelles thank you meg!!!

Last Song: marigolds by gwen stefani

Favorite Color: blue!

Last Book: the grandest stage by tyler kepner

Last TV Show: JAG (judge advocate general)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: sweet

Last thing I googled: "NMOC aerosol"

Looking Forward To: may 1, when i will have some fucking clarity on [redacted].

Current Obsessions: jag all day all the time. i'm sure you all have seen the semi-regular tumblr breakdowns

Tagging: Going to tag the last few mutuals in my notifs! @ruztyryan @weisse-rose @sluttyhenley @captastra @pixlerelish @waxworkdaughter @vcollies @captainstressed and anyone else, just say I tagged you!

[mischievous-piltovan]

The Undying Oath (NSFW)

Chapter 5: In Dim Carcosa (SFW)

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader navigates troubled waters. The Herald is no longer Viktor, he’s merely wearing her late lover’s visage. Yet, she can’t leave him - the guilt of her past betrayal and her duty to the denizens of Zaun keep her bound to the Emberlift Alley Workshop. But not all is lost.

A/N: I had the outline for a way longer chapter, but the more I worked on top of it, the longer it became. So I decided to chop it off in two chapters. Bad news: this might be a harder read, a bit morose with no immediate pay-off. The good news: the next chapter is gonna come much quicker since I not only already have an outline, I also have it fairly written. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one. 

Warnings: Major Character Death. Loss of a loved one. He came back wrong. Angsty. War.

Word Count: 5.2K

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (In Progress)

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Somewhere far away, embedded deep into the veil of the Cosmos, the stars were cackling. At least, they must have been. Because whatever the celestials had planned for her was undoubtedly a joke. And a bad one at that.

After the fiasco that was their moment of intimacy, Viktor explained the origin of his lack of feelings. The procedure Dr. Raveck performed - a mixture of open-chest surgery and chemical infusion -, although resulting in his successful recovery, came with a side-effect: the complete removal of his capacity to feel.

“And what about all this metal?” She asked, motioning at his artificial limbs. “Was this the Doctor too?”

“No, these are my doing,” Viktor responded calmly. “I got rid of the hexcorized tissues in favor of parts I had control over.” 

Yet, the cosmic punchline was in the bittersweetness of it all.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was glad Viktor was alive. A part of her was thrilled to be by his side again, to be able to watch him use his intellectual prowess to aid those in need. Like he always dreamed of. After all those months beside him, watching him decay bit by bit every day. After mourning his loss for weeks, engulfed in guilt imagining his last days all alone. This opportunity to be with him again felt like a blessing.

But something wasn't right, he wasn't right. He miraculously came back from the dead. But he came back wrong. 

Viktor was not the man she loved anymore, just an echo of who he once was. An uncanny simulacrum, not completely different, but an ill-imitation of the original.

Like a song she knew by heart, but every now and then he changed the lyrics, sang off-key, outpaced the tempo. In every exchange, every act, no matter how mundane, something was always frustratingly wrong.

It was in the way he walked, still impaired and aided by a cane, but it lacked the grace of before, being replaced by an almost robotic stride. It was in the way he was built, still thin with long and lanky limbs, but he was now rigid, standing artificially straight. It was in the way he spoke, with his still low and accented voice, but with a new dull lint of his speech, tempered and softened, lacking the once alluring sharp edges 

And all of it seemed to mock her. 

In this new form, Viktor was both her persecutor and warden - his very presence tormented her, made her acutely aware of her love for his old self and the fact he was forever gone. But it also kept her in place, for she couldn't leave him. She had no right to.

Not when she had done it once already. Not when he needed her help again. She just had to endure, to bear the cross of her own mistakes in spite of her feelings. And so she did.

—--

Luckily, he kept his mask on throughout the day, blocking out the world from his remaining humanity, and unknowingly shielding her from excess torment, albeit a little. In his full herald garb, the girl could pretend he was someone else entirely, his accented voice was the only hint of his old self, and even that was attenuated by the modulation of the mask.

She started to use his metallic veneer as a tool to help her envision him as someone else entirely. While masked, he wasn't her once fianceé Viktor, but the transhumanist scientist known as the Herald. By clinging to the difference on these labels, she was able to keep some semblance of sanity.

The schedule around the Emberlift Alley Workshop was divided in three blocks. The mornings were  designated for new patients, people whose issues were yet to be assessed and properly diagnosed. It was also when Viktor took their measurements in order to build them their prosthesis. Around noon came those whose synthetic limbs were already built and just had to be attached, as well as those in need of maintenance. The evenings were devoted to building the prosthesis based on the measurements taken in the morning. She only needed to be present for the afternoon appointments, when her healing was necessary.

And she'd take every opportunity available to not be present in the same room as him. To avoid unnecessary feelings and ruminations from clouding her mind. To keep her focus on her work.

Instead of remaining idle, she started to organize the rest of the house bit by bit during her free time, trying to bring back some of the home aspect to the place. The busy work kept her from dwelling on the stalemate, preventing her from spiraling into dark thoughts. The people of Zaun needed her in topnotch condition, there wasn't room to come undone. Viktor didn't comment on it, but noticed the effort - the organized space brought him further clarity of mind.

One evening as she was sweeping the floor in the living-room, a familiar voice called her name from behind her. It belonged to Ralph.

“Long time no see, Ralph!” She greeted him, turning around. “Are you here for mainte- what's all that?”

Ralph grinned as he approached her, a small wooden crate in his arms filled to the brim with… Junk?

“It's material for the prostheses!”

“No offense, but,” her hand delicately plucked a corroded rusty screw from the crate, rolling it between her index finger and her thumb. “I don't think these can be used.”

Before Ralph could respond, an accented modular voice rang from behind them.

“They can,” its sound alone sent a shiver down her spine, inching her dangerously close to the precipice of her own mind. “Ralph brought these for me at my request.”

That day she learned just how Viktor was able to keep providing people with prosthetic limbs even under the shortage of resources the conflict between the two cities was causing.

Stricken by curiosity, she followed him as he took the crate down to the workshop below. He placed it on the desk next to the HexCore, its pulsating cold light casting ghastly flickering shadows over the stone walls of the basement. She watched as the Herald pressed various keys on the machinery the HexCore sat atop before the runic matrix reacted, spinning faster than before. Her breathing hitched when an energy beam erupted from the core, elevating the material from the crate and amalgamating its contents together - sorting it by material, no less. In the next moment, all the contents inside the crate were gone, and sheets of different types of material rested on the desk next to it.

An almost inaudible ‘amazing’ escaped from her lips. She swore the Herald chuckled before continuing.

“Those I've helped come bearing whatever form of scraps they find as a show of gratitude,” he explains. “Although the sentiment is unnecessary, the gesture allows me to help more people in the long run.”

Ralph is one of those who often visits with scraps, and in the days that follow is the one person tethering her to some semblance of lucidity. Whenever he comes, he makes sure to stay a while, a warm smile always on his face.

“Your situation is so unique, I'm not sure I have the words necessary to help you,” Ralph relented during one of his visits. They both sat across from each other at the recently uncluttered dinner table. “But I need to encourage you to cut yourself some slack.”

A chuckle escaped her lips.

“I cut myself some slack when I betrayed his trust, didnt I?,” she murmured with a long exhale. “I don't think I should be allowed to do so ever again.”

Ralph rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly in mock annoyance.

“You know what, you actually shouldn't. You are the worst person to ever step foot in Runeterra, and your sins could never be forgiven,” he conceded, looking away from her. “For instance, leaving your gilded life in Piltover to come to the Fissures just because you refused to build weapons to be used against us. What a crime.”

She arched an eyebrow in a knowing look. “Ralph…”

“Not to mention all the years in the Academy, fighting to bring positive change to the Undercity!” He turned back to her, crossing his arms. “And spending all her energy healing our sick after getting her shiny new arm? What a monster!”

His words held good intentions, but failed to truly reach her. Every moment interacted with Viktor was a dire reminder of her mistakes, a memento of her subsequent loss, and an omen of her guilt.

She woke up one day in the middle of the night in full alert. Sitting up on the bed and quickly scanning her surroundings proved there was nothing to worry about, it was just another rough night for a troubled mind. On instinct, her eyes landed on the bed on the other side of the room, and she was graced with Viktor's sleeping form.

It was a rare sight, one she subconsciously tried avoiding by opting to always go to bed before him. The Herald had a habit to stay up late tinkering away at the workshop downstairs, which gave her ample time to get ready for bed and be fast asleep before he was even in the room. The last thing she needed was being further damaged by the sight of him stripped down from his Herald form to something more akin to the man she once knew.

And that was the right call, because seeing him now with his face bare, lips slightly parted, and a peaceful look on his face was… Blissfully painful. 

And dangerously magnetic.

Her limbs moved on their own as she slowly rose from her bed, tiptoeing her way to his side, eyes locked on him, committing this Viktor to mind as much as possible. She sat on the floor next to his bed, resting her head over one arm atop the mattress. 

She watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The same sharp jaw, now framed by metal, the thin cracked lips, moles dotting the area above his upper lip, just under his eye, and the twins at the side of his neck.

This was not the Herald. This was Viktor. 

Her eyes landed on his hand closest to her and she dared to snake her marbled hand towards it, stopping right before touching it. One marbled pinky curled around his and something akin to elation blossomed inside her chest. 

