#like I want to I would love to I’m just too fucking depressed and anxiety-ridden for all this shit

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Is it normal to feel the need to actively support causes you believe in and the desire to actively support causes you believe in but also being too fucking tired and frustrated and mentally unsound to be up for it

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

A Safe Place: Part 5

Summary: Jake has one happy place. His pride and joy and comfort. When things go south, this is what he turns to.

Marc has started to rely on Jake to be his solid force. The unshakable rock that keeps them all stable.

Steven knows better. They are all delicately balanced on a thin wire.

What happens when one of them takes a spill?

Pairings: LaylaxMarc, LaylaxJake, LaylaxSteven

Universe: MCU

Warnings: Dissociation, Depression, DID, Habits of self destruction, discussion of mild self harm, talk of child abuse, depictions of eating disorders (in relation to depression), PTSD

Word Count: 7358

Previous Chapter HERE

Part: Five - The car is back! But the damage is done. Jake's idea of a perfect and safe place has been broken. Can the others help rebuild it?

Next Chapter Coming soon.

-----

Is this what I’m like? Marc watched the body pace. There is no way I’m this bad. I’m not this bad. 

“Yup.” Steven had to focus. It was taking everything in his willpower to keep them contained. “Worse. Way worse.” 

Thanks buddy. Marc knew Steven didn’t mean it to be offensive. He was on high alert damage control and couldn’t soften the blow like he usually did. Can I help? 

“Nope.” The body paced around the small space in the flat at a dizzying pace. “I got this. You just… You just sit there.” 

Marc felt bad just watching. He’d never actually seen Steven work before. Not like this. Though, to be fair, usually when Steven had to work, it was Marc that was causing the problem. 

Speaking of the problem, he could feel the ball of anxiety growing inside them. 

Layla had made an executive decision that she alone would go get the car. She would find out what state it was in and then report back. It was a decision that Jake had rebelled against. 

Words had been said and Layla had put her foot down. Perhaps it was the long night she had spent on the floor worried about the men she loved. Perhaps it was the night she had spent calming Marc down. Or maybe it was the night she had spent waking up after her husband had woken up thrashing from a nightmare… 

Either way, when she had told them to sit their asses down and wait for her, they had taken a seat and watched her leave. 

Marc knew she was trying to protect them. If the car was totalled and trashed, she knew that it wouldn’t end well. She was trying to prevent a total meltdown. At least a public one.

It’s going to be trashed stripped down for parts radio gone tires slashed wires cut banged up crashed broken scrap heap gone gone gone fucking gone the car is gone broken pieces of pieces

Jake was loud. It was hard to ignore him. Marc had never heard Jake be this loud before. He was used to Steven prattling on and on and on… But Jake was always notoriously silent when not in control. 

“You gotta relax, mate.” Steven mumbled. “Breathe. Settle. Just stop thinking about it for a minute, okay? You’re making me want to jump out the bloody window.” 

The anxiety was rough. It leaked out of Jake and spread to the already anxiety ridden other two like poison. 

I have to go get it. Taking too long. Gotta go get it. I should have gone. What if she can’t drive it? What if it’s…Where will they take it? Can’t leave it there. Need….Need to call a garage. Towed there… Get it checked over. I know a guy. Call him. Steven call him. Let me call him. I need to-

“Bloody wait a minute!” Steven ran his hands through his hair and paced harder. “Just wait. Okay? Let Layla look it over and call us. If it’s bad, she will tell us. If we need to call a garage, we can call a garage. No sense in getting worked up like this.” 

There was a fight. For once, Marc wasn’t at the center. 

In the scuffle Marc blinked in and found himself beyond disoriented as he looked around then down at the body. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Everyone was in a panic and stressed and in pain. He was the last person that should be left in charge in times like this. He was the bloody fist, not the gentle hug or quick retreat. 

Marc stopped the pacing and did what he did best and stood firmly still in the middle of the room. He could picture himself rooted to the spot. Nothing would knock them down. 

It was hard to function and focus with the commotion inside. He closed his eyes and pushed it all away. It was what he used to do, after all. 

Locking down his feelings. Locking down the situation. Locking down the body. 

Perhaps a little too locked down. 

Everything faded a bit and the world muffled out. All movement stopped and he only felt a little bit of guilt. He knew that when this happened that no one was going to get in. 

“Sorry Steven.” He thought he could feel the etching of Steven poking at the barrier as he tried to take charge again. 

Time passed, though it felt like years were stretching out and rushing past in seconds. 

Marc. He could hear Steven calling. Marc the phone.

Marc couldn’t move. He was too rooted to the spot in a time and place where nothing else existed. 

Pendejo! The phone! Jake snapped.  Oye, Steven. He’s stuck. 

Oh, now you want me to do it? Steven snipped back at him. That’s cute. ‘Steven don’t stop me from causing problems but don’t let someone else cause problems either’ What a fine deal. 

He could feel a collective pull and the body responded. There was a hard blink as the room came back into focus around them and they sat down. He reached out a hand and felt the floor then slowly moved it to pull the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. “Mn.” It was the best he could do. 

There was a pause and all three of them strained to listen. “I’m at the impound. So the good news first, okay?” Layla was trying to be as delicate as she could and it set off alarm bells in their anxiety pit. 

Marc gripped tighter, digging in as he pushed back against both of them that wanted control. Steven often called it ‘The Marc Rock’. When he settled in so hard that there was no hope of bumping him. Jake called it a pain in his ass. 

“Yeah.” He had no idea what the proper response was supposed to be. 

“It starts!” She cheered and he could feel that she had hoped to be speaking to Steven. Reliable, optimistic and full of hope Steven. He could do Steven. He had practice. 

“Fantastic.” He forced a smile and the accent muddled as he remained monotone despite his best efforts. “That’s fantastic. Does it drive?” 

He felt the heavy pause as Layla processed the dry rendition of Steven Grant. Thankfully she chose to not address it just yet. “Yeah. It drives.” She sighed. “More good news is that it isn’t smashed up either! They didn’t crash it. The police said that this was rare. Usually the car gets abandoned because they crash it.” 

Was Jake supposed to respond? He dropped the smile and started to rock a little. He didn’t know how to pull off Jake. “Great. Glad they didn’t fucking crash it. Cheers to them. Real saints we’re dealing with.” 

Marc started to feel the anxiety rise. She was keeping something back. He could feel Jake like an angry tiger pacing inside. 

“Just… Give me the bad news.” Marc slid a hand through his hair, feeling his insides start to coil. 

“They broke the door handle and lock to get into the car. Didn’t scratch it though! Just… Ripped it clean off. They also broke off the cover under the steering wheel. There could be more but I’m no mechanic. That’s just the obvious stuff. Oh, and your bag of supplies is missing.” 

They all waited for more. When Layla didn’t continue they all let out a breath no one knew they were holding. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Layla sounded a little flustered. “That’s it?” 

“Yeah.” Marc frowned and stared down at his trembling hand. “So… Do we get to drive it home or do they need like… forensics or some shit?” 

“They’re done with it. There’s not much else the police can do. Don’t expect them to find the guy either. Not much help really. I have to pay a fee just to get it out of the impound lot too.” She was grumbling and he could tell she was eyeing someone nearby. Layla had no qualms about telling people off when needed. 

“That’s fine.” He breathed out and dug his fingers into his leg to stop the trembling. “You know the parking space. Just… Just put it there.” 

Not safe. Not there. Taken once before. Anywhere else. Gotta move it. Gotta protect it. What if they come back? What if they trash it? What if others come? What if-

“Fuck. Just… Fine. It’s fine. Just… Put it… Put it there. Put it back. Okay?” He dug in harder, struggling to be the rock and hold his calm. 

“Is this Marc?” She had lowered her voice, further confirming that she was near enough to someone else for them to hear her conversation. 

Marc paused and frowned as he dug his fingers into his leg further. “Yeah. Yeah. Pretty sure it’s me. I’m… Having a… Jake says just put the car back.” 

She was quiet again and he rocked harder. 

“Please.” He breathed out. “Steven says we can’t go out. We’re actually pretty messed up right now.” He admitted and winced. Why was he telling her that? Now she would be worried. “Sorry.” He cursed under his breath and felt the panic rising. 

“Marc, honey?” She was talking softly. “Listen to me. Okay? Listen to the sound of my voice. Do you hear me?” 

Marc closed his eyes tightly and tried to block out the panic. It wasn’t his. He knew it wasn’t his. Was it? He always felt some level of anxious. He was a walking panic attack on the best of days. A simmering breakdown that was always waiting to unleash. A slow speed car crash that just never really got done crashing. 

“Yeah.” He tapped a finger on the phone rapidly. 

“Okay.” She let out a frustrated sigh and he imagined her standing in some station glaring down anyone in her way. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” 

Marc could feel Steven nagging at him for control again. He could feel Jake freaking out. Here he was in the way. He wasn’t letting Steven do his job. He wasn’t helping Jake stay calm. He was sitting there like a lump. He couldn’t even go with his own wife to pick up his own damn car that wasn’t even registered in his own name. 

 “I think I’m having a panic attack.” Marc winced again and wished he’d let Steven answer the phone. “What do I do? I can’t fuck this up. Jake’s freaking out and Steven can’t get through. I’m stuck. I’m fucking this up!” 

He looked around the apartment. What was he supposed to do? Why was he in charge now? Was he supposed to be calling someone about the car? Was there something he could do to help calm Jake down? 

“You aren’t fucking anything up.” Layla’s strong voice came through. “Listen to me, Marc. You are going to be okay. You have nothing to panic over. The car is fine. It isn’t your problem. Steven is fine. Jake is fine. You are going to be fine.” 

Marc shook his head though he knew Layla couldn’t see it. “I’m in the way. I can’t get out of the way. I need Steven. He’s dealing with Jake. I’m just making this worse. I just make it worse.” 

“Where are you right now?” She was louder this time, making sure he heard her. 

“I’m… I’m in the apartment. On the floor.” He flopped back and stared up at the ceiling. “I want a drink.” He admitted out loud. 

“Please don’t.” She whispered now. “I’m not there to stop you. You and I both know you have a bottle hidden in the cupboard. You and I also both know that it won’t help anything.” 

Marc flushed, angry for a moment at her then at himself. He sighed and looked over at the cupboard. “I won’t.” He was quiet as he felt the body suddenly ground and become real. 

He hated it. 

“How far out are you?” He imagined there was paperwork and all sorts of crap she had to do. 

“I’m actually about to start driving. Just signed the last release form.” She sounded relieved. Probably eager to get home to her messed up husband before he trashed himself. 

Marc stood up. “Great. I’ll see you in a bit.” He hung up and moved before the others could start pestering him again. 

He dressed in a hurry and rushed out the door. Steven would disapprove if he knew. Maybe he wanted Steven to be mad at him. 

He was halfway down the street when he felt a gentle nudge from Steven, asking what was going on and where they were going. 

Marc ignored it and picked up the pace. He felt a crawl of anxiety as Jake came back from whatever time-out Steven had put him in. 