Her eyes fluttered close. In the dark behind her eyelids, she could almost pretend they were back at their shared bedroom in Piltover. His scent and the ongoing soft sounds of his breathing lulled her into a false sense of security, and before she could do anything, sleep claimed her.

When next she woke, the clarity of the day lit up the room from the window. Lifting her head up from her arms, she winced as the stiffness of her neck made itself known. Massaging the region, her eyes searched for Viktor but found an unsurprisingly empty bed.

With a groan, she rose to her feet while mentally chastising herself for falling asleep on the floor. Not to mention having Viktor waking up to her sleeping creepily at his side like an obsessed lunatic. She dreaded what he'll have to say about it.

A glance at her own bed proved she wouldn't have to wait to find out. On top of the mattress rested a vial - filled with a clear liquid she recognized as the calming concoction Viktor offered upon their first meeting - and a note. She picked it up and read it ‘Drink it whenever you feel restless’.

Apart from that, he never mentioned that night again. And she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

—--

The day she dreaded came earlier than anticipated. After nudging a frame on the wall to the side and back, rotating it ever so slightly clockwise and counterclockwise for the ninth time, she exhaled in resignation - the frame was fine as it was the first time, she was merely stalling. Stalling from recognizing her work was done, the whole house had been thoroughly organized. 

Which meant her only excuse to be absent from the workshop outside of the afternoon hours was no more. 

She exhaled once more, trying to weigh her options. On one hand, she could keep on being present only when the prosthesis were being attached, she'd just have to find other things to do around the workshop in the meantime - sitting idly with her thoughts was an easy way to slip into spiraling. There was the option of going out and finding purpose somewhere else, maybe going back to the Firelights Hideout to be a part-time inhouse healer. But then again, there was a conflict happening out there, and exposing herself to being caught by enforcers or in the crossfire of a shooting just because she didn't want to spend more time with the Herald than necessary was… Stupid. On the other hand, being present during assessment could prove useful - getting to know the patients and their woes beforehand could give her more insights and perhaps make her work better. She could even heal them beforehand in case they had wounds still open, or even aid them with stuff completely unrelated to the prosthesis whatsoever.

She glanced at the wall clock and felt a chill run down her spine - it was still mid-morning. She could do this, couldn't she? They say consistent exposure to a trigger tends to dull its effects on a person. She already spends a lot of time in his presence daily, a little more couldn't make such a big difference. Let's not think about the different circumstances each part of the day schedule entailed, with the afternoon time being more busy work and her being able to ignore Viktor's presence entirely, while the morning period would consist of observing and learning on her part. Just. Don't. Think. About. It.

With a resolute exhale, before resolve could escape her, she patted the remainders of dust off of her clothes and made her way down to the basement.

Viktor was sitting at the HexCore desk, noting something down on a parchment paper. She fought the icicle in the pit of her stomach signaling her to run.

“Greetings, sit on the table. I'll be there in a moment” he spoke without facing her, the orange glow of his mask kept firmly at the paper before him.

“No, uhm… it's actually me” She greeted shyly. He turned to her upon hearing her response.

“Oh,” he interjected. “There's still a couple hours before the afternoon appointments start.”

“I know, it's just… “ She could feel her resolve faltering, but pressed on nonetheless. “I was thinking about being present during the morning assessments as well, to learn of your methods and perhaps lending a helping hand where I could.”

A pause befall the two and suddenly the air was thicker. Her eyes kept away from him, fixated in the glow of the rune matrix beside him. The icicle in the pit of her stomach evolved into a dagger and was risking becoming a sword each second that passed between them. 

She started deliberating being torn asunder from the inside or just bolting out of the door, not to set foot in the workshop again, when Viktor spoke. “I believe your contributions could be valuable. You may stay.”

Before she could respond, the creaking of the wooden stairs behind them announced the arrival of a patient. She turned around and was greeted with a familiar face.

“Hey, Miss Architect! Long time no see!” A middle-aged man with an athletic build and thinning gray hair stood leaning on a crutch, his left leg missing from the knee down.

“Yo-you're Wenn, right? The courier?” Memories of the countless times she visited the Undercity for data gathering flooded her mind, his face a constant presence. But once the words left her mouth, her eyes did a double take at his missing limb. “Oh… “

“Yeah, I know… “ Wenn jested coily. “But Mister Herald here is gonna make me all good, isn't he?”

“Correct,” Viktor agreed curtly. “Please sit on the table so I can get your measurements.”

Wenn did as commanded while Viktor prepared the tools. The girl stood by the HexCore desk, crossing her arms. “So, what happened to you?”

“Same as everyone else, Enforcers,” Wenn answered nonchalantly. “Was doing my rounds in a permitted area and was still met with a landmine. I was darn lucky it only got my leg.”

“Please, hold still.” Viktor’s robotic voice cut through. 

“I wish I could say a mine buried in a permitted area surprised me, but I'd be lying…“ she commented dryly. Enforcers brutality against Zaunites was already a well-known reality often overlooked by the Piltovan state, but ever since the conflict broke out, it felt like it had been cranked up to eleven. The Enforcers filled Zaun with barricades and checkpoints, stipulating permitted areas for passage. Unfortunately, it looked like they didn't keep the bombs solemnly in prohibited territory.

“Tell me about it… “ Wenn sighed. “This whole situation was bad enough before, my radius of operation had shrunk significantly because of it, losing my leg was the cherry on top of this shitcake.”

“We'll solve that part at least.” She assured him.

Viktor turned around and was about to rise from his chair when she stopped him. “I can note down his measurements for you.”

“That would be helpful, I appreciate it.” Viktor acknowledged it, turning back to Wenn after informing her the number. 

The girl diligently grabbed a pen on the desk and started writing down what Viktor was telling her when something grabbed her attention - the schematics she was scribbling on. Something was off, the schematics was for a standard prosthesis, something that he usually builds for the common folk. A courier like Wenn, who spends his whole day on foot, walking around the uneven stone pathways of Zaun needed something more sturdy, with more padding. Viktor certainly had something like that designed, didn't he?

“Is this the right schematic?” She prodded. 

“It's the leg one, correct?” He retorted.

“it is.”

“Then it is correct.”

Did Viktor really only have one-size-fits all for each single prosthesis? 

She shook her head slightly, brows knitted as the gears turned inside her head. She could see where Viktor was coming from, by working with standard models he could attend to a larger number of people in less time. Tailoring each design individually was simply not time-efficient, despite the boost in quality for each piece. Not to mention, to most people the standard design would suffice. 

But how about these edge cases such as Wenn's? If they give him the standard module, he'd be back in two weeks or less for maintenance, or replacement altogether. Sure, they'd be making his life better, but only slightly. Wouldn't this be considered inefficient?

Her eyes traveled back to Viktor, and something clicked. Viktor and Jayce were brilliant scientists whose sharp minds worked meticulously to solve complex problems. But she noticed early on in their partnership that they more often than not lacked the ability to perceive what the problems were in the first place. 

“We were analyzing some of your data and we came across the fact that the average commute time for those who come topside to work varies from two to three hours during rush,” Jayce began, running his index over the papers in front of him. It had been a couple of months since the partnership between the Undercity Development Section and the HexTech Research Division began, the Ventilation System project was already underway. The pair of scientists had pulled the architect aside as soon as she arrived at the lab that morning, seemingly eager to show her how serious they were. At least that's the vibe she was getting from Jayce. “And we were brainstorming some ideas for a faster and more robust Public Transportation System using HexTech.”

Jayce rolled out a parchment paper in front of them with a map of the Undercity. On top of it, he placed a translucent sheet of butter paper. Then, he grabbed a marker and started sketching on top of it. The girl leaned in closer.

“We noticed that the existing lift's engine is rather old, and demanded that the ascension was done as horizontally as possible,” Viktor chimed in as his partner sketched. Her eyes met his golden ones for a brief second before  returning to the paper before them in a fluster. She was still digesting why the leaner scientist had such an effect on her. “This resulted in a longer route between the Undercity Terminal and the Topside Terminal. And that in itself already largely adds to the commute time. So we moved the whole system to a location in which the distance between the terminals is the shortest, since building the new lift vertically is not a problem anymore.”

She studied Jayce's croquis on the translucent paper for a second, before calmly bringing her index finger to it and tapping on a location on the map. “This district right here has historically been formed by people who go to work Topside. It grew organically around the terminal,” she spoke calmly. “These are the people we'd be affecting by tackling this problem. If we move the system to the other side, even if technologically and logistically seems more efficient, we're failing to address the practical effect of such a change.”

She took a marker from Jayce and began scribbling on the paper as she spoke.

“Nowadays, the people start gathering at the Terminal around 4 am. They leave their houses and are promptly met with a line to get to the lift,” she wrote down ‘4 am’ and ‘house -> terminal’. “If we move the system here, all these people would have to find a way to go from their houses to the terminal, adding time and fatigue to the commute. Especially to those carrying wares, goods and tools with them. We'd need to address that.”

She finished writing down all points on the paper, before setting the pen aside. Then, she leaned back where she sat, meeting the scientist's gaze. “Your plan might be the most efficient time-wise, but it wouldn't be solving the problem. I'd suggest building the new system near that district, even if that means sacrificing some of its efficiency. The problem was not simply shortening travel time between Topside and the Undercity, but rather bringing more quality to the existing commute.”

She sighed at the memory, a little twinge of longing constricting her chest. She quickly shook it off, this wasn't the time for sentimentality. Her gaze lingered on the schematics a bit, before turning to the Herald with newfound resolution. If the goal was to aid the people of Zaun, then the magic in her marbled arm was not the only tool at her disposal. She needed to address his methods as an academic peer.

When Wenn left the Workshop, she pounced without hesitation.

“He's gonna be back here in need of maintenance in a couple of days,” she spat, looking down at the schematics.

The Herald stopped in his tracks. She felt the glow of his eyes on her, but didn’t turn to him. “How would you know that?”

“Didn't you hear? He's a courier,” she retorted. “The exertion of his line of work is bound to damage the structure of the prosthesis. Rather quickly even, I'd wager.”

The Herald didn't respond right away. Instead, he slowly made his way to her side. His focus on the schematics in front of her.

“In the assessments, are you taking into consideration the lives of who you help?”

“I don't pry much outside of the measurements,” he stated calmly, almost in a whisper. “I see what you are suggesting, but working with a template is far more efficient than tailoring each piece individually.”

“I don't disagree with that on a theoretical level, but do we have data on returning patients? Those with need for maintenance or replacement altogether?”

The Herald paused. “No.”

She finally turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “Then we don't know at what rate we're helping new people compared to returning ones,” she concluded. “Nor do we have data regarding what caused certain types of damage in returning patient's prosthesis, I presume?”

Another beat. “Correct.”

The silence lingered between them. She kept her eyes on him expectantly. With the mask, it was impossible to read him. 

“I was focused solemnly in helping the largest number of people in the most efficient way possible,” he stated finally. “I failed to acknowledge those points.”

Although spoken in a dull, flattened manner, his words spoke of regret. She could almost hear Viktor instead of the Herald. Her hand reached for the metal on his shoulder on instinct.

“You were doing what you thought best,” her words were soft. “Besides, it doesn't matter how big that brain of yours is. You're still a single person who tasked himself with this gargantuar endeavor of helping the people of Zaun. Something was bound to slip past you.”

He finally faced her and she thanked the gods for his mask. She'd unravel where she stood if she was to meet his face bare at this proximity. She quickly cleared her throat.

“I was thinking we could pinpoint the most prominent use cases and expand our line of templates,” she proposed. “That way we avoid having to tailor each prosthesis we make from scratch while also addressing the issue at hand. It's not perfect, but I believe it's a good improvement. I might not have the documents here, but I have some information of the average Zaunite jobs and occupation as well as geological differences from when I worked at the UDS.”

“Perhaps I've… forgotten the benefits of intellectual collaboration,” the Herald contemplated. “That is a truly elegant solution.”

“Glad I could help, I'll jot down the information I can recall and I'll get you the notes later,” she responded, taking a step back. “I'll go get some water before the afternoon patients start rolling in.”

In truth, she needed some breather from the whole interaction. The Herald was dangerously close to becoming Viktor and she couldn't allow herself to spiral. She was at the foot of the staircase when the Herald spoke again.

“I was hoping you would join me later tonight so we can design the new templates,” he proposed. “Work together, as we once did.”

She froze in place, her back turned to him. Her marbled arm pulsated with warmth with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The interval between them getting shorter as his words registered. She was already pushing her limits by taking the morning assessments with him, - doubling the amount of time she spent in his presence - and that alone was already taking its toll. Working with him at night would triple it. She couldn't possibly do it.

“Yeah, I think that's reasonable.”

Her words betrayed her. 

—--

If she was asked to describe at least one of the patients that passed through the workshop that afternoon, she wouldn't be able to do it. She went through the motions absentmindedly, completely engulfed inside her own mind, dreading the last third of the day. 

Why would she agree to his proposal? Was it another facet of the guilt she felt at his betrayal? Was it the sense of duty to the Zaunites in need? Was a product of the self-loathing she harbored throughout all the months she believed he was dead? Was it a combination of all of that?

Or better yet, was it a foolish hope of rekindling something between them through intellectually collaborating on a project, like it happened the first time? Even though he is not capable of feeling anymore?

Whatever the reason behind it was, her fate was sealed. 

Despite that, she still took all means necessary to stall her return to the basement. As soon as the last afternoon patient was gone, she excused herself to freshen up. After splashing water on her face more times than necessary, she made a quick detour to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Only then, holding a mug in each hand, did she finally make her way back down.

She found the Herald where she left him - sitting in front of his desk, bathed in the purplish glow of the HexCore. With a long exhale, she made her way towards him.

“Here, unbearably sweet,” she said, placing one of the coffee mugs in front of him. “Just the way you like it.’

The Herald turned to her and her heart sank when golden pupils swimming in dark scleras met her gaze. She had failed to notice his metal mask sitting next to the core on the desk. 

“Thank you, although I’d rather have it black,” Viktor spoke in his own accented voice. “Sugar adds nothing but empty calories.”

This was still the Herald. He was just wearing Viktor's skin. 

She stood rigidly beside him, putting as much distance from him as possible at the current setting. She kept her eyes low, opting to focus on the schematics in front of him instead of his face. But the space between them felt heavy, his very presence pulled her in and pushed her away simultaneously. It made the coffee she sipped go down like sandpaper. This was not going to work.

“You spoke earlier of information on the average jobs and occupations of the denizens of Zaun,” the Herald spoke without looking at her.

“Ah,” She gasped, snapping out of her thoughts. “That's right.” 

Her eyes quickly scanned the desk, spotting a blank piece of paper and dragging it to the space between them. Next, she grabbed a pen, uncapped it, and leaned the tip onto the paper. “Okay, so this is what I remember.”

She started narrating everything she could recollect, annotating it as she went. She scrambled her brain for information, and for each piece recalled, the neural path to the next one unfolded. In her head she could picture the Zaun of another time, when it still was simply known as Piltover's Undercity. The hum of the machinery and pipework vastly drowned out by the cacophony of everyday life. The thick air laced with the smells of the fishery, combined with the fumes of the factories and the sickly-sweet aroma of chemicals. The brief amounts of sunlight hitting the underground at noon when the sun was at its zenith, passing through like an eclipse. The neon artificial lights flooding the streets for the remainder of the day. 

Each new canvas her mind painted brought forth a description of how the citizens lived, how each human was a product of their environment. And how they molded it and were molded by it. 

It was chaos. Flawed. In dire need of quality for its resident’s life. But oh, so beautiful.

“I have forgotten how elucidative you could be when explaining your craft,” the Herald's voice brought her back to reality. The dim light of the Workshop felt more oppressive as her surroundings came back into focus. 

“I uh- Thank you,” she responded sheepishly. 

“I am serious. My mind is already brimming with a handful of design solutions from your explanation alone,” he continued. “Although I believe it is rather late and I’d like to let those ideas simmer down as I sleep.”

“Late?” She glanced at the wall clock and silently gasped. No less than three hours had passed since she began her lecture. Any semblance of the worries from before, gone. 

Maybe this could work after all.

-----

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (In Progress)

Also on AO3

[with-my-calamitous-love]

for all of my pretty / and all of my ugly too 𖤓

s. todoroki x reader

・❥・you pick him up after therapy. y/a! shouto, angst/comfort, mentions of (his) trauma, depression, medication, etc.

for everyone who has sat in the waiting room for someone else. we love you 🤍

✎ i don’t claim to be an expert on therapy sessions or anything of the sort- just someone who has been to a lot of therapy and intensive care and who wanted to write about it <3

song: pov

normally, he’s used to waiting.

he’s waiting to catch a glimpse of his siblings outside, watching from a window two floors above, knowing that watching is the best he’ll get. or waiting behind white sterile walls before entering his mothers hospital room, awaiting that flicker of hurt in her grey eyes when he steps in. he’s spent years of his life waiting for heroes that never come, because heroes start to take too long when your father was supposed to be one of them.

he’s never usually the one being waited on. always waiting for good news with a burning feeling in his gut, wondering if he is waiting on something that may never cone true. he’s never the one in the clinic, always in the waiting room, until now, that is.

he takes a deep breath as soon as the door shuts behind him. he makes a mental checklist in his head: refill his prescription. call his mother, and fuyumi and natsuo if he has the time. maybe call in sick the next day, if that pit in his chest still aches.

his entire appointment, he had been silently waiting for that crushing feeling of stepping out of the doctors office, feeling a strange yet potent mixture of relief and emptiness. this was good, it was improvement. but shouto was beginning to learn that healing emotionally doesn’t always feel good. a lot of things in his life seemed the same way.

the dull ache in his heart dissipates when he sees you stand up upon seeing him.

his face lights up like a kid, walking over to you and hugging you. he’s never been one for overly-affectionate greetings, but it seems he’s needed this more than you.

“hi.” you laugh, hugging him back. “nice to see you too.”

“really nice.” he affirms, placing a kiss on your head.

there was something so magical about shouto now, in his 20s. you had fallen in love with him in your teenage years, when he was still learning and still growing. now, he was stronger, more refined, calmer. the wisdom he carried was something bittersweet. it was something that made you fall in love with him, and something he had as a result of growing up faster than he should have.

still, age loved him enough to not change but simply refine his already handsome looks, like varnish to a painting.