They were both painfully aware of where they were when Marc turned down the familiar street with the row of parked cars. 

Not a good idea, Marc. Steven warned. 

“We have to do it at some point. You going to just keep us locked up all week? Just rip off the bandaid.” He grumbled as he walked. 

At the empty parking space, he planted his feet like two stones and waited. He could feel Jake’s urge to pace and Steven’s urge to fidget. Folding his arms, he stood still and waited. This time he could feel the stiffness of his joints, the ache in his back, the tension in his muscles… 

The car turned the corner and Marc gritted his teeth as he felt Jake leap up like a lump in his throat. “Fuck off.” Marc grumbled. “Give us a minute, and you can check out your stupid car all you want.” 

It was that easy. Jake stepped back and Marc watched as Layla pulled up then carefully parked the car. She sat in it for a moment and looked out the window at him. She knew it was him. No one else stood like Marc Spector. 

No one else managed to look as pissed off with such a neutral face. 

She sighed and opened the door. “Hey.” 

Marc looked at her then his eyes slid to the door. “Fuck.” He slowly took a step forward and touched where the door handle used to be. 

A bit of plastic still jutted out where it had broken off. There was a slightly scuffed hole where the lock had been. He traced it and felt a weight in his hand. 

“Stop it.” He muttered as his hand started to tremble. “You can fix this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the discarded lock from when they had first found the car missing. “No sense in crying about it, Lockley. You know how to fix this better than anyone.” 

Layla raised an eyebrow and stepped aside as Marc got into the car. 

Marc quickly looked the car over as his training kicked in. He knew what it was supposed to look like and feel like. He could almost sense what had been altered. 

Pieces of plastic and a couple of screws were on the floor. The cover that went under the steering wheel had been removed in a hurry. He checked the bundles of wires and found them still intact. 

His eyes traveled to the ignition and he found a large empty hole. He traced the area and slowly looked the thing over. It was scuffed up pretty badly but at least it looked like it might still work. All he needed was a screwdriver. Or something flat. 

“Tch. Amateurs.” He had hotwired more than a few cars in his time.  “You could have done better and left the damn thing pristine.” 

Sitting up in the seat, he put his hands on the steering wheel. Slowly turning it he found no resistance and it felt stable. Since Layla drove it, he assumed it turned well enough and that the brakes and gas still worked too. He slipped the key into the flat area and gave it a hard turn. 

His heart was in his throat again as he listened to the engine turn over then start.

The check engine light flickered on and held. The idiot had probably jostled something while fumbling around. 

He sat back, adjusting the seat and moved to pull the door closed. Clicking the lock button a few times to make sure that hadn’t been broken. The windows went down then up and he adjusted the mirror. 

Satisfied, Marc closed his eyes and slowly relaxed. “You good?” 

He took a glance at himself in the rearview mirror and his eyes sharpened and his lips tightened. 

“Fuck you.” Jake’s grip tightened on the wheel for a moment then he breathed out slowly. “Yeah. It… It’s fixable.” 

He slumped forward and rested his forehead on the wheel for a moment. “I can fix it.” Jake let out a long and slow breath then took another one. “I’ll order the parts. It’s going to be a pain to get the ignition fixed but…  I’ve worked with worse. Thanks, Marc.” 

He listened to the car running for a moment then reached over and flipped on the radio. 

Station one. Classical piano drifted out at them. Moving through the buttons, he found a few of them had been changed, but he could easily put them back. 

Are you alright? Steven was closer than they realized. Standby for damage support if needed. 

Jake nodded. 

There was a light tap on the window and he looked up to find Layla standing there. 

Are you going to let her in? 

Jake felt his chest tighten. Someone else had been in his car. They had invaded his space. They had touched everything and left his personal space feeling broken and wrong. 

His hands gripped the wheel till his knuckles whitened. He suddenly had tunnel vision and felt like nothing would ever be right again. 

Steven took the body back hard in a rough show of force. He turned off the car and sat still, breathing slowly. 

Slowly he opened the door and got out. “Hey.” He smiled up at Layla sheepishly. “Thanks for getting the car. We all appreciate it.” 

She eyed Steven and pulled her hair to the side. It was a warning move that let him know that she was very much aware of there being a problem and she wasn’t going to put up with lies or evasions. 

Steven slumped a bit. “Marc’s fine. He handled things brilliantly, actually. He might be a bit irritated for a bit, though. That took a lot out of him. Jake is… He’s taking a break. Don’t get me wrong! He’s thrilled the car is back and not totalled. Outright relieved! He’s just… this is a lot.” 

Layla looked at him for a moment then gently grabbed his hand and pulled him into a warm embrace, letting him lean into her fully. “How are you doing, Steven?” 

Steven melted into her, letting his hands clench at the fabric of her coat gently for a moment before he reluctantly let her go. “I’m pretty tired…” He admitted at last. “Taking care of Marc is one thing… I don’t know how to take care of Jake.” 

He closed the door and locked it. Normally they would pull the handle to double check it was locked but his hand just smacked into the place the handle had been. Steven let out a long sigh and leaned back against the car. He could still feel Jake’s anxiety crawling up the pipeline. 

“I mean, it makes sense…” Steven threw his hands in the air. “Jake’s a veteran too. He’s been to war. He’s faced worse battles than Marc since he’s the one that has to save our stupid butts all the time. He’s sitting in there acting like nothing phases him all the time. He has memories I don’t have or want! He has memories that Marc can’t even handle. If Marc knew about that last one he shared…” 

Steven shook his head. He felt like he had failed at something critical and it hurt to think about. “I don’t get him. I don’t know what he needs or wants. He doesn’t talk to us. I think Marc gets him better than I do. I wanted us to just stay home and not think about the car. I thought if we came out here he’d melt down and that would be it. Marc’s the one that knew Jake needed to see it as a controlled problem. I think I’m just making it worse.” 

“I thought you did a pretty good job last night.” She moved to lean against the car next to him. “Not a lot of people would have put up with that.” 

“Yeah well… That was easy. He was scared. I understand that.” Steven brushed it off. “He just needed to feel safe.” 

“Does he not still need that?” 

He looked over at her. “Everyone deserves to feel safe, Layla…” 

“What makes you feel safe?” She looked at him softly. 

Steven thought about it for a long moment. “Marc.” He blushed and ducked his head down. “He watched over me for such a long time. Even when everything was falling apart, he still went out of his way to protect me… Even when it hurt him.” 

She smiled at that. “Even when he’s being difficult?” 

“Well, yeah. Even when he’s a plonker. I know that he’s a solid rock of a plonker that would stand up and fight for me if I needed it.” Steven grinned. 

“Does he know that?” She nudged his shoulder and took his hand in hers. 

Steven squeezed her hand. He searched inside but found Marc had pulled away a bit. “I think so. I hope so. I’ve told him before. He doesn’t take compliments well.” 

“I know.” Layla sighed. “One day he might get it. We just have to keep trying.” 

He nodded then looked at her with a shy smile. “You know what makes Marc feel safe?” 

“What’s that?” 

“You.” 

It was Layla’s turn to blush and look away. “Hardly. I’m always arguing with him and setting him off. He ran away from me and pretended to be dead!” 

“Marc’s always running from the things that he needs.” Steven squeezed her hand tightly. “But if he’s feeling lost or scared I guarantee that when you pull him into your lap and stroke his hair it makes him feel like nothing could ever hurt us again.” 

It was her turn to be pulled in as he wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face against his chest for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of Marc’s clothes. 

“What about Jake?” She looked up at him, reluctant to pull away. “What makes him feel safe?” 

“I thought it was the car.” Steven chewed his lower lip for a moment as he mulled it over. “It makes him happy. Gives him space he can control. Gives him the ability to be free…” 

He pictured the two memories again. Jake hiding in the closet and Jake hiding in the car. The car did make him feel safe… But it was just as easily taken away. The closet hadn’t been safe, yet he had still crawled in there when he felt overwhelmed. 

“Jake has a pretty small bubble.” She nodded. “I don’t think he’s used to people looking out for him. Maybe he doesn’t know what safe feels like.” 

Steven nodded. He’d do anything to make Jake feel safe again. To show Jake just how much he appreciated him. 

“Hey, Layla?” 

“Hmm?” She looked up at him, still buried in his shirt. 

“What makes you feel safe?” 

She grinned and slid her hands inside his jacket to run them up over his back, giving him a hefty squeeze. “Did you know that Marc gives the best hugs in the world?” 

She felt silly the second she’d asked. Of course Steven didn’t. It was impossible for him to ever be on the receiving end of one of those huge pick you up and spin you hugs. 

Steven gave her a silly secretive grin. “Yeah… I… I do, actually.” 

She gave him a puzzled look but he just shook his head. “I want to head back to the apartment now… But I’m really worried about leaving the car in this state.” 

What are they going to do? Steal it again? Marc muttered. Thieves don’t go after cars that have already obviously been broken into. They assume all the good shit is already gone.

“It’s got a huge bloody hole in it! That just screams easy target!” Steven argued back. 

Layla turned to look at the car then leaned down to look at the hole where the lock had been. She poked at it for a moment, jiggling the interior mechanisms. “Well, considering I had to crawl in from the passenger’s seat to get in earlier this isn’t exactly the easiest of targets. Plus it also says anything that might be inside isn’t worth taking or has already been taken.” 

“It really worries me how much you and Marc can easily think like criminals…” Steven crossed his arms. 

Layla gave him a look then grinned deviously. “You’re the only honest man in the group, Steven. Sorry to say you’re surrounded by criminals.” 

Steven grumbled about being surrounded by riffraff and let her lead him away from the car with the promise of tea and brunch. 

—

The body shivered. It hated the cold. After so many years out in the hot dry desert or humid tropics, the wet and heavy cold was hard to fight off. 

Marc woke up with a shiver and found himself standing outside in a pair of jeans and an undershirt. 

It was dark out and drizzling rain just enough to be annoying. 

Marc sniffled then sneezed as he looked around. How long had he been out in this? Who had been out in this? 

His eyes adjusted to the dim gray light of pre-dawn and he found himself staring at the car. 

“Fuck.” He groaned and patted his pockets down to find keys. He went to the trunk where he knew Jake kept some supplies. Popping it open, he was disappointed to remember that the thief had taken their emergency bag that contained a change of clothes, some cash, and toiletries. 

He did find an old towel at least. A little dirty, but at least it would do the job. Slamming the trunk, he walked around to the driver’s side then remembered the lack of handle and grumbled as he circled around to the passenger side. Getting in, he toweled off as best he could then reached over and turned on the car, blasting the heater. 

“If we get sick, Steven is going to have a fit. You know that, right? The hell were you doing out there?” 

Nightmare. Jake answered him softly. It surprised him. Jake wasn’t always so open to talking to him.

“Yeah? What about?” Marc asked, then thought better of it. “Don’t tell me. Why didn’t you get in the car? Steven says you used to sleep out here when…” He winced and shook his head as he pushed away the unwanted memory. To his relief, it faded away quickly, leaving a light fog behind. Jake didn’t feel like dealing with a flashback tonight. 