“how was your appointment?”

theres a little pinch in his stomach when you ask that.

good, he wants to say. i’m doing so much better like i should be doing. i’m definitely not still struggling.

instead, he simply takes your car keys from you.

“aren’t i the one picking you up?” you ask, hand intertwining with his as you walk him out of the building.

“yes, but i’m here now.” he smiles. what a gentleman.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.*

shouto also drives like a gentleman, and it makes your heart throb.

he has one firm hand on the steering wheel, blue and grey eyes focused on the road. every now and then, he’ll look to you, humming along happily to the music. his other hand is placed over your thigh while you absentmindedly play with his slim fingers.

“you sure you can drive with one hand?” you smile, knowing its a rhetorical question, knowing that shouto would drive through snow storms with one eye covered to keep you safe and sound in the passenger seat.

“please.” he smiles, a hint of cockiness in his lips. “i got my license as soon as i turned 16.”

“shouto, most people get their license at 16.” you laugh a little at his obliviousness. though, it does occur to you that he might not have the greatest recollection of what a normal boy does and doesn’t at 16 years old.

he seems to realize that, too. so you shift the conversation away subtly: “wheres the first place you drove to on your own?”

its just mundane small talk, filling the silence of the car. but shouto does think, taking everything you say to heart. he knows the answer, he just hesitates before verbalizing it.

“my mom. she was still in the hospital at the time.” he says after a beat. “…she was really proud of me.” he adds, because he knows it’ll make you smile.

“you deserve that, you know.” you squeeze his hand. “to feel like people are proud of you. you’ve been through so much shit and its made you stronger. but that doesn’t mean you deserved what happened to you. you deserved to just… be a kid.”

because its true. because yes, it was the hell he endured that made him resilient and kind. its the lack of love he felt that made him love you tenfold. but that doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve better.

and shouto knows that, too. wondering if there was another world out there where he was simply the youngest todoroki, coming home after a long day of school. he’d get math help from fuyumi after dinner and play soccer with natsuo out in the yard. and when the nightmares would creep into his head, he’d crawl into bed with his oldest brother, who would pretend to act annoyed but then pull the blanket over the both of them.

he could dream about it.

“thank you.” shouto squeezes your hand back. he’s at that familiar loss for words you know in him all too well.

he feels guilty about the awkwardness of the moment. he’s still getting used to receiving, and to people in his life sticking around even through the hardest moments of his life. what he does know is that he loves you, even though he’s scared. and that slowly, you make him want to be grateful for himself.

“you see yourself and you see someone who you haven’t always liked, or haven’t always been proud of.” you start, catching a glimpse of the mist forming in his eyes at your words.

“but when i see you… i just see someone who deserves all these good things. someone i love. i just wish you could love yourself how i love you.”

he chokes up at that.

“me too, [y/n].” his voice is a shaky whisper.

somehow, you seem to know him better than he knows himself. its only you who can touch his soul from the outside, see him for all his pride and ego, for all his flaws and pains and aches and love him fiercely anyway. he isn’t sure how and he’s terrified of losing it.

“are you crying?”

“no, no, i’m not-“

“shouto-“

“okay yes, i’m sorry. i teared up.”

he’s laser focused on the road now, knowing he can’t look away, but knowing your eyes are on him.

“no, uhm. you almost ran a red light.” you clarify.

he blinks, looking up and realizing that he had almost broken a traffic law. so much for good driving.

“guess i did.” he speaks to break the silence, but doesn’t actually know what to add. the tears on his face seem more like an afterthought now.

a few more beats of quiet pass, before its interrupted by a slip of laughter from you.

he sighs in relief, hearing it.

“sorry, love.” he smiles sheepishly. “i got distracted.”

you tell him it’s okay, because you know that if anything were to happen to you, he’d never forgive himself.

he’s slowly thawing. parts of him still frozen but slowly falling for you more and more each day. he doesn’t want to keep you waiting, holding onto all his baggage and all his doubts. for all his life, he’s been hurt by those who were meant to nurture him. but now, he knows his eyes won’t deceive him.

[almostfoxglove]

oh wow, i am such a fan of these speculative fic ask games! for the made up fic titles... how about:

Helplessly Hoping (after That Song, sobs)

and/or

Break me, Golden Girl

hope you're having a great week ❤️

- that one long and rambling anon

HONEY HIII <3 I love these, omg. come on, helplessly hoping? YOU KNOW ME TOO WELL, I FEAR.

send me a made-up fic title game

I'm picturing... it's the summer of 2003 and joel miller is in love with you.

years ago, when sarah was just a little squirm, tommy dragged his sleep-deprived ass to a bar to get him laid and he met you. beautiful, whip-smart, and not scared off by his clumsy attempt to strike up conversation while you waited for the bartender to come around. by midnight, at a corner high-top table, you'd slid off your stool to stand between his knees and told him without an ounce of hesitation to kiss you.

so he did. when you told him to call a cab and come home with you he did that, too. babysitter was good till morning. tommy was occupied with some girl on the dance floor. and you felt so good under his hands, were softer than he knew how to handle, and seemed so sure about him. he'd never felt so wanted before.

but when the two of you stumbled into your apartment, already kissing, laughing into each other's mouths as you tripped over the hallway carpet, it was clear you'd both gotten way too drunk. you took him to bed, tugging the shirt off his back before peeling away your own, but he couldn't get it up. you couldn't stop giggling. and he would've been embarrassed when you pulled away if not for your humor. the smug little shrug you gave when he'd mumbled some pink-cheeked apology, kissing him long and slow a final time before dragging the duvet up until it covered everything but your heads. "s'fine with me," you'd grinned, lashes fluttering as your eyes dragged closed, already half-asleep. "still got the prettiest man at the bar into bed with me."

the morning was not nearly as rosy. the second his eyes cracked, a hangover smacked into him like a punch to the throat. when he tried to sit up, a wave of vertigo crushed him back into your mattress.

beside him, you grumbled at his jostling, hair a mess and mascara flaked under your eyes. feeling his bewildered stare, you cracked one eye at him and smiled.

"I've decided we're going to be very good friends," you said.

and that was that.

now, years later, you're a pillar in his life. sarah loves you. tommy loves you. and joel - like a heartsick, pitiful dope - loves you in a very different way.

not that he can tell you now, but he thinks he might have to soon. it's too big for his body - the feeling he gets whenever you're around - and he's starting to worry what might happen if he doesn't let it out. so when september comes he decides he'll tell you on his birthday, when you come over for cake, after sarah passes out on the couch like she always does on movie night.

then four days before his birthday, you come down with the flu. on the 26th you're still too sick to get out of bed, or so you claim when joel insists you come over anyway, that they'll look after you and he ain't scared of a stomach bug, but you won't listen. it's you who calls the shots about everything, so you stay home. he doesn't get to see you, doesn't get to confess that you're all he wants. that he's wanted you this whole time.

then outbreak hits. the whole world ends. and sarah, gasping in his arms, dies.

the only thing that keeps him moving, agonizing step by agonizing step, is the hope that you're out there somewhere in the violent wreck. that if he just keeps looking, just keeps pushing, he'll find you again.

[misshoneyimhome]

Oh! A thousand times happy birthday to the wonderful @laurenairay! 🥳

So, this is my little one-shot for your Birthday Bingo, and, unsurprisingly, I had to go with our favourite fridge for this—Freddie Big Red Andersen 🤭❤️‍🔥

I went with the exes-to-lovers, surprise, dancing, and birthday celebration tropes—because what’s a story without a little soft!Freddie, longing for the one who got away? (Cliché? Oh, absolutely 🙈💕)

I hope you enjoy the story! Wishing you the happiest of birthdays, my dear 🥰

Tropes & warnings: No warnings, exes-to-lovers, surprise, dancing, and birthday celebration, bestfriend!Auston

Word count: 2.4K

➼｡ﾟ

Summary: You and Frederik Andersen were once inseparable—until he got signed by the Carolina Hurricanes and left Toronto. The breakup was painful but necessary, or so you told yourself. You both stayed friendly from afar, never crossing paths too much.

Now, on your 30th birthday, Auston Matthews has thrown you a party, inviting all your closest friends. You don’t expect anything unusual—until you spot Frederik Andersen standing in the crowd, watching you with the same warm gaze you’ve spent years trying to forget.

_

Is It Over Now? I Frederik Andersen №

Toronto hummed with the easy warmth of summer; the city streets still familiar beneath your feet as you stepped out of the car. The evening sky stretched overhead, streaked with hues of orange and lavender, the last traces of daylight fading into the kind of night that promised memories waiting to be made.

Auston Matthews had planned the night down to the last detail. Of course, he had. He never did anything halfway, and your 30th birthday was no exception. You expected something lowkey—a simple dinner, a handful of close friends, maybe a toast or two. Instead, the moment you stepped inside the upscale private lounge Auston had rented for the occasion, you realised just how much you had underestimated him.

The place buzzed with energy, a perfect mix of NHL players, childhood friends, and familiar faces from your past. The sleek bar at the back gleamed under the warm lighting, bottles glinting like liquid gold. A DJ spun a carefully curated playlist, your favourite songs filtering through the space, setting the perfect atmosphere. Laughter and conversation swirled in the air, champagne glasses clinking in celebratory toasts.

You smiled, a little overwhelmed but mostly touched by the effort Auston had put into all of this. He knew you better than most, and he knew exactly how to make you feel special.

Then, your gaze drifted across the room.

And your breath caught.

You froze mid-step, the noise of the party dulling to a hum in the background.

Because standing near the bar, looking just as effortlessly composed as ever, was Frederik Andersen.

The air in the room shifted, though you doubted anyone else noticed.

-

It had been years since you last saw him in person. Since the day he had packed his bags for Carolina, leaving behind not just Toronto, but you.

The breakup had been mutual—or, at least, that’s what you told yourself on the nights when the bed felt too big and the absence of his warmth too cold. You had both avoided the screaming, the bitterness, the messy fights. There had been no slammed doors, no ultimatums, just a painful, whispered understanding: his career was taking him somewhere else, and you weren’t part of the transfer.

You had stood in the doorway of your shared condo, watching as he zipped up his last duffel bag, his shoulders tense.

“You could come with me,” he had said, hesitant, like he already knew the answer.

You had smiled, even though it hurt. “And leave everything I’ve built here?”

Neither of you had said it, but you both knew the truth: you had never wanted to be the person who followed him from city to city, uprooting your life for his. You had been proud of him—proud of how hard he worked, how much he deserved this new chapter—but you had dreams too. Dreams that didn’t include packing up and starting over in a new city every few years.

So, you had let him go.

-

And now, he was here.

Time hadn’t changed him much—if anything, it had only made him more devastatingly familiar. Broad shoulders, tall frame, that quiet confidence that had always made him stand out without trying. His red hair was slightly longer than you remembered, curling at the ends, and he wore a navy suit, perfectly tailored, his presence commanding without a word.

He looked good. Too good.

And worse? He looked happy to see you.

His eyes—those same brown eyes that had once felt like home—found yours instantly. His pink lips curled into a small, unreadable smile, something caught between recognition and nostalgia. Maybe something deeper.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Auston appeared beside you just then, blissfully unaware of the way your world had just tilted on its axis. Or maybe he was entirely aware and was enjoying it a little too much.

“Surprise!” Auston grinned, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Thought you’d want your favourite Dane here.”

Your stomach plummeted.

You barely processed the words. Frederik was here.

And you? You had no idea how to react.

Do you say hello? Play it cool, act as if seeing him again didn’t unravel something deep inside you? Do you turn away, avoid the conversation altogether, pretend this wasn’t affecting you the way it so clearly was?

Before you could decide, Frederik stepped closer.

His voice, smooth and familiar, edged with that faint Danish lilt you hadn’t realised you missed, reached you before you were ready for it.

“Hey.”

One word. That was all it took.

Your mouth went dry.

"Hey, yourself."

Freddie was here. He was standing in front of you, looking at you like the past hadn’t just been collecting dust between you for years.

Like maybe—just maybe—it had never really been over.

And suddenly, your carefully constructed world felt a little less steady.

The night moved around you, filled with the warmth of celebration, but no matter how much you tried to lose yourself in conversations, in laughter, in the rhythmic pulse of the music, you could feel him.

Frederik never lingered too far.

You told yourself you were imagining it at first—that it was just coincidence that every time you turned your head, he was in your periphery. That whenever you moved across the room, he was already there, just close enough to be felt but never too close to be confronted.

But it wasn’t coincidence.

It was intentional.

You’d feel his presence before you saw him—the subtle pull of gravity that still existed between you, even after all these years.

And the worst part? You played right into it.

At first, it was polite. The careful, safe small talk.

“How have you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Same. Busy.”

Then, the teasing comments, the ones that threatened to slip into something more familiar.

“Didn’t expect to see you drinking wine instead of beer.”

“Didn’t expect you to still be wearing the same cologne.”

And each time, a look that lingered too long.

A brush of fingers as he passed you a drink.

A low laugh from him when someone made a joke, his gaze flickering to yours, as if it was meant just for you.

You tried to act unaffected, to pretend this didn’t feel like stepping into a dangerous kind of nostalgia. But it was impossible when his presence settled into your bones like muscle memory. And then, at some point, the party blurred into background noise, and suddenly it was just you and him.

The night air was crisp when you stepped onto the balcony, the city stretching wide below you, the lights glittering like scattered stars. You took a breath, trying to clear your head, willing yourself to shake off whatever this was—the ghost of something unfinished pressing against your ribs.

But then, the door behind you clicked shut. You knew it was him before you even turned around.

Frederik leaned against the railing, his navy suit jacket slightly undone now, his tie loosened just enough to make your throat go dry.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music from inside was muffled, the sounds of the city filling the quiet between you. Then, finally, he broke it.

“Did you really think I’d miss this?”

Your heart stuttered. It was such a simple question, and yet, it knocked the air right out of you. You turned to face him, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t think it mattered.” The words were meant to be indifferent, casual. They weren’t.

Something flickered across his face, but he recovered quickly, tilting his head slightly. “It mattered.”

The way he said it—soft, certain, like there had never been a doubt in his mind—made your stomach twist.

Because if it mattered, if he had still cared, then what did that mean for everything that had been left unsaid between you?

You bit your lip, looking away. “It’s been years, Freddie.”

“And?” His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a quiet urgency, a hesitation, like he wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to say.

You exhaled, crossing your arms, feeling too raw, too exposed. “And you’re in Carolina.”

“So?”

You blinked. “So?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his fingers tapping idly against the railing. “You always did make things more complicated than they had to be.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “You think this is simple?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a step closer. And just like that, the space between you felt impossibly small.

The scent of his cologne, that same familiar blend of cedar and something uniquely him, curled around you, dragging you straight back to a thousand moments you had tried to forget.

“No,” he admitted finally, his voice softer now. “It’s never been simple with us.” The words settled between you, heavy and unspoken. Because maybe that was the truth.

Maybe it had never been simple. Maybe it had never really been over. And for the first time tonight, you wondered if you were ready to stop pretending otherwise.

The night had taken on a different rhythm, one that pulsed beneath your skin as you tried to navigate the celebration without acknowledging the man who had, once upon a time, unravelled you with nothing but a look. But avoidance was proving impossible when every step, every glance, pulled you back toward him like a gravitational force too strong to ignore.

Then came the inevitable.

Someone—Auston, Mitch, or another well-meaning instigator—decided the night wouldn’t be complete without a dance floor moment.

A slow song hummed through the speakers, the lights dimming just enough to create the illusion of intimacy amidst the crowd.

You took a half-step back, scanning for an escape, but before you could move, he was there. Frederik’s hand extended toward you, palm open, fingers steady.

“It’s just one dance,” he murmured, voice low, just for you.

You knew better. It was never just one dance with him.

Still, your fingers hovered over his for a beat too long. You could have walked away. Could have turned him down with some breezy excuse, let the moment pass.

But you didn’t.

The second your palm met his, the warmth of his skin against yours sent a shiver through you—something familiar, something dangerously close to home. He guided you to the centre of the floor, his other hand settling at your waist, and the rest of the party faded into the background.

Your movements fell into sync, muscle memory filling the spaces where words had failed you. His touch was gentle, but firm—like he was giving you an out but hoping you wouldn’t take it.

“I didn’t peg you for a dancer,” you said, the attempt at lightness feeling thin between you.

His lips quirked into something resembling a smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “You know I only dance for you.”

Your chest clenched. Because you did know.

Frederik had never been the type to make sweeping romantic gestures, but you remembered the nights he’d pulled you into slow dances in your kitchen, arms wrapped around you as he hummed some off-key melody against your hair. You remembered the way he had held you after long road trips, swaying with you in the dark, letting the quiet fill the spaces where exhaustion sat heavy between you.

Those moments had been yours.

And now, you were here, in the middle of a crowded room, moving to the same unspoken rhythm that had once bound you together.

And just then... came the confession.

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

Your breath caught. You stiffened slightly in his hold, but he didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened—his fingers pressing just a little firmer into your waist, like he was grounding himself.

“I asked you to come with me,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “And you said no. But I never knew how to fight for you.”

Your stomach twisted. You remembered that night—how he had asked, once, how you had hesitated just a moment too long before saying you couldn’t. And then, instead of fighting for it, he had nodded. Accepted it. Let you go.

The words struck like a direct hit, stealing the air from your lungs. Because that had been it, hadn’t it? The thing that had broken you apart. You had been waiting for him to ask again. And he hadn’t known how.

So, instead, you had both let the silence make the choice for you.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You never asked again.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of regret shifting in the brown depths. “I know.”

The song swelled around you, but you barely heard it, the world narrowing to the space between you and him.

He exhaled, his forehead almost brushing against yours, the feeling of him—curling around you, pulling you back into a past you weren’t sure you had ever left.

“I should have,” he admitted softly.

Your heart twisted painfully. Because if he had? If he had asked again? Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe you wouldn’t be here now, teetering on the edge of something that felt too much like déjà vu.

The song slowed. And instead of letting go, he held on. His fingers curled against your waist. His breath was warm against your temple. And suddenly, you weren’t sure how to breathe.

Because this wasn’t just a dance. It never had been. And you had no idea how to pretend otherwise anymore.

Later that night, when most of the guests were gone, he found you again.