If this is going to stress you out, we don’t have to talk.

Marc held his hands in front of the heaters for a moment. “Is that why we don’t talk? You and I? Too many bad memories?” 

You and I handle things very differently.

“I don’t know about that.” Marc sat back and opened up the glove box. He was surprised to find all their papers still there. The thief really was an idiot after all. “We have similar issues. You were there for the bad shit too. Just cause I punish myself and you pretend you don’t give a shit-” 

Do you really want to do this?

“Yeah. I do.” Marc gruffed and tossed the towel into the back seat. “I used to think you didn’t care. Thought I was the broken one because I’m the one breaking down and having nightmares and you’ve got the worst of the memories and you just wave at them as they pass by! You let me think I was broken! That I was weak!” 

That was never the intent. Jake watched him closely. I just… I process differently. Compartmentalize. It doesn’t mean I don’t have nightmares. Don’t… Break down…

“So is that why you disappear all the time? So you don’t have to deal with all this? The less you’re here the less you feel it?” Marc laughed. “I tried that. It made things way worse.” 

I used to come out here to break down. Jake settled in and Marc could feel how tired they suddenly were. None of them were exactly getting any sleep lately. It was safe and private and had less chance of anyone coming in. I’m supposed to be the strong one. The grounded one. I can’t stand around crying if one of you is having a panic attack.

“I don’t think any of us are that well adjusted.” Marc slowly reclined the chair and looked up at the dark dome light. “Steven breaks down too, you know. None of us are going to hold it against you if you need a time out, Jake. Me least of all. I think I need a time out at least twice a day.” 

I’m supposed to protect you. How can I do that if I’m sitting in here dissociating or feeling sorry for myself?

“Pretty sure you could be dissociated to the void and back and if any of us were in actual danger you’d still manage to pop up and take care of things.” Marc muttered. “I’ve seen what it looks like after you ‘take care of things’.” 

Jake reached out and took their hand, moving to turn down the heat. He didn’t want to push the car too hard before he knew what it needed. 

I was pissed off. You can’t hold that one against me.  

Marc smiled. Jake didn’t like talking about his battle with Harrow. Layla had called it more like an explosion. He knew there were complicated emotions behind it all. A fear of being left behind again. Of being forgotten. Being locked up. Letting them die again. Not being able to protect them… It was what had first endeared Marc to Jake after their initial introduction and problems. 

“I know, buddy. I appreciate it.” 

They sat in silence for a moment. 

“Do you want to head back?” Marc sat up. “If Layla finds us gone she’s going to freak out. She’s had a rough week.” 

Marc could feel the hesitation from Jake. “Do you want to stay here? I can text her. Did we bring the phone?” He started to check his pockets. 

I didn’t intend to even sit in the car. I just…. Just wanted to know it was still here.  

Marc thought back to them standing outside the car in the rain. Jake unwilling to get in but also unwilling to leave it. 

“We need sleep, Jake.” Marc turned off the car and took back the keys. “I’m not one to talk, but if we don’t start sleeping, Steven is going to lock us all out.” 

I know. I just… I can’t. Not right now. The nightmares… 

Marc frowned. He was no good at this part. Where was Steven when he needed him? “Do you want to… To talk about it?” 

Not with you. 

That confirmed what Marc was worried about. “Yeah… I’m uh… I’m having issues too, buddy. You aren’t alone in that. I’m sure you already knew that, though…” He’d felt Jake sweeping away things he wasn’t supposed to have on more than one occasion in the past few days. Part of him wondered if it was his fault that Jake was having issues. “Do you want to talk to Steven?” 

No.

Marc sat still and pulled out his phone. He stared at it for a moment. “We should go back.” 

He felt the reluctance again. It was strong and filled with anxiety. “We can’t stay here forever. We have to get out at some point.” 

I can’t. 

“Are you afraid someone will take the car again?” 

No. Not really. … Maybe a little. 

“Are you mad at Layla?” 

No! Of course not! 

“What are you afraid of then?” Marc sighed. 

Jake was silent. Marc opened the phone and started to text Layla. ‘We are in the car.’ He thought about it for a moment then added ‘Do not come out.’ 

Marc sat back again and crossed his arms. “Next time, you wanna dress up a bit more? A jacket would have been nice.” 

I had a nightmare. Jake snapped. I wasn’t exactly thinking about the weather. You’re lucky we’re in pants.

They both sighed then reclined the seat again. Neither of them was willing to try sleeping and Marc couldn’t make the body move enough to get them out of the car. 

The phone buzzed and Marc glanced down at the text from Layla. ‘What do you need?’ 

Marc chuckled to himself miserably as a long list ran through his head before he typed out ‘Steven’. 

The phone started to ring. He cursed and let it ring a few times before he answered with a huff. “What?” 

That was the wrong thing to say and he winced the second it was out of his mouth. 

“What do you mean ‘What’?” She sounded tired. “I wake up and the bed is empty and the flat is empty and you tell me you’re in the car. You wouldn’t have messaged if it wasn’t a problem. Is it a problem?” 

Marc grit his teeth. “Not really. Just having the best of times out here.” 

Layla made a sound of utter irritation. “Is that code? Are you in danger or just freaking out or did you just decide that being in the car at four in the morning was the best idea in the world?” 

“I could really use Steven right now, okay?” Marc huffed. “I’d love to get back inside where it’s nice and warm and not out here. I just can’t get the stupid body to move!” 

“How am I supposed to get Steven, Marc?” She was beyond irritated now. “What’s the problem? Why can’t you get out of the car yourself?” 

“Jake’s having a time.” Marc glanced at the rearview mirror. “I want to move. I want to go inside but the body… The idea of moving is not exactly appealing to me right now.” 

“Is Jake there?” Layla sighed. “Put him on the phone.” 

“This isn’t like calling up someone’s house, Layla. I can’t just put him on the phone.” Marc snapped. 

“But you want me to get Steven for you.” She snapped back. 

They sat in irritated silence for a solid minute. 

“There’s a new documentary on today.” Layla let out a soft sigh. “About that new set of tombs they found in Saqqara. It’s mostly in Arabic but I can translate it for you if you like.”

“I don’t need you to translate.” He started to protest then felt a pull. “Keep talking.” He felt like he was walking through quicksand as Steven started to rise up in interest. It was like magic as she coaxed him out of the dark. 

“We can make fun of the bad subtitles together. After that we can cuddle a little…Talk about the new scroll they found. Biggest and most intact book of the dead found to date. I know a guy that knows a guy… I bet I could get scans sent to me if I asked.” She yawned a little and Marc felt bad. “Would you like that?” 

“Yeah?” Steven yawned loudly. “I’d love that, Layla! That won’t get anyone in trouble though, right? Getting a hold of the scans? I’d never release them to any media source, mind you. It deserves a proper scholarly review before those vultures can get their nubs on anything. Much less the British Museum. Oh, I hope they get it last. As much as I want to see it, I hope they never even get to display it for a week!” 

Layla laughed. “That’s my boy.” 

“Uh… Layla… Why am I in the car? What time is it? What…” He paused and rubbed his temples for a moment as a headache bloomed behind his eyes. 

Get out of the car.  Marc urged. 

Steven opened the door and got out. He blinked up at the light sky and the rain then locked the door and started slowly walking back towards his home. “Layla? Did we sleep at all last night?” 

“I don’t know, sweetie. Marc texted me and I may have bit his head off a little… I’m sorry, Marc. Can he still hear me?” She sounded very apologetic. 

I’m sorry too. Tell her, Steven. Marc rushed. 

“Yeah. He says he’s sorry too.” Steven reached inside and found Jake lurking just below the surface in the shadows. 

Nightmare. Jake whispered. 

“Jake had a nightmare.” Steven filled in. “I think he went out to the car and things got away from both of them.” 

“Well… It isn’t the closet.” She sighed and he could hear the exhaustion there. “Are you heading home? Do you need help?” 

“I’m okay.” Steven shivered. “Maybe a nice cup of tea when I get there would be nice. It’s chilly out. Gotta love London weather, yeah?” 

“Okay. Be careful and call if something changes.” She hung up and Steven slipped his phone into his pocket. “I don’t mind you guys going out to try to get comfortable.” Steven addressed the room inside. “I really don’t. Closet, living room, car… Do what you need to do. I’d appreciate it if maybe you tried to get hold of me first… But you got me out in the end before things really got out of hand. Good on you.” 

Marc and Jake sank down just a bit but were still listening. 

“Layla’s pretty tired.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “That was kinda rude to call her up just to get me out. You could have done better. We also need to sleep. Like… We really need to sleep. I’m pretty dead on my feet here, guys.” 

Nightmares. Marc shrugged. Not like we aren’t trying to sleep.

“Yeah. I get that. But we gotta figure something out.” He yawned again and turned the corner. “Jake? You wanna talk?” 

No. 

“I’m this close to getting the ankle restraints back out, mate.” Steven warned. 

Try it, Steven. Jake huffed. 

Don’t test him. Marc pushed back. 

“Uh-uh. Nope. None of that.” Steven stopped them. “We aren’t fighting right now. If you don’t want to talk right now I will respect it. We are going home, getting warm, and then I am going to take a nap. If either ONE of you moves the body so much as an inch while I am napping I will freak out.” 

They were silent while Steven walked up to their apartment then opened the door. His tired eyes met Layla’s. “Hey.” He gave a smile and she handed him a hot tea. 

He clutched it tightly, soaking in the heat before taking a cautious sip. “I’m going to to warm up in the shower real quick.” 

The quick shower dragged out a bit. Jake and Marc remained close to the front, both full of apologies but Steven wouldn’t acknowledge any of it. 

He pulled on his favorite pajamas and was about to head to the bed when Layla called to him from in the living room. 

He froze. 

Chairs had been pulled around the couch to help hold up a long sheet in a massive blanket fort. 

Blankets draped across the top and hung down around the couch. A flap was being held open by a clothes pin that was carefully secured. 

Steven slowly walked around and peered into the fort. The couch was covered in pillows, blankets, and a few soft plush items that Steven had been slowly collecting from local gift shops. 

“Oh wow…” He found Layla curled up under a blanket in the corner. “Can I come in?” 

She peeked out from under the blanket at him and laughed. “It’s for you, Steven. Well… Really it’s for Jake. But I thought you might appreciate it too. Marc can come in too if he promises to leave his grumpy judgment out of it.” 

What are we? Four? Marc muttered as Steven looked the fort over. As much as he wanted to sound indignant, Steven could hear the interest hidden there. 

Steven grinned and crawled into the fort and let the flap fall closed, securing them inside. He took a moment to nestle into the blankets then gazed at Layla. “This is amazing.” 

“Obviously we can’t leave all this up all the time… But if this works maybe we can figure something out?” She looked up at the ceiling of the blanket fort. “I bet I could get fairy lights up there easily…” 

While she gazed around, coming up with plans for improvement, she felt Steven shift then a hand reached out and shyly touched hers, asking so softly to be held. 

She looked over and found Jake buried in the blankets and carefully avoiding looking at her. 

Layla softened and gently let her fingers lace around his. She smiled as he squeezed her hand back. 

“Sorry I keep fucking up.” He sighed. “I’m supposed to be better than this.” 

“You’ve had a pretty shitty week.” She stroked her fingers across his gently. “You are more than welcome to be in a bad mood and lose a little sleep.” 

“We lose any more sleep and Steven is going to freak out on us.” Jake muttered. 

“Do you want some space?” She leaned towards the door flaps slightly. “I want all three of you to be comfortable.” 

Jake’s hand tightened around hers slightly. “I’m not used to people acknowledging me. When I was me... As a kid.. It was like she knew. It was like she hated me just a little more. Maybe because I stood up to her once or twice. Or maybe because I tried to run. Or maybe because Marc learned how to take the hits and I still flinched each time.” 

“So you learned to hide?” 

He looked away. “I learned how to avoid the hits. If that meant I spent all night in a cold car or hiding in a closet or hiding on the roof then at least I wasn’t getting hit.” 

“If you need room, just tell me.” She lifted his hand and softly kissed it across the knuckles. “You deserve your own space. I know what Marc needs and I know what Steven needs. You need to tell me what you need. I want you to feel safe here with us.” 

 Jake shifted and lay his head against her shoulder. “I need patience.” 

“I can work with that.” She lightly kissed his forehead. “I need you to get some sleep.” 

“Mnh.” Jake closed his eyes. “Steven says if we move he’ll murder us.” 

“Steven is usually smart about these things.” 

“If I have a nightmare…” 

“Then you will wake up and I will still be right here. If you need space then I will give you the space you need to recover.” 

He squeezed her hand tightly as he drifted off. 

She smiled and pulled him closer. She hoped that for once he would sleep soundly. It was easy for her to be lulled to sleep by his soft snores. At least in here there was no outside world and no troubles, past or present, that could harm them. 

The only problems were the ones that lurked in their head, taking hold like a vice. 

She wrapped her arms around them and held them tightly, hoping that she could somehow protect them from the monsters that lurked unseen and waiting. 

Next Chapter HERE

[lover-of-dusk]

Does anyone else feel this way, or is it just me? Venting post.

(WARNING: might be triggering for some people. Discussion of depression and S*****dal thoughts, among other things.)

In the world I live in, it seems like there’s no escape. There’s no help or hope. There’s only misunderstanding, judgment and isolation. No matter how much these people insist otherwise, it feels as though I will never be loved. I will never be understood, or find my tribe. Do I give up hope, or keep pushing? I’m so tired. I wish that socializing would come freely for me. I’m so sick of being “other”, but that’s the only way to describe me. The outcast, the one with too many boxes checked. Too many thoughts and interests to be part of one group. That should be a good thing, right? Not really. On one hand, some people admire me, think I’m super smart. On the other hand, I do too much. I’m too all over the place, my head firmly cemented in the clouds. They lock me up because I’m not like everyone else. I wasn’t the goody-two-shoes, God-fearing, keep-in-line-and-be-quiet little girl I was supposed to be. I’m not even the good, charitable Christian woman who will marry a man, bear his children and bend to their every need. Instead, I’m the free-thinking, easily emotional, mentally fucked-up, genderfluid sapphic freakshow I am. I’m not even welcome in parts of the LGBTQ+ community, or the black community, or any community for that matter. But I think that’s everyone.

But why should I be ashamed of who I am? Why does everyone say I need help, but no one does? Why do they just foister me off to someone else, or smother me to the point that I can’t even tell who I am until I leave them?

It does nothing to explain my struggles to someone else because I can’t seem to do it right. I’m either wound up in self-pity or self-loathing. There’s nothing in between. My brain doesn’t let me feel the pain, the embarrassment or any other negative feeling when it’s not happening in that moment. Only in the dark hours of the night am I allowed to feel those things. They come at me like huge waves of water rushing over a tiny defenseless lifeboat on the sea. And no matter how hard I want to, no matter how much I need to, I can’t sob, I can’t scream, I can’t move. I’m paralyzed in those moments of pain and agony.

Why do I need to be fixed? Why do I have to go through therapy for something I can’t control, much less change? Why can’t I just be?

I don’t think I’ve ever truly sobbed, even when someone dear to me dies, or I’ve been so frustrated with everything that I wanted to join them. I’ve come so close to it though. I’ve hurt myself, I’ve wanted to die, I’ve ridden the waves of pain and euphoria, constantly changing from day to day, moment to moment. Never have I truly, gut-wrenchingly sobbed before. I’ve wanted to sob, at first, to prove that my feelings were valid enough to take heed of. So, my family would stop blaming me for the pain and embarrassment I’ve caused them in the past, so my teachers would help me when I couldn’t help myself. So anyone would take me seriously. Now, I want to sob because it may let me rest for once. To get all of the anger, the depression, the anxiety, the numbness, all of it out of me. Just to let me breathe. The silent tears do nothing for me anymore, because the feelings are stronger than them. Numbness kills those tears just like they were ants and it was a giant’s foot. Effortlessly. I want, no. I need something strong enough to kill those feelings, so I can finally rest easy. So I can get up every morning and move forward. What an amazing feeling it would be, to get up every morning, do everything that I needed to do, without effort or fail. Would I be loved more, be accepted more if I could do this? I’m not sure, but I feel that it may make my life a little bit easier if not a lot.

You, reader, may look through this and say, “This person definitely needs therapy.” However, you don’t know that I’ve been in therapy for 13 years at this point. I’ve been through psychiatric wards to residential facilities, and no one seems to be able to fix me. No one has cracked the code to my crazy brain yet, not fully. I’m exhausted from the necessity of explaining myself, of telling my therapists and the staff at psych wards and residential facilities how I feel. I don’t want to be patronized. I don’t want to be less than, or humiliated, or to be considered incapable of being an adult, because I’m not. I just want to be able to be considered a functioning individual worthy of other people’s time. Not just some patient of a therapist or mental hospital, or someone with mental illnesses. It hurts me when people say that it makes sense that I’m autistic, I have bipolar, or anxiety or ADHD or any other illness that I’ve been formally and informally diagnosed with, because they put me in a box and automatically shove me in with people who can’t function, who need supervision 25/8 just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves. I’m sick of being the only one in a room who understands what it’s like to be someone like me. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of having too many questions and not enough answers.

 Why is it so hard for me to explain things to my mom? Why is it so hard for her to understand? Why is it so hard for anyone to understand? Why do I have to be around people constantly, telling them all of my trauma and struggles just for them to label me as mentally ill and, by extention, untrustworthy of opinion, or too mentally unstable to be taken seriously?

On the flip side, why am I expected to be an outgoing, completely perfect carbon cutout of a “model citizen”? Why do I have to be just like the curated images on social media? Why can’t I make mistakes? Why can’t I be imperfect, with differing or ambiguous opinions? Why do I have to know everything about other people’s struggles and hardships when no one shares them with me? Just because I didn’t know about Stonewall for the first 16 or 17 years of my life, or about certain microaggressions (I’d been dealing with microaggressions my whole life, by the way) or the fact that id been raised by Republicans who lived and breathed Fox News and slightly distasteful humor doesn’t make me a shitty person who deserves to die a horrible death. 

Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way. I just want to know if anyone else knows what this feels like, or can at least understand where I’m coming from. Sorry for the vent, but I'm really needing someone else who's not a therapist to tell me I'm valid in this.

EDIT: I'm also sick of people telling me to "suck it up" and move on, too. Tell me how, then. Tell me how to suck up my literal shitshow of a brain and be a perfect human being when I have so much shit in my brain. Sorry, this seems like it's going on too long, but that should be it in terms of ranting for now.

[miekasa]

NICE.

+ pairings: eren yeager + (fem) reader

+ genres: rich kid au, college au, friends to lovers au, fluff, light-ish angst, smut/nsfw content (everybody gets a piece)!

+ warnings: mentions of depression/anxiety, mentions and use of drugs and alcohol, some of the smut happens under the influence so be cautious if that’s something you don’t like, i swear this is all more idiots in love than angst tho i just wanna disclose everything fairly

+ notes: this is alternatively titled super rich kids and you can probably figure out why. some of this is based off of real life, some of it is straight out of gossip girl and i challenge you to separate the facts from the fiction :’) anyways, i hope we all remember the lyrics to in my feelings

+ more notes: one quick reference for ages in this fic—all the vets are older but not by that much, think various stages of grad school. armin, connie, sasha, annie, and bertholdt are all college sophomores. eren, the reader, and pretty much everybody else are college seniors, so they’re about a year or two older. also here is a playlist for your reading pleasures, shoutout to ryn for letting me mooch of their spotify account :’)

+ word count: 19k. i’m sorry.

+ summary: fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you.; or the story of notorious rich kid and self-proclaimed bad boy eren yeager, and his not so goody two-shoes best friend.

“So you’re saying that you don’t love me? That you’re not riding? That you’ll actually leave from beside me?”

“I’m saying that it’s ass o’clock in the morning and I’m not driving in the rain to Brooklyn to pick your sorry ass up.”

“But… but I want you, and I need you, and I’m down for you.”

You check the time on your phone screen and groan. 3:57am. Far too early to be dealing with the likes of Eren Jaeger. “Just get an Uber or something. I don’t know what you and your idiot friends were up to this time, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“First, they’re our idiot friends. Second, I don’t think they let you take Ubers from jail, and even if they did, it’s, like, four in the morning, so I don’t think there are any Ubers driving around, so could you pretty please come pick me up? I promise I’ll make it up to—”

“From where?” you cut him off, slowly sitting upright in your bed. You hold your phone closer to your ear, ready to listen again; because, certainly, you must have misheard him the first time. You wait, but the line is silent, save for Eren’s awkward chuckling. “Eren Asher Jaeger, tell me that that was another stupid lyric from that stupid song, and that you are not in prison right now.”

Eren makes a sad attempt at laughing. “Technically, it’s a holding cell, not really prison… and I would leave, but they suspended my license for a month, and Min can’t drive yet, so we kind of need you,” he explains, “Uh, no pun intended.”

“Min?” you pull your eyebrows together at the mention of the younger’s name, “Is Armin with you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

With a frown and a heavy sigh, you push yourself out of bed, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you grab the nearest pair of sweatpants.

“Why did you get him caught up in whatever stupid shit you were doing tonight?” you complain, scanning your dark bedroom for a shirt to wear, “Erwin’s going to castrate you when he finds out.”

You curse as you stub your toe against the edge of your bed on your way out of the room. Given the time, weather, and the fact that you have several exams to start studying for, hanging up and leaving Eren in the middle of god knows where Brooklyn doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, but you couldn’t go back to sleep knowing that Armin would have to suffer with him.

“Relax,” Eren breathes in a tone all too nonchalant for the situation at hand, “He didn’t get charged with anything, and nothing’s going on his record.”

“You don’t know that,” you retort, sliding your raincoat over your free arm, as you paddle down the stairs of your apartment, “The NYPD suck.”