You had slipped outside again for air, the remnants of the party still alive in the background, but quieter now. The city stretched before you, glittering with possibility, but your thoughts were tangled with the past.

Then, his voice cut through the silence.

“I don’t want to be just your past,” Frederik said, stepping closer, his hands in his pockets, tension written in the set of his shoulders. “Not when I still want a future.”

You turned slowly, your heart beating a little too fast, a little too hard.

You hesitated. What if history repeated itself? What if you opened the door, only to watch him walk away again?

But then, he stepped forward, closing the space between you, his expression raw, open in a way you had rarely seen before. “No more what-ifs,” he promised. “I’ll fight for this if you will.”

And just like that, the choice wasn’t shrouded in silence anymore.

"I want to fight too."

For the first time in years, there was hope.

[not-the-axolotl]

Can we talk about how Billie and Fantoccio are insanely sibling-coded? Like look at this.

Also Fantoccio's song (i've had enough of you) is all stuff someone would tell their younger sibling, especialy if there's a significant age gap.

I think this ties in with the theory that Fantoccio was created by Arthur.

One part right at the start of the song stands out to me though.

"You! You've been nothing but a thorn in my side. From day one."

"From day one."

Isn't this the first time they meet? Perhaps not. We know that Fantoccio has been abandoned for 15 years, and that Billie is 15 years old. If Arthur did create Fantoccio, and then disapeared around Billie's birth, there's a small chance that he, perhaps subconsiously, blames Billie for what happened. He might believe that if Billie didn't exist, Arthur would still be there.

[anonymouspyt]

The Studio Session 💌

Word Count: 4.9k

Warning(s): none

May 18th, 1987. Los Angeles, CA.

"All my Children will be back in a moment." the smooth tone of the voiceover boomed from the sound waves of the 1981 19-inch Hitachi-CT color tv. The commercials swiftly interrupted, flooding the screen with bright, attention grabbing advertisements.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your legs were crossed and the base of your foot tapped lightly against the edge of the coffee table in your cousin's apartment. You were sitting on the couch, reading a magazine. You could hear your cousin laughing and your eyebrow lifted as you lifted your head up from the magazine. The current commercial faded into mere background noise as you focused in on your cousin, who was talking on the phone.

You'd just arrived in town last night, visiting from Georgia. Your cousin had always told you that anytime you wanted to come to L.A., you were more than welcome to stay with her, so you decided to take her up on that offer.

"Alright, I'll see you soon. Bye Michael." Your cousin, Siedah said with a light giggle and hung up the phone. She looks over at you with a grin.

You look over with anticipating eyes. "Soooo.." You grin at her before continuing, teasingly. "Was that Michael, Michael?"

Your cousin chuckles before answering you. "Yes Y/N, that was Michael Jackson on the phone. He wanted to touch base with me and make sure we were still on for our studio session today."

Suddenly, your interest piqued when you questioned her again, "Oh yeah.. it's that new song you're working on with him, for his upcoming album right?"

Now having your undivided attention, you recalled the moment she told you about the collaboration over the phone last week. It was just the other day when she was heading into session with Michael and Quincy Jones. Michael was still looking for someone to appear on the track, I Just Can't Stop Loving You, and what Siedah didn't know at the time was that both Michael and Quincy had decided to let her to be featured on it. They let her know once she got settled in the studio. She was so surprised when they gave her the news, you couldn't have been any prouder.

"Yup, the very one!" she replied, standing up and walking over to the coat rack to grab her black leather jacket. Siedah looked at you as she slid her arms in the jacket before she added, "We're meeting in West Hollywood within the hour. I gotta get going before traffic hits."

"How long does a studio session normally take?" You ask her curiously with a hint of nervousness.

Siedah shrugged as she adjusted her jacket on her body. "You never know how long a session is going to take. Hell, I never know. It could be a hour.. It could be 3 to 5 hours. Maybe even overnight.."

Still holding the magazine in your hands, you dropped it in your lap, reacting instinctively, and looked at her. "Overnight?!" You paused, taking in her neutral reaction. "What the hell am I supposed to do until you come back?" You said, frustration creeping in your voice. You weren't exactly thrilled to be cooped up in your cousin's apartment all by yourself in an unfamiliar city.

"I don't know cuzzo.. but hey, there's plenty to do out here to pass the time." Siedah said casually, trying to make light of the situation. She takes a step forward to look in the mirror and  fix the collar on her yellow blouse. "You can catch a cab and go see a movie at the TCL Chinese Theater, head down to the Pier in Santa Monica, or you could even go to Disneyland. There's so much to choose from!" she added.

You sat there and listened to your cousin throw out these suggestions. They weren't necessarily bad options but they weren't great options either. You thought it over briefly until another thought comes to mind. The wheels in your mind began to turn and, a mischievous grin slowly curled at the corners of your lips as you looked at her.

Siedah assessed your current disposition and looked at you crazily before questioning you. "What?"

"Let me come with you."

She furrowed her eyebrows at you and asked a follow up question. "Come where?"

You give her a duh look, your tone matching it's expression. "To the studio." To make it clearer for her, you added. "Let me come to the studio with you." Your cousin looked at you with an unconvinced grin for a couple moments.

It's as if she considered it for a moment, but then she hesitates before saying, "I don't know Y/N.."

"Oh come on, it's not everyday that your super talented cousin gets to work with THE Michael Jackson!" You try to say in a more convincing tone.

"I don't know Y/N.. Michael normally likes to keep his studio sessions private." Siedah said while grabbing her purse from the coat rack.

You got up from the couch and walked over to her, shaking her shoulders. "Come on Sid, pleaseee! It would be so much fun!" You pleaded. She looked at you, still unconvinced that she should bring you along. "I won't say a word, I promise. If he doesn't want me in the studio with you guys, I'll sit outside in the lobby.." You lifted your hands in surrender, shrugging your shoulders. "The least he can say is no, right?" You added on as a last ditch effort.

Your cousin looked at you for a few seconds more and breaks the look with a grin. She groaned playfully, "Alright, let's go.." You squealed and hugged her tightly. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" "Yeah yeah, hurry up Y/N! We gotta go!"

You let go of her, looking at her excitedly. "Let me go put on my boots and I'll be ready. Give me two seconds!" You dashed off to the spare guest room she'd allowed you to use while you're in town. Kicking off your house slippers by the door, you open the closet door and grab your black leather stiletto ankle boots. You could hear your cousin fussing at you while slipping one of them on from the other room, "Y/N, Let's go!" Her footsteps echoed towards the front door, and you could hear the jingling of her car keys as she pulled them out of her purse.

"Okay, okay! Keep your pants on!" You sassed as you reached for your black Chanel handbag with the double flap and gold-tone hardware.

"Yo ass is about to get left!" Siedah retorted while unlocking and opening the door.

"Alright, I'm coming! Damn!" You hop out the room with one heel on and the other in your hand. Using your free hand, you throw your purse strap over your shoulder and slip the other heel on your foot.

You walk over near Siedah to look in the mirror at your outfit, adjusting the gold chain embellishments on the sleeve of your blazer so it will hang properly. You can feel Siedah's eyes burning the side of your face. Turning to face her, you teased, "Whatcha waitin' on? Let's go." you chuckled on the way out. Your cousin just rolled her eyes as you passed her by, leaving her to follow in behind you and close the door on the way out, locking it behind her.

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.

The tires on Siedah's car come to a halt as she pulled into a parking spot next to a meter along the sidewalk. She turned the car off and reached in her coin purse to gather up some quarters. Once she had them, she looked over at you and placed the coins in your hand. "We're here." she said before getting out the car.

Holding the quarters tightly in your hand, you got out the car and took a good look at the building. "This is it?" You questioned your cousin, closing the car door and stepping onto the sidewalk to insert the quarters in the parking meter. It wasn't anything how you'd imagined it to look.

With a beige stucco finish, the studio has an industrial appeal to it. The studio has brown metal slatted louvers covering the long windows and the address number "8447" was cemented in brass above the doorway, simple but distinctive.

"Yup! This is it— Westlake Studios." Siedah replied, walking around the car from behind to step up onto the sidewalk. She continued walking until she reached the dark double doors and pressed the red button on the intercom next to it. "Mike Jack, it's Siedah. Let me in!" she said in a joking manner, taking her finger off the button. Your heart started pounding as you walked over to meet Siedah by the door. The magnitude of the situation trickled into your nerves like a thief in the night: You're about to meet Michael Jackson.

Shit.

The sound of the buzzer caused you to jump back a little. As soon as the door clicked, Siedah took the opportunity to open it, ushering you inside.

When you walked in, there were a plethora of different records plastered on the gold wall. From Luther to Chaka, so many legendary artists have their plaques displayed, almost like it was an official badge of honor. It was inspiring to see the records so up close in real time— so surreal.

"Siedah, you made it!" A smooth, velvety voice suddenly filled the room.

You turned over your shoulder and you see Michael Jackson, walking over to us. His broad shoulders are on full display with his black patched embroidered varsity jacket. Your lips parted ever so slightly as you saw him approaching, as if your body is already falling apart at the seams because of his presence.

Siedah hugs him as soon as he makes it over to her. "It's good to see you!" she hugged him warmly. A light chuckle escaped his lips when reciprocating the hug, giving her a light two pats on the back. "It's good to see you too." You observed their hug and couldn't help but think, he looks like he gives the best hugs.