“True,” he hums, “But I paid off the cop, so it’ll be fine.”

You pause in your steps, but really, you shouldn’t be surprised. “Of course you did,” you mumble, moving again and grabbing your car keys off of the kitchen island.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he questions. His tone is actually genuine and it tempts you to roll your eyes.

“What it always means, Eren,” you sigh, stepping into the elevator, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Get off my line.”

He doesn’t have time to throw in another pitiful “I love you” before the line goes dead and he’s met with static silence. He hangs up the station telephone with a silent chuckle, turning around to face Armin and Officer Hannes.

“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” he says, trying to focus on Armin’s sigh of relief and not the warmth creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, “I’ll, uh, call a tow for the car in the morning.”

The cop, too tired to care, only shrugs, and pays them no further attention. He hands Eren a plastic bag with his car keys and newly suspended license, escorts him back into the cell, and returns to his desk. Eren gives Hannes the finger while his back is turned.

Beside him, Armin is still quivering; bouncing his leg up and down, fiddling with his fingers, gnawing on his bottom lip. Eren frowns, a heavy wave of guilt washing over him as he takes in the younger’s anxiety ridden state. It wasn’t fair that Armin could have potentially suffered legal consequences because of his stupidity.

Eren’s lucky that Hannes was sleazy enough to accept his bribe and let him off with minimal punishment. With that they were doing, things could have ended up far worse for the both of them tonight.

“I’m sorry, man,” he apologizes, hands stuffed in his front pockets, “About tonight, I mean. We—I shouldn’t have done that, not with you there.”

Armin looks up at him with sparkling, doe eyes and Eren wants to punch himself in the gut for making him go through all of this, even if it didn’t amount to an actual arrest. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

“I could have prevented it,” he says. Because it’s what you would have said, too.

“It’s not your fault, I wanted to come, remember?” Armin tells him, redirecting his gaze to the grey floor of the precinct cell. He takes a deep breath, almost calming down completely when a sudden thought reignites his nervous ticks, “You… they’re not gonna tell my parents, right?”

“No, no—of course not.”

Armin was legally an adult; he, nor Eren, nor the police had to tell his parents anything. Sure, Hannes could rat them out, but honestly that sounded like way more work than he was cut out for; not to mention he’d be bound to reveal that he let them off easy for a couple thousand bucks.

Armin nods, “And… that wasn’t Erwin on the phone, right?”

“Are you kidding me? He’d murder me on the spot,” Eren says. He pauses before tacking on, “I, uh… I called (_____).”

“Oh,” the younger gapes, “She’ll kill you, too.”

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, scratching the back of his neck in nervous anticipation, “Trust me, I know.”

“You have your access card on you, right, Armin?” you ask. He nods sheepishly, hand on the car door handle.

“Thanks again for coming to get us,” he says meekly, “I’m sorry about waking you up and everything.”

You offer him a warm smile through the rear view mirror, “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re safe. Text me when you get up tomorrow, okay? We can get brunch, my treat.”

His face lights up at the prospect of free food, and he nods once more, enthusiastically, but his expression falls again when he speaks, “Okay, and I’ll, um, pay you back for the tickets and stuff as soon as I can—”

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it,” you repeat.

“It was almost three thou—”

“You forget who you’re friends with,” you cut him off with a smile, “Don’t worry about it, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

Armin’s eyes dart to Eren quickly, before clearing his throat, a light pink tint to his cheeks. You know that the prospect of money can be a sensitive subject for Armin, one easily triggered by his very environment, but this wasn’t negotiable on your end. You know that Armin doesn’t like the feeling of owing anyone anything, but he knows he won’t get you to budge; so, he quietly nods, appreciative of your generosity, before bidding you and Eren a final goodnight and sprinting towards the dorm. Once you see that he’s safely inside, you wave one last time, and wait for the door to shut behind him.

Slowly, Eren turns to the driver’s seat to look at you. You were eerily calm when you came to pick him and Armin up from the station. You didn’t yell, cuss, or punch him in the face like he expected. You politely talked to the officer, thanked him for his service, paid their fees, and up until now, you’ve shown no signs of being angry with him at all.

The two of you drive back to your shared apartment in complete silence, Eren too confused, and borderline scared, of initiating a conversation. He wonders if you’re too tired, or if you really don’t give a damn anymore, but when you pull into the underground lot of your building and put the car in park, he finds out the silence was simply the calm before the storm.

You take your hand off of the gear shift and turn towards him. It’s a quiet stare down for nearly a full minute before you break the mime act with a slap to his thigh.

“Drag racing? Are you out of your fucking mind? Of all the stupid shit you’ve done—and you’ve done a lot of stupid shit—this has got to take the cake. Just what the actual fuck were you thinking?”

“Ouch!” he inhales sharply, rubbing over where you’d hit him, “We were just having fun! Then these other guys showed up and started talking shit so—”

“Having fun?” you echo, “You couldn’t think of anything fun to do that’s not illegal in every borough of New York City?”

Eren feels his cheek flush, but he only huffs with the illusion of disinterest, “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so bad. I’m a good driver, it was those other squids that got us into shit, I’m telling you. They showed up looking for a fight, then ran like a bunch of pussies when the cops came.”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head in disbelief. You seem to have no other words to say to him, choosing to step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Eren quickly follows, slamming his door equally as hard, and hot on your trail as you march towards the elevator.

“(_____), come on, enough with the silent treatment,” he whines when you stick yourself in a corner of the elevator after pushing the button to the penthouse, “I told you I didn’t start shit, Armin and I got ratted on.”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not they started it, Eren. You’re still the problem here.”

“Me? How am I the problem?” he pulls back, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion, “I just told you I didn’t do shit.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and shifting your left leg, “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Doing what with me?” he presses, tone growing icy.

“This, Eren!” you reiterate, “I’m too tired to hear your bullshit right now.”

The elevator dings and opens into your apartment. You push past him, continuing your deliberate strides through the living area, and to the stairs, but Eren catches you with a hand on your wrist before you can go any further.

“Will you fucking stop that,” he growls, “If you’ve got something to say, then stop running away from me, and just say it.”

“Funny,” you sneer, pulling your wrist away from him and settling both your feet on the bottom step, “You’re one to talk about running away from things.”

He takes a step back, standing just a notch below you, perfectly frozen in place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your little drag racing episode was not only dangerous and immature, it was you running away from your problems like a spoiled child, yet again.”

Eren’s features narrow at your accusations; eyes fading into hooded slits, lips curving downwards, and voice bobbing low, “I’m not running away from anything.”

“Oh, please, Eren,” you roll your eyes, arms retreating to their crossed position in front of your chest, “Cut the bullshit.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he bets that even in the dim lighting of the apartment, you can see the tips of his ears growing red, just like they always do when he’s lying.

“Oh, really?” you ask, eyes widening in mock surprise, “You don’t think I don’t know this whole thing has something to do with the fact that your mom came home on Friday?”

Another pause. “Who told you that?” He asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

“Nobody had to,” you snap, “Jean said he caught you with a sack of coke over the weekend, and I knew something was up.”

“It wasn’t mine, I was—”

“I said cut the shit, Eren. If I went up into your room right now I bet your ass I’d find more than enough of it in a shoebox somewhere.”

He retreats, almost bashful, but unapologetic all the same. “Fine, whatever, I did a few lines. Big deal.”

“The big deal is that you think this is fucking normal, and now you’ve upgraded from coke to getting yourself arrested! It’d be one thing if you were acting like a misfit on your own, but to drag Armin into it because you—”

“Drag him into it?” he echoes with the snare of sarcasm dripping from each syllable, “You talk about Armin like he’s six. I don’t know why you think he’s some helpless little baby, but you have no goddamn responsibility over him. He’s not your fucking charity case.”

“I never fucking said he’s my charity case—don’t you ever fucking say that,” you say, “Having some basic respect and concern for my friends isn’t charity.”

“Wake the fuck up! You baby Armin when he’s a grown ass man. I didn’t force him into the fucking car to get sympathy points from you.”

“Grown? Armin is barely nineteen, disowned by his parents, is on a full fucking ride to an insanely expensive university, and you got him arrested tonight! Do you know what could happen if NYU found out? They could fucking kick him out, take his scholarship away—and then what, huh? Or were you just gonna buy off the headmaster, too?”

“You’re acting like I fucking planned for it!”

He’s screaming now, voice bellowing throughout the apartment, face red—and he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean it at all; but it’s late, and he’s tired, and those shouldn’t be excuses, but he’s too prideful to back down.

“Of course you didn’t! You didn’t plan for anything, you were just being a reckless, irresponsible asshole like always,” you tell him, too blind-sighted by anger and the need to chide him that you miss the teary undertones in his words.

“And what’s it matter to you?”

“It fucking matters to me when you call at some godforsaken hour asking me to pick you up from prison!”

He takes a step forward, right leg elevated by the same step that both your feet rest on. “Well, what else am I supposed to fucking do!” He shouts even though he’s mere inches from your face, “Tell me just what the fuck I’m supposed to do instead!”

“You’re supposed to act like an adult and fucking talk to someone!”

“Who the hell am I supposed to talk to, huh?” he presses, taking a step forward and forcing you to retreat backwards, and up a step, “My mother who’s never home or her bastard boyfriend?”—another step forward for him, another step backwards for you—“The step-brother I can’t get in contact with?”—one step forward; one step backwards—“Or maybe the dad I never had, right?”

“Me, Eren!” you yell back with equal vigor, throwing your hands up at your sides, and planting your feet firmly. “Armin, Mikasa, Jean—anyone! You have people who fucking care about you! Stop treating us like correction officers, we’re your fucking friends!”

There’s silence for a while, just you and Eren staring at each other, heavy breathing, waiting for the other to make the next move. He opens his mouth, but when he tries to speak, his resolve washes away, his throat tightens and the words get sucked back in.

It would be easy to keep yelling, screaming, blaming you for blowing up on him. He used to think the scolding he got from you after pulling some stupid stunt was the worst part; but now, he thinks it might be his favorite part. He hates to hear you scream, and it hurts to see you cry, but if you’re yelling, you’re angry that he hurt himself; you care that he’s okay.

“I—” he stutters, words quiet and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to get like this tonight, it was an accident I—”

“You never mean for any of it to happen, yet it always does,” you interrupt, voice soft yet strained, “I know you have your own shit to deal with, but so does everybody else.”

“(_____), please, you’re right, okay? I should have said something before,” he admits, mouth small as he voices his confessions, “I should have talked to you or one of the boys, but I—I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

He’s groveling now. Mouth in pout, eyes wide, voice small, and honestly, he thinks he might cry. At this point he doesn’t care if he does.

“I want you to mean it,” you finally say, and when he looks up, he hates the look he sees in your eyes. It’s something between sad and hurt and empty and it’s awful. Someone like you shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t make you feel that way.

“I—”

“When you’re ready to tell me exactly what’s going on with you—what’s happening that made you think going to jail would be better than facing your issues—I’ll be here to talk,” you continue, eyes watering, “But until then, goodnight, Eren.”

Eren winces when you turn around and ascend up the remaining stairs. He flirts with the idea of following you, going to your room to finish talking, but you’re probably angry enough to have it locked. His room is up there, too, but he opts for part of the sectional, laying down with the palms of his hands kneading against his closed eyelids.

For as long as he can remember, you’ve been there for him. Your friendship, at times, was like a game of tag—Eren always on the run with you loyally chasing after him; he’d always run amuck, and you’d always be there to catch him in the act. Now, it’s five in the morning, there’s no more yelling, no more chasing, no more racing, but he’s still running.

The following morning, you take Armin out to brunch, as promised. Jean tags along too, something about hanging out with the two of you being infinitely more entertaining than his genetics lecture. It doesn’t seem like Jean knows anything about Armin and Eren’s late night antics, so you don’t bring it up yourself.

Oblivious, Jean chats your ears off as if nothing is awry. Whether he knows it or not, he does a great job of distracting Armin from his own thoughts. They both eat to their heart’s content when you remind them you’ll foot the bill; and you don’t bat an eye when Jean convinces Armin to order his third round of pancakes. He deserves it.

Afterwards, Jean convinces the three of you to go window shopping with him in SoHo, claiming that he needed inspiration for his latest fashion assignment (you don’t question why he’s taking a fashion class as a biology major, but you suspect it has something to do with Mikasa). Window shopping soon turns into actual shopping, so almost completely unprompted, and with little effort on his part, Armin gets a few pieces of clothing on your behalf, while you try to ignore Eren’s words itching at the back of your mind.

Armin’s not a baby, but he certainly is a kid with a rough past and rough relationship with his parents at a time in his life where he arguably needs them the most. A little extra support from his friends wouldn’t harm him.

It’s nearing six when the three of you are wedged in a small booth inside a café, indulging in overpriced hot chocolate. Three sips into his second cup, Jean excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you sitting across from Armin.

“You know, you don’t have to keep buying me stuff to make up for Eren,” Armin says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m not trying to make up for him,” you sputter, careful not to spill your drink over your lap, “You had a rough night. Just accept my gifts, don’t be a brat.”

“I do accept them. Erwin’s been eyeing that Off White sweater for, like, three weeks now. He’s gonna have a hissy fit when he sees me wearing it.” You chuckle, and he continues, “But you know, as much I love spending time with you, you can’t use me to avoid Eren forever.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” you frown.

“You said you were going to take us to brunch, and then spent the whole day with us.”

“Funny, I recall you saying something about how much you love my company about thirty seconds ago.”

“He’s called you at least ten times today.”

“I was spending the day with my favorite NYU student… and Jean,” you bat your lashes, “I see you maybe once a week. I live with Eren, I have to see him every day.”

Armin calls your name with a pout, “He’s sorry, you know.”

“Not sorry enough,” you mumble. Armin opens his mouth to say something again, but then Jean’s sliding back into the booth, chatting about how he’s finally come up with the perfect anniversary date for Mikasa.

Armin doesn’t notice your sigh of relief, but he does take note of the way you wipe away your notifications when a text rings through. If Eren could spend his days running away from his problems, then you could, too.

Despite being arguably the greediest of you all, Jean loves company, so he doesn’t hesitate to say yes when you ask to crash at his place after your shopping escapades. You expect to be welcomed with sounds of screaming, laughter, and loud music, but to your surprise his apartment is completely silent upon your entering.

“Bertholdt has class and Marco has a meeting,” he prompts, as if he could read your thoughts. He shimmies his coat off his shoulders and tosses it over the bar in the foyer.

Their apartment has the same amount of rooms as yours and Eren’s, but is all stretched along a single floor. It’s more of a maze, really, with intricate turns, and hallways, that all more or less open up into the expanse of the foyer and bar. Their living room is your favorite part. A dark, brown leather sectional wraps around the back three walls and an oversized flatscreen encased in an ebony frame takes center stage. A collection of vinyl records litters the walls above the couch; each of the boys contributing their favorite discs as décor.

“If he has class, shouldn’t you have class?” you question, fingers dragging over the ridges of the closest record.

“I’ve had class all day, but that doesn’t mean I go,” Jean shrugs, walking up behind you and taking your jacket off your shoulders and your bag from your hand, “Besides, Bertholdt will probably cut half-way to go see Reiner, if he can even stay awake that long. Going with him is just as productive as staying home.”

“You’re all a mess,” you scoff, turning around as a cheesy grin grows on Jean’s lips. His smile is infectious, and soon you catch yourself grinning just because.

“You want something to drink?” he offers, throwing your coat over his elbow and tilting his head in the direction of the bar.

“You’re bad at mixing drinks,” you remind him, but follow him anyway.  

Jean laughs, not bothering to deny the jab. He doesn’t try his hand at anything mixed or complicated this time; simply offering you a glass of your favorite red, and pouring himself a smaller amount.

He puts the album you were gawking at earlier on the record player, the two of you sinking into the couch as lovely melodies radiate throughout the apartment.

He spends the first hour bitching about how Marco’s supposed to become a CEO in less than a year, yet has the attention span of a squirrel; but the playful lilt in the brunette’s voice, and the begrudging smile on his face lets you know that it’s all love. He gushes about Mikasa for a good half hour, cramming you with stories about his girlfriend’s talent for sewing and fashion. You also learn that Bertholdt’s been busier than usual these days, and Jean suspects it has something to do with a secret lover.

You pinch your eyebrows at his hunch. Bertholdt’s never been one for dating. He’s had many friends with benefits in the past, but they weren’t relationships, nor were they secrets. In fact, you don’t think that he could keep a secret to save his life.

“Why would he be hiding it if he were seeing someone?” you question, swirling your newly refilled glass.

“Dunno,” Jean shrugs, “But it’s sus, I’m telling you. He’s been oddly busy for someone with a 2.3 GPA. Either way, I’ll pry it out of him eventually.”

“You’re so fucking nosey,” you chuckle, watching the mischievous, satisfied grin settle onto his features.

“I kinda think it’s Armin,” Jean says after a while, downing the remaining wine in his cup, while you choke on your own drink.

“Why on Earth do you think if Bertholdt had a secret lover that it’d be Armin?”

“Because he was in love with him for, like, two years in high school,” Jean says, as if the information should be painfully obvious.

“Yeah, and Bert also hooked up with a million different people in high school.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with Armin.”

“I don’t think Armin’s kissed another human, let alone is in a secret relationship with one.”

“Hm, true. I forget he’s still a virgin.”

“Hey—there’s nothing wrong with Armin being a virgin, leave him be.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Jean whines, “But it’s so—he doesn’t have to be. Armin’s cute! And very attractive—dare I even say sexy. He could go outside and get laid right now if he just tried.”

“Stay humble, Jean boy. If I remember correctly, you only started breaking hearts a year ago,” you tut. Jean’s nose goes pink as he shoves you away when you continue, “But, if you’re so concerned with Armin’s virginity, why don’t you go help him out with it.”

“Actually, if I remember correctly, I think that’s more your gig,” he shoots back, a smug smile tugging on his lips. “Not to mention, I’m not trying to get beat up by Annie. Though, I wonder how much longer it’ll take before she finally snaps. Hey, maybe the both of you can tag team him, I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind, and it might even make Armin less nervous to have you—”

It’s your turn to shove him now, throwing in an extra punch when his head bobs back with laughter. You’re very certain Annie would mind; you would mind if someone inserted themself in your kind of, sort of, not really relationship, and ruined your four years of pining.

“Speaking of lovers,” Jean prompts, once his laughter dies down, bending his knee and turning closer to you. “Why are you and lover boy fighting? Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum, sipping your drink in between words. Jean’s eyes pinch together. “Marco and I would never fight.”

“My god, will you let your Marco fantasies go already? You’ve already caused him one sexuality crisis,” Jean groans, “You know I mean Eren.”

You sigh, lowering your glass and reaching forward to pinch his cheek. “It’s nothing you have to worry your pretty little head over.”

“Please,” he scoffs, flicking your offending hand back, “He’s been texting us nonstop since this morning at, like, nine. I didn’t even know he was capable of waking up before noon.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Jean continues, “Why he would ask us for advice on you is beyond me. He knows you better than all of us combined.”

“And why you’re saying all of this is beyond me.”

“Oh, come on, what’d he do,” Jean pushes, borderline whines, as he puts his empty glass down in a cup holder embedded in the couch. He’s always been the most prone to gossip, but you forget that wine makes him even more of a nosey prick. “Must have been pretty bad. Or stupid.”

“Try both,” you mumble, “Well—I don’t know, it wasn’t… the worst thing anyone could do, but it was really fucking reckless—and why he did it, I couldn’t even tell you. I don’t know what goes through his mind half the time, but I swear he must have been on crack last night.”

“He probably was. On crack, I mean. I told you, I took an ounce from him over the weekend, but that was after Eren and Ymir did, like, five lines.”

“Do they really do that regularly?” you nearly cry, a hand massaging your temple, “Fucking Christ, if he really was high while driving, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Well, I don’t know if regular is the right word,” Jean ponders, “Maybe for Ymir, but god knows what she’s on half the time, anyways. Besides, coke isn’t the worst thing they could do.”

“You sound like you speak from personal experience.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, pausing when you shoot him a disapproving look, “Oh, come on! You’re no angel, either—if memory serves, you were high as shit at Moblit’s birthday party, and kept singing the star spangled banner all night.”

“Yeah, on weed! One time! It was on a rooftop and the stars were out and it has the same rhythm as the happy birthday song, cut me some slack!”

He finds laughing at your expense to be much more fun, however, as he continues to chuckle while you throw a fit. He’s also not one to let a topic of gossip go undiscussed, and has no problem bringing the conversation back to Eren.

“It’s because you two don’t talk, you know,” Jean tuts, “That’s why you fight like this.”

For the second time, the younger’s words have your eyebrows growing close together. “I mean, I guess—but it’s more than that. Eren and I live together, we obviously talk, but—”

“I know, I know, but just hear me out, okay? You and Eren talk about a lot of things, yeah, but you also… don’t. And sometimes you don’t have to, because you guys, like… get each other.”

“Wow. What a way with words you have, Jean Kirstein. You should write a self-help book.”

“What I mean,” he sneers, unhappy with the sarcasm being thrown his way, “Is that you guys understand each other in weird ways. It’s actually kind of cute—sometimes a little freaky, in all honesty. It’s why you don’t always have to talk about serious things. But you take it for granted and let shit bottle up, and then get in denial about it until you blow up in each other’s faces.”

“Please, you barely passed one philosophy class and now you think you’re Plato.”

“You’re doing the in denial thing right now!” he taunts, “Come one, when you two fight like this, what’s it usually about?”

You sigh, sinking back into the plush leather of the couch, and wrapping your hands around a fluffy throw pillow. Thinking about arguing with Eren isn’t particularly something you like to do, and truthfully, you don’t really get pissed at each other that often. Not to the point of ignoring each other, at least.