Michael lets go of the hug and looks directly at you. "Who's this?"

When your eyes met his, you could've sworn your heart stopped beating for a few seconds. You've seen plenty of men with dark brown eyes in your lifetime but none of them compare to his. Hypnotic in their wake, the look in his eyes feel like a quiet invitation to draw you closer to him, an invitation you actually don't mind accepting..

Your cousin quickly remembered you were there and replied, "Oh, where are my manners? Michael, this is my cousin, Y/N L/N. Y/N, this is Michael."

He grins slightly and holds his hand out, "Hello.."

You place your hand in his large one, returning the smile. "Hi.."

Michael shook your hand gently. "It's very nice to meet you, Y/N." he said politely.

"Likewise.." You grin a bit wider when he says your name. It rolled off his tongue a little too good. If there was anyone else observing you, they'd might call you starstruck, but you couldn't help but stare at him. You thought to yourself, 'Let me let go of this man's hand before I get caught up...'

You cleared your throat slightly as you pulled your hand away, placing it by your sides. Siedah spoke up, "She's visiting me for the month and she was wondering—"

"She was wondering if I could sit in on your studio session today?" you cut your cousin off so you could ask Michael yourself. You spoke with confidence as you looked at him.

Michael just stared at you. It's almost if he was trying to size you up. Your gaze never faltered as he continued his assessment, studying you from the top of your curls down to the points of your boots.

He chuckled, clearly surprised by your sudden attitude, though it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. "Okay, I don't see why not."

Siedah looked at him in shock, "Forreal?" This was surprising for her because Michael hardly ever invites people in the sessions with him. If you aren't working on his project specifically, you could not come in. And yet, here he was inviting you. He shrugged casually. "Yeah, it will be great to hear feedback from someone who's outside of the team." He flashed that charming Jackson smile to seal the deal.

"I won't mind giving it either.." you stated, referring to the feedback, of course.

Michael nodded, his smile unwavering as he turned his attention back to you. "Good."

You returned the smile as you continued looking at him. Siedah cut through the obvious tension in the air, saying, "Perfect! Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Michael looked at Siedah, grinned, and bowed sheepishly. "Yeah, of course!" he laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Follow me." he added, turning around. He veered towards the right, guiding us down the hallway. Your attention was now fixated on the occupied studios as you passed them by, more platinum plaques lining the walls with every step. It gave you goosebumps to know that you were walking down the hall where so many hit records had been made.

When we made it down to the end of the hall, you and Siedah stood on either side of Michael as he opened the door. You were met with a lacquered coated brown sign mounted on the olive green door with 'STUDIO D PRIVATE.' in gold brass lettering.

The minute he opened the door, your jaw dropped in awe. It was revealed that this particular studio spanned three stories. Though private, the atmosphere was incredibly welcoming. You took the opportunity to look around when you walked in. His own platinum plaques adorned the walls and his movie poster for Captain EO was pinned on the column right next to the studio entry way. To your right, a bathroom was tucked in the corner. If you didn't know any better, you might have mistaken this as an apartment rather than a studio.

"Watch your step, please." Michael warned quietly as he took a step up to lead you and Siedah in the control room. Upon entering, Quincy Jones was sitting infront of the sound board, chewing an apple. Bruce Swedien was sitting to his right, adjusting the knobs on the sound board.

Siedah walked over to both of them, giving them a hug. "Hey guys." Quincy patted her hand as she draped an arm around him and the other around Bruce.

"Hey Sid, you ready to rock today?" Quincy asked your cousin, tossing his apple hull in the trash. Michael stood near the doorframe next to you with his arms behind his back.

"You know it!" Siedah let go of them both and walked over to put her bag down in the single seat sofa in the corner. She took off her black leather jacket and yellow blouse, revealing a black midriff underneath. After tossing them next to her bag, she sifted through it to grab her water bottle, taking a couple sips to get her voice warmed up. Siedah decided to stay in the corner, clipping her locs with a duck pin out of her face as she continued to warm up.

Bruce turned over to see you standing next to Michael, causing him and Quincy to exchange looks before looking back over there. "Oh? Well who do we have here?" Bruce questioned, narrowing his eyes at Michael. Michael's cheeks grew hot and takes a couple steps over to the side, creating a bit of distance between you two.

Siedah walks back over to you and hugs your waist, "This is my cousin, Y/N. Y/N? This is Quincy Jones and Bruce Swedien, two of the most legendary record producers in the business!"

You wave at them both, "Hey, it's good to meet you both. I love your work. Both of you, I'm a huge fan!" You marvel at them as you walk over to shake their hands.

"Ah, thank you sweetheart." Quincy grins and looks over at Michael before looking back at you.

Bruce pats your hand and chuckles before answering, "Thank you, you're too kind. So Y/N, can you sing?"

"I can.. uh, I can carry a tune!" You grin bashfully. "But I'm only here to watch the session, if that's okay with you guys."

Quincy smirks a bit looking over at Michael. "If it's okay with Michael then it's okay with us! Are you okay with it, Smelly?" he said teasingly. The nickname caused you to look over at Michael with raised eyebrows and an amused grin.

Michael took note of your reaction to his nickname and smiled embarrassingly, shifting his gaze between you and Quincy, "Oh yeah.. I'm okay with it. Make yourself at home, Y/N."

You grin at him, walking down the two step staircase next the sound board to make your way to the white plush sofa that was sandwiched between the board and the window looking into the live room. You set your purse down as you looked over at him, "Thanks, I think I will." Though you said it politely, there was a subtle hint of flirtation beneath the appreciative comment.

As if the message was received, he sends a small grin your way. He now turns to Siedah who was coming his way. "Okay, let's get this party started!" she cheered.

Michael grins at her and says, "Alright, whenever you're ready Miss Siedah.." He gestures her to follow him in the live room and she does. He then walked over to the light switch to dim the room a bit, leaving a single spotlight over the two music stands placed in the center of the room and the tube condensers mics suspending from it's boom arm. He comes back over to Siedah, placed his hand on the small of her back as he lead her to her designated spot. They grin at each other and he pinched her elbow before making his way over to his spot.

Quincy pressed the mic button on the soundboard to cue them in, "Let's take it from the second verse." In the background, you could hear the audio from the tape machine distorting as it sped up.

"For this take, I really want you two to dig deep. I want to be able to feel the intensity of these lyrics— take me and listeners on the journey with you. Let's make it romantic, yeah?"

Both Michael and Siedah shuffled through their sheet music to pick up where they left off from the first session. Michael slipped his Ray-Bans wayfarers out of his pocket and put them on. Once adjusted, he glanced through the glass of the control room and gave a thumbs-up. Quincy acknowledged the gesture with a nod.

"Alright.. we're rolling..."

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

The metronome struck in with a vengeance as the beautiful melody blared out, filling the room of its romantic energy.

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ.

Exactly two hours have passed and you were starting to get the impression that little moment you and Michael shared before he started to record with Siedah was nothing more than just common courtesy.

It appears what you misinterpreted as attraction between you and Michael, that interpretation should have been more directed towards him and Siedah.

The subtle glances at each other, the laughing in between takes, Michael's boyish grin when your cousin would speak to him and not to mention, he'd throw cashews at her forehead during the recording— it was a lot to sit through. It felt like you were intruding ontheir private time together even though there was a barrier of glass separating the three of you.

Michael would periodically glance through the glass in the control room as Quincy gave them feedback between takes throughout the session. His sunglasses added an extra layer of being guarded and reserved when receiving direction.

You couldn't help but sigh to yourself as you looked at him. His never shifting focus is to be expected but it almost felt as if you weren't even there at all— completely disregarded.

Soon enough, the session was over. Siedah and Michael were still in the live room but had stepped away from the music stands as they were off to the side talking about something. Michael had his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket while focusing on her talking. She must've said something funny because you could see them both laughing from afar.

You watched them laugh and even though you felt a pang in your chest, your stoic expression remained intact. Your poker face was impeccable.

After a few more minutes, they came out of the live room to come into the control room. Siedah came over to you directly and Michael went over to Bruce and Quincy to go over a few things.

You looked at your cousin as soon as she came over by the arm of the sofa. "Sooo how was it sitting in on your first professional session?" She asked you curiously.

"It was cool. I really enjoyed it." You nodded at your cousin with a feigned smile before continuing. "The song is truly beautiful. You guys sound good together." You said that genuinely because even though you were a bit salty, you were not going to deny the obvious.

"Thanks cuz, it was really fun! Mike's pretty cool to be around.." Siedah beamed.

"Seems that way." You looked at your cousin. She grinned at you before walking up the staircase to grab her things. Returning to the couch, she placed the items in the empty space next to you. You watched her as she slipped her yellow blouse back over her black midriff and adjusted her locs in the process.

You hesitated to address the elephant in the room. It weighed on you, unsure if asking the question would change things between you and Siedah. You noticed Michael walking Quincy and Bruce out of the control room. It wasn't until you heard the door of the studio open and close that you saw an opportunity. "Can I ask you something?" you blurted out.

"Of course. Anything." Siedah reassured as she stood infront of you.

"Are you and Michael like...." you began, trailing off. "..together or something?"