“I don’t know,” you drawl, “Drugs, me forgetting things, him doing stupid shit, him thinking Mikasa could do better than you, school, drinking, the fact that he leaves his big ass shoes at the top of the stairs for me to trip over and fall to my death every morning, when—”

“His parents?” Jean cuts you off.

“I—we don’t really… it’s not so much fighting over his parents, it’s all the stuff he does to deal with his parents. He never gives his mom’s boyfriends a chance, and he never really talks about why, either. I know he’s secretly just angry and insecure about his dad, but… I don’t know. That doesn’t really make it better.”

“True,” he nods, “See—he doesn’t talk about it.”

“I know, and I told him that last night, too, but… it’s a sensitive subject for him—his dad, I mean,” you sigh, “And you’re right, he shouldn’t bottle his feelings up, but, on the other hand he’s watched his mom get married five times. I don’t always blame him for not wanting to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but just because it’s hard to talk about doesn’t mean he shouldn’t,” Jean lolls, “Wouldn’t you have rather he said something than have done whatever stupid shit he did to make you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Okay, Socrates, I get it,” you lighten up, “I’ll talk to him—or get him to talk to me. Are you happy?”

“Quite,” he says, annoyingly chipper as he rises from the couch. “I hate seeing my favorite power couple fighting.”

Jean knows his words would elicit a slap to his arm, so he takes off just before you can reach him, prompting you to chase him out of the living room and down the hall. The brunette cackles ridiculously loudly as you scream his name with profanities sprinkled in-between. You catch a hold of the bottom of his shirt and pull him back, finally flicking him on the forehead.

He accepts his punishment with pride, offering you a signature smile in return while you both catch your breaths. It’s a sweet moment, the two of you looking at each other with stupid smiles on your face, exhalations tickling your cheeks.

Jean’s eyes break the gaze first, as he looks down the remainder of your face, and back up to your eyes again. His words could get caught in his throat, but he doesn’t let them—he shakes his head, and swiftly turns around, beckoning for you to follow him.

“Come on, we can steal Marco’s clothes for your pajamas this time.”

Jean spends all of three minutes pulling apart Marco’s dresser before swiping a t-shirt and Christmas themed pajama bottoms from his room. He tosses them in your direction before leading you back down the hall and to the left, opening the door to the guest bedroom for you, before leaving you to change.

They have more than one guest bedroom, but this one is unofficially yours. Little pieces of you can be found littered throughout the room, from spare jewelry to mismatched makeup. You spot a single, gold, teardrop shaped earring on the vanity and sigh as you run your fingers over it.

You swear you’d lost it a few months ago. Trust Jean to put it away for safekeeping without telling you he’d found it. The boy in question returns moments later, knocking while walking through the door with your purse in hand.

“How’d you know I was about to ask you to get that?” you question, a smile on your face as you retrieve the small bag from his hands.

Jean offers you a cocky grin, “Cause I’m the best.”

“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” you tease, “Or, well, an even bigger head.”

Jean ignores your insult, as you take a seat at the edge of the bed, fishing through your bag for your phone to plug it in for the night. He’s about to turn around and bid you goodnight, when the flash of something orange peeping out of your purse prompts his next thought.

“Hey, you picked up your refill, right?” he asks innocently, “It should have been ready last Thursday.”

You sigh, head falling slightly when you close your bag and place it on the vanity. “Uh… no.”

Jean’s mouth is already open, ready with equally friendly and scolding words, but you cut him off before he can talk. “I was going to on Thursday, but I had class late, and then I forgot on Friday and I haven’t really had time since then. But I have a few left-overs from the last two months, so I’ve been taking those!”

Jean’s mouth closes, but his eyes narrow as he begins to walk towards you. You know he’s putting two and two together, so you speak ahead of him again.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have any left over, but it’s only five, I promise! I’ve been really good, lately.”

Jean’s eyes remain in concentrated slits, but his resolve is waning when he reads over your expression. His facade fades as he takes the final steps towards you to stand directly in front of your body.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft through his smile, “I’ll go with you to pick them up tomorrow before I drop you home, yeah?”

It elates him more than it should to see the smile you flash his way. Unfortunately, it’s short-lived, as his next question leaves your face twisted with guilt.

“Have you… told Eren yet?”

You consider lying and saying yes, but something tells you Jean won’t buy it. Your silence seems to speak loud enough, as his shoulders drop with a quiet sigh.

“I want to, I just… well I’m mad at him right now, and even when I’m not… I don’t know why it’s so hard,” you confess.

“He’d wanna know, you know,” Jean says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it to you, either. “You know he wouldn’t judge you or anything.”

“I know that. But, truthfully, if I had things my way, not even you would know, Jean.”

It was an accident that Jean found out that you’d been taking anxiety medication.

It was at somebody’s house party where the majority of your friends and their guests had gotten piss drunk. Reiner’s date had suggested mixing their alcohol with molly she’d supposedly had in her bag. In her drunken stupor, she’d mistaken your purse for her own, but luckily, a not so drunk Jean had noticed the label didn’t match her name, and snagged the bottle before the worst could happen.

They ended up not finding her molly, anyway, but it’s a moot point. Jean had cornered you about the bottle later in the week with honest intentions; he’d been concerned that might be another kind of drug disguised by a prescription veil. However, you’d assured him that it was indeed your prescribed Lexapro, and not a shady mixture of black market substances.

And, he’d been more than understanding in the aftermath. Quite frankly, he had somewhat made it his business to ensure that you got and took your medication on time and felt comfortable getting to and from your therapy appointments.

It’s endearing in a way that made you pause and count your blessings sometimes. Jean had been nothing but unequivocally supportive in his understanding about anxiety and had gone the extra mile to comfort you where need be. It made you wonder why you hesitated to tell Eren on several occasions.

It was probably the very nature of anxiety itself that had you doubting your trust in Eren. You wanted to tell him—of course you did—but, you couldn’t. You know that Eren would do everything in his power to make it better, even if that was just being. You know that he’d want to know and he’d kill to understand. But you couldn’t possibly burden him with your problems, not when he has a million of his own.

The one person in the world you wanted to tell, you were terrified of talking to. And you know it’s irrational to be afraid of him, but you can’t seem to control those thoughts. It’s a tiring, consuming, endless cycle.

Jean watches the way your gaze lowers to the floor. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, and, god, he swears if he could take that train of thought away from you, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a heavy heart and tired eyes, he takes a final step forward and wraps his arms around your body. He counts three, four seconds before you hug him back. He raises a hand to the back to your head, cradling your face into his shoulder and squeezing you tightly.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, you know that,” he speaks, just a notch above a whisper, “I know you’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. You hug him back a little tighter and close your eyes, “Thank you, Jean.”

And Jean holds on, and hopes you know that he wouldn’t let you go, “You’re welcome, (_____).”

You come home to find your entire apartment littered with flowers; in the hallway, on the sectional, atop the counter, up the stairs.

There are several boxes of your favorite macarons stacked in a small pyramid on the kitchen island, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you checked the labels to find that they were shipped straight from the south of France this morning. There’s too many bottles of Ace on the coffee table, sparkling next to a basket of what looks like your regular skincare products. A pretty, gold bow rests atop an even prettier pair of red-bottomed heels, and if you’re not mistaken, that’s a limited edition, vintage YSL clutch on the sectional, resting against your favorite throw pillow.

You sigh, making your way to the couch to pick up the orange envelope sticking out of the handbag. Just as you’re about to open it, you hear footsteps, and a voice that follows.

“You’re back,” Eren chirps from mid-way on the staircase, “I, uh, there’s catering coming from Butter coming soon. I know it’s your favorite,” he continues as he descends the stairs.

He has his hand on the back of his neck and there’s a faint, pink tint to his cheeks as he slowly makes his way towards you. You cross your arms, looking him up and down when he stands in front of you.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a tweed sweater with patches at the elbow. His hair is split down the middle, longer than usual, so the ends of sweep over his eyelashes; and there are telltale signs that he’d been toying with it.

“Eren, what is all of this?” you finally ask, shifting your weight to your right leg.

“Part one of my apology and explanation,” he replies, a hopeful timbre to his voice. You roll your eyes, but he continues anyway, “Actually, part two is in that envelope.”

Skeptical, you unfold your arms and open the envelope. You don’t know what you were expecting—a card, maybe tickets to a musical or something; but what you definitely weren’t expecting were two tickets to Paris.

“France?” you look up, tickets in hand, “You don’t get it do you? You can’t just buy all of this shit, jet us off to Europe and expect everything to be okay.”

“No, no it’s not like that—I swear!” he interjects, hands moving sporadically, “It’s just, well… Can we sit? Then I can explain everything.”

Eren looks at you with those big green eyes and that sad pout to his lips, and you find yourself sighing and taking a seat on the couch against your better judgement. There’s a small smile to his lips when you do—a little victory—and he sits next to you, your knees resting against each other as you face him.

He’s shaking, and your resolve to punish him with whatever solid exterior and half-assed silent treatment dissolves as you take his left hand in your right, and recall your conversation with Jean. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, Eren. You can talk to me.”

When he feels your smaller hand envelop his, the shaking stops, and for a moment, it feels like he can do this, like everything is okay. He smiles, and takes a deep breath.

“The other night, you were right, about my mom and her boyfriend coming home,” he starts, words slow and heavy, “I didn’t even know she was coming—I knew she was visiting this month, but she didn’t tell me when, and I thought it was going to be just her, you know? But then she showed up with him, and, well, I don’t know. I was upset. She’s been home for a week now, and we haven’t even gone to dinner or anything.”

He pauses, and you squeeze his hand for reassurance, “We were supposed to get lunch on Thursday, but she cancelled. Had some meeting or something, I don’t know, I don’t care. Friday comes and she says she wants to have dinner, right?”

You nod, he continues. “I thought it was just going to be us, but he was there. That’s when she told me that… that they’re…” he squeezes his eyes shut, “They’re engaged.”

Your mouth falls into a small o-shape. Everything made perfect sense now.

It’s not that Eren didn’t love his mother, quite the opposite actually. He’s a mama’s boy through and through; she’s his role model, his everything, he adores her. Her career as a designer often takes her on long business trips, most frequently as prolonged stays in Paris, so much so that she relocated her primary office there shortly after Eren graduated high school.

Now, she only visits home for one or two weeks at a time, sometimes only for the weekend. Upon her decision to permanently relocate, she planned to leave Eren under the unofficial supervision of Mikasa. Instead, Eren bought Mikasa her own three-bedroom apartment in Midtown (according to his logic, it was better for her to have her own place than to move in with Jean), and a shared two-story penthouse for the both of you that overlooks Central Park.

Eren misses her more than he cares to admit, but he puts on the same facade every time she comes home because he hates the company she brings.

Paris is where she met her newest boyfriend, Mitchell, and Eren swears he hates that man with every fiber of his being. It’s not saying much, though, not when Eren’s hated every single one of his mother’s past romantic partners, right down to his own father.