Siedah busted out laughing, a little louder than she anticipated. "Girl, hell no!"

You looked at her like she had truly lost it. "You could've fooled me."

"Girl no, we're just friends. I know what it could've looked like but I promise you, it's nothing more than that."

"I don't know Sid, it really looked like you two had something going on." you said almost reluctantly.

"Y/N, we don't okay? Michael is just.. like that. I can't really explain it but when he's comfortable around people, he tends to get a little... overly friendly. He means nothing by it, I swear." Siedah explained as you continued to look at her.

You looked at her, confused. What does she mean by 'He means nothing by it.' You paused before asking, "Siedah, why are you telling me this?"

Siedah froze, looking like a deer in headlights and walked over to peep out the control room to make sure the coast was still clear. After a moment, she returned to you and grinned, "Michael likes you, Y/N."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. "Wait what?"

"Yeah. He kept asking me about you throughout the entire session. You didn't notice that man staring at you the entire time?" Your cousin asked bluntly.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. When Michael was looking through the glass window periodically, he wasn't looking at Quincy or Bruce. He was really looking at you.

"He was not." You said, looking at her in total disbelief.

"Yeah. He was. I kept trying to get him go in there where you were so he could ask you out, but he kept chickening out. I'd tease him about being a scaredy cat, and he'd just laugh it off. He may not seem like it, but he can be really shy at times."

You were truly caught off guard by this admission, hanging onto every word your cousin said as you sat on the couch. Siedah looked at you with a knowing smirk on her face.

"What?" you spat, shooting her a side-eye.

"I know why you wanted to know, Y/N." Siedah taunted you, folding her arms as she stares.

You roll your eyes at her, "You do not." you grin, amusement in your tone. Of course, she does. She's your cousin she knows you inside and out.

"I saw that look you in your eye when you meet him. You not foolin' nobody!" Siedah grinned. "You know you think that man is finee."

"Okay, whatever." You wave her off, despite her being correct.

"Uh huh, y'all would be cute together, cousinnn. I'm rooting for you." Siedah joked, throwing a playful wink your way. You couldn't help but laugh. After laughing with you, she continued, "Anyway, you ready to go?"

"Yeah, let me go to the restroom first then I'll be ready." You responded as you got up, watching her throw her purse over her shoulder.

"Mkay, imma head out. See you at the car?" Siedah questioned on her way out of the control room.

"Yeah, I'll be right on out." you responded as you walked out the control room with her.

The two of you parted ways. Siedah went straight for door to exit the studio while you continued on to use the bathroom conveniently placed next to the control room. Once inside, you sat there, processing everything you'd just heard. Michael Jackson is interested in YOU. It was something you honestly couldn't believe, but the longer you sat in there, the more you realized it might not be as far-fetched as it initially seemed.

After washing and drying your hands, you stepped out the bathroom and headed back to the control room to retrieve your purse. Just as you reached it, the studio door opened again.

You were in the middle of putting your purse strap around your shoulder when Michael walked back into the control room. The two of you silently stared at each other for a moment, the door closing breaking the silence.

"Oh h-hey.. I thought you left.." Michael spoke up, looking at you.

"I was about to. I came back in here to get my purse." you responded, resuming your motions as you adjusted the strap around your shoulder. He quietly nods in response. The room fell silent once again but the energy was different this time.

He put his hands in his pant pockets and leaned against the end corner of one of the pillars by the sound board. Behind those Ray-Bans, he was absolutely checking you out, he couldn't help himself.

Michael watched you walk away from the couch, heading towards him. He knew that you were about to leave. His mind was screaming at him to say something, to do anything, just to keep you in there with him— even if it was just for a few more minutes.

"So.. what did you think of the song?" Michael asked, breaking the silence once again. He had been waiting to hear your opinion all day.

You took the step up to be right at hip level next to the sound board, not too far from him now. "I liked it a lot, the song is really beautiful." you responded honestly.

Michael slinked off the pillar, he spoke smoothly, "And what if I think you're really beautiful?" he stepped forward closing the gap in between you, looking down at you. "What then?"

You felt your breath hitch at the sudden change in his demeanor. You were not expecting him to be so forward.

"I... I'd say you have great taste.." you responded while looking at him.

He chuckles a bit before licking his lips. "Well, I guess we both have great taste then.." he flirted with ease, tilted his head a bit while looking at you.

"I guess so." you grinned. "Where was all of this energy earlier?"

Michael returns your grin, "I guess I was just waitin' on the right moment." He takes off his glasses for you to see his beautiful dark brown eyes. "The moment feels right, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm starting to think you might be right. So what's next, hm?" you ask him, a playful smirk etched on your lips.

"Well, that depends on you. What do you think should happen now?" Michael said with a charming smirk.

You stepped up to him, leaning forward to adjust the collar of his shirt, which was tucked into his varsity jacket. "Well, I think maybe you should do like my cousin said and ask me out." you retorted, maintained eye contact with him as you watched his cheeks turn red. He hadn't expected you to find out about that.

Michael grins wider before nodding impressively, "Okay.." He bites his lip while looking at you before continuing, "Let's make it official, how's Saturday night?"

"Saturday night it is." you grinned, smoothing your hands across his varsity jacket before stepping back, letting your hands fall.

Before you got too far from him, Michael caught a hold of your hand gently. "I'll be waiting, Miss Y/N.." he whispered as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there.

You blushed as you watched him lower your hand. Slipping it out of his grasp, you clutched the strap of your purse and said softly, "Bye.."

Michael flashed his charming Jackson grin in your direction once more. "Bye." He watched you leave, his gaze lingering until you were out of sight.

[dontcallpanic]

How nice is this that there are SO MANY more people to thank for changing my life than just 3. I've never been great at following rules so have like 10 or 11 people I'd like to thank from the bottom of my heart.

@gege-wondering-around - you were The very first person to be nice to me here and right at the beginning you sent me in the direction of some really incredible people. You are a ray of sunshine and I love your creative mind. You are absolutely the little sister I never had!

@oldefashioned - you are the kindest person in the world. Literally. I love how inclusive you are and early on you just sort of swept me along. I think you were the first person to include me in a tag games and got the interaction ball rolling. Anyway I owe you a huge amount. Thank you!

@greyhavenisback - I mean... Where do I start! From ghosts to cheerleading ily! You make my days infinitely brighter and I've had SO much fun avoiding smalltalk. Also you are THE MOST incredible writer and your mind is absolutely amazing. You are a total inspiration. Thank you for asking me to tell you a ghost story. Lineman wouldn't even be a thing without you and my cat is definitely a lot happier too!

@fuji09 - you were one of the very first people to be nice to me and interact with me! It was the first time I thought oh maybe I can stick around here! I love your teen wolf analysis, it's always so thoughtful and thought provoking. And the way you debate is so respectful and considered - and the way you stand up for yourself is absolute perfection. The world would be a better place if more people were like you.

@patolemus - I love your brain. So MUCH. Thanks for replying to my comments on your fic and setting off a year long sterek Meta/psychoanalysis (I think I still owe you a Derek and anger as an anchor reply now o think about it!) but also thanks for always being an absolute gem and always making me laugh! Your stories are some of my all time favorites and I will cheerlead you forever!

@cantchangemypast - you are a truly beautiful soul! You are so kind and sweet and you deserve the absolute world. Your resilience is completely inspiring and thanks for talking baking, bread and Wales and cultural traditions and sharing recipes. It always brightens my day to hear from you!

@hellameyers - oh my god you are the coolest, most badass person! I love your analysis, your taste in music and your stories! You are so fierce and so unbelievably kind and yeah just deeply, deeply cool!

@lil0ak - From ice sport to folklore and monster fuckery, I really really enjoy our chats and the Dorset Ooser will forever be on my mind now! Plus you are the most fantastic writer and tell it to my heart is just everything I get excited about rolled into one brilliant story!

@novemberhush - music moot!! You have the coolest taste in music AND I now go around singing country songs because of you! Thanks for including me in the fun stuff, I really appreciate it.

@all-or-nothing-baby - the nicest person with the absolute coolest artwork AND stories. Multi-talented and your monologues are phenomenal. Yours was one of the first fanfics I read - I think it was love yew! And it just set off a chain reaction. Thanks SO much!

@dear-massacre - Smart as a fucking whip, I'm totally in awe of you. Bruised like violets permanently changed my brain and somehow gave me everything I needed. It inspired me to start writing again after 8 years. I LOVE the way you write and the stories you tell. You take no bullshit and can still be valnerable. Your analysis is phenomenal and I love reading your takes. Just... Yup... Awe!

I mean there are so many more, I could literally go on and on and on and how Nice is that? This is such a super cool fandom and if you know me then know I'm totally greatful for you all on a daily basis - doesn't matter if we interact or not. Thanks for being awesome.

someone suggested that i ask people for three people in the fandom that changed their lives and changed their experience in the fandom (good experiences). people that helped you in this fandom and gave you a reason to stick around.

💜

[to-thelakes]

IT JUST OCCURED TO ME SPOTIFY WRAPPED SEASON IS NEARLY UPON US

[vamp-bites]

I'll be your mirror, reflect what you are, in case you don't know

(I'll Be Your Mirror by Nico and The Velvet Underground)

[itslavenduh]

Jessie gets her license.