“Is… is that why you—”

“Rented a brand new Corvette and went drag racing at one in the morning?” he chuckles, “Yeah. It was stupid, I know, but I was just angry, I guess. I dunno what I was feeling, but it wasn’t good.”

You nod, wrapping both of your hands around his now and offering him a warm smile. He smiles back, just for a moment. “That’s what the tickets are for, actually. The wedding.”

“They’re getting married in France?” you question, to which he nods, “On the first? Isn’t that a little short notice to plan a wedding?”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of Carla Jaeger,” he chuckles, “Apparently, it’s been in the works for a few months now. He proposed with fireworks or some shit. Said she wanted to tell me in person, though.”

“This ticket is for next week,” you say, rereading the dates on the papers. “The wedding is three weeks from now.”

“Well, I kind of figured we could take a little vacation before then,” he grins, “I texted most of the boys earlier, and they can probably come to the wedding, but I want to spend some time with you before it gets hectic, you know? Consider it an end of the semester present.”

Your eyes flicker down to your hand, still wrapped around Eren’s, when he starts to trace circles into your skin, “I thought I just told you, you can’t jet us off to Europe to fix things.”

“You did,” he hums, “And I know I can’t—I’m not trying to, I just… Truthfully, I reserved the plane and the hotel a few weeks back and it really was just going to be a surprise for us—well, more like a gift for you because I know you’ve been busting your ass in chem—but then… everything else happened, and I think a break sounds perfect before I watch my mom get married for the sixth time.”

You watch him continue to toy with your hands for a while, processing your conversation. It was typical of Eren to surprise you like this, so you can’t figure out why this particular present leaves you feeling warmer than usual.

“You sure you don’t need a break from me?”

Eren beams and takes the opportunity to lace your fingers together. “Nah, you’re annoying, but not Jean level annoying.”

You scoff, “I’m telling him you said that.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you, anyway,” he shrugs, “Besides, I might just murder Mitchell if you’re not there with me.”

You chuckle, on the verge of accepting his proposal, but the mention of Jean prompts another thought to cross through your mind. “I’d love to, but I… I don’t know. I don’t want Armin to spend the first few weeks of winter break here all alone.”

This Christmas would mark one year since Armin had seen, or even talked to, any of his immediate family members, with the exception of Erwin.

Last year, you all tried to salvage the damage by sticking around so, at the very least, he didn’t have to feel alone. You and your friends decided that Armin ought to be celebrated, not ostracized for any aspect of himself, so you all chipped in for a cute, impromptu trip to the Catskills so that everyone could be together and close to home.

This year, however, there seemed to be quite a few conflicts of interest. Even if Armin was one of the boys who was planning on attending the wedding, you doubt he had plans leading up to it. You know that Marco, Bertholdt, Mikasa, and Jean had invited him to go to Aspen with them, but Armin declined the offer. Similarly, Connie, Sasha, Annie, Reiner, and Ymir would be off to Dubai as soon as classes ended; an invitation Armin had also turned down.

You weren’t sure what Erwin’s plans were, though you’re certain they involved his own friends in some way or another. At the very least, it was unlikely that he would leave his younger brother completely stranded over the break; but you didn’t want to make plans without knowing Armin wouldn’t be alone.

“He won’t, actually he’ll be closer than you think,” Eren reassures you, “Hange and Moblit wanted to go skiing anyways, so Erwin is taking all of them to the Alps instead of Aspen. Armin doesn’t know yet, but he’s going with them.”

“Shouldn’t Erwin spend his break campaigning, and not skiing? Last I checked, he wasn’t too popular in Queens”

“Ah, you know Erwin,” Eren shrugs, “He has a way of making people devote themselves to him. He’ll win the election with or without campaigning, trust me—the point is, that little baby Armin will be safe and sound under Erwin’s protection, and you don’t have to worry about him.”

“How come you get to call him a baby?”

“Because I’m a hypocritical asshole who doesn’t deserve you, but is hoping you’ll come with me anyway.”

Eren smirks, but there’s a genuine undertone to his words as he moves his fingers to toy with the ring around your pointer finger. The same one he gave to you two Christmases ago. Well, kind of.

The ring he originally gifted you was a Harry Winston piece, with an encrusted band that wrapped into two sunflowers, both made of classic, white diamonds with emeralds sparkling in the center. After seeing the design, and the price tag, you demanded that he take it back, or at the very least, get it sized to fit on your index finger or thumb so that people didn’t get the wrong idea.

Instead, he came back with a simple, silver chain for the original ring to hang from, and the current ring on your finger; a rose gold band with tiny diamonds studded around it. Likely equally as expensive, but more appropriate according to you.

“Fine. But you have to be on your best behavior,” you agree, paying no mind to Eren’s thumb twirling your jewelry, “Do you promise me no drag racing or antics of any sort while we’re there?”

Eren shakes his head at the memory, eyeing the first ring that sits against your chest.

He smiles. “I do.”

The afternoon after your last exam, you bid the remainder of your friends goodbye, grab your bags, and hop on a plane with Eren. It arrives in Paris, but you’re rerouted off to Nice before you can so much as blink at the Eiffel tower; you’d be staying there for the two and half weeks leading up to the wedding, in a small villa.

You had to hand it to him, Eren really outdid himself. It’s dark and nearing three in the morning when you arrive, but even in your sleepy stupor you can admire your accommodations. The villa is secluded, the perfect distance from the water, and decorated lavishly almost to your exact liking. You wouldn’t be surprised if Eren sprung it on you that he’d bought the place, and wasn’t merely renting it for this vacation.

Every day after that, Eren proves he was honest in his intentions of this being a getaway gift to you. He’s planned every activity under the sun—from hot air balloon rides, to helicopter tours, to jet-skiing. The days are certainly fun and filled with beautiful memories, but there’s something special about Nice at sunset; something about the sound of gentle waves brushing up against the beach, and the spotlights carved from sun-cast shadows on the buildings.

It’s just after dinner time, bordering on your eighth night here, when you and Eren are walking along the cobblestone streets that border the beach, the length of your sundress flowing every which way with the breeze, and the tail of Eren’s blazer flailing like a cape behind him.

He looks nice tonight, but, truthfully, he always does. He claimed he hadn’t put on the casual green suit because of your outfit, but you swear he was wearing khakis before he saw your dress. The tips of his ears go red when you tease him about it at dinner, but it doesn’t really matter to you; he would have looked good, regardless. Those suits are made for him, after all; tailored to fit perfectly, and designed by his own mother.

The streets tend to settle down after six, locals and tourists retreating indoors or heading to the beach to relax and draw in the evening. Tonight, however, there’s much more commotion than usual on your route.

“Maybe we should take the long way,” you suggest. On the tips of your toes, you realize that there’s some kind of special event happening in the square, filled with lights and music that grows louder with every step you take.

But the crowd and the lights and the smell of food only piques Eren’s interest. “No way—let’s check it out!”

You don’t have the time to refute before his long legs surpass your own stride, headfirst into the sea of people. You can only follow with a smile and a shake of your head. The soft green of his suit jacket serves as your guide as he navigates through the crowd, but the closer you get to the center, the more people there are.

You can feel palms of your hands growing uncomfortably warm as you become hyperaware of just how many people there are. You clutch the end of your dress in your hand, for both practicality and as a sort of comfort mechanism, as you try your best to calm the anxious wave threatening to crash against you.

With a deep breath, you begin to walk again, unaware of Eren’s actions until you physically walk into his hand, long fingers poking at your belly. You hadn’t realized he stopped walking, or that you’d caught up with him, and your eyebrows crinkle when you look down to see Eren’s left hand extended behind him and towards you, palm facing upwards.

He doesn’t say anything, or look back at you at all. Only wraps his larger fingers around yours when he feels the weight of your hand in his, and continues to guide you through the crowd, his pace slower, and hand firm around yours.

The mass of people becomes more spread out when you approach what appears to be the center of the event; and it looks like a party, maybe a wedding of some sort. There’s food and champagne galore, and more than enough happy guests dancing along to upbeat music in the streets.

Eren’s eyes light up as he takes in the scene, “You wanna dance?”

“What—Eren, no!” you refuse, “We cannot crash these people’s party!”

“Why not?” he counters, without a care in the world, “Seems like an open invitation to me! Come on!”

And for the second time that evening, you find yourself being pulled into his schemes; this time in the direction of the open space dubbed dance floor.

You’re both terrible and ostentatious and people start to watch, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling too wide and laughing too hard to care. Eren has a way of moving both with and against the music, forcing your body to follow his lead.

He shouts something over the noise, but you don’t have time to register his words before he laces your right hand with his left, and places his right hand on your waist. There’s a blink of confusion for a moment before you’re being swept off your feet and into a dramatic dip. You don’t have time to secure yourself against his shoulders, but Eren does a fine job of supporting you with a single arm against your back.

From what you can tell the song is far from over and the dramatic pose is completely unwarranted, but you and the crowd alike are victim to his charm. You indulge yourself, looking up at him with eyes too fond to memorize every feature of his face in this moment; the way he’s laughing with that big, dumb, wide smile of his that makes his nose crinkle and his eyes light up.

You’re too busy looking at him to hear Eren’s voice calling out to you, or even realize that he’s moved you from your pose to standing back upright. He’s equal parts amused and concerned at the glazed over look in your eyes.

“Hello? Anybody home up there?” he teases, elongating the vowels and squeezing your waist to alert you.

The reminder of his hands on your hips pulls you back to reality, your eyes fluttering down to his arms, then back to his face. It feels stuffy suddenly, too close to function.

“Yea—yeah! Do you wanna get a drink? Yeah, let’s get a drink!” you exclaim, haphazardly pointing and walking towards the food.

You don’t see it, but Eren looks on with glittering eyes, his verbal agreement heard only by himself as you veer towards the buffet. He can still feel your body in his grip, still see the specks of gold in your pupils as he lingers on the back of your silhouette lovingly. And before you can realize, he snaps himself out of it—an out of body experience similar to yours a few moments ago—before catching up with you.

You end up socializing for much longer than intended. Eren makes friends with everyone, to no surprise, and, uncharacteristically, you feel influenced by his actions, and converse with a few people yourself. You let him take the lead, though. Partially because he’s better at it, and partially because you just like listening to him speak French.

“Hey, we should probably get out of here,” he whispers into your ear after waving goodbye to a lovely couple you’d just met, “Before the host of this party realizes we’re miles better than his actual guests.”

You nod with a smile, more than happy to play by his rules for the evening. He offers you his hand again, that same, dopey smile on his face when you take it.

He leads you out of the crowd and back on to the path to your villa, the smell of warm food and sounds of vibrant music growing dull as you venture further from the celebration. It’s much darker than it was when you began your trek back from the restaurant, but beautiful all the same.

Your sandals pad against the wooden dock that leads up the villa, and Eren unlocks the door silently, ushering you inside before entering behind you.

“I know I said I wanted to leave, but I’m not really tired yet,” Eren confesses, pulling his blazer off of his shoulders.

“Me neither,” you say, placing your small wristlet on the table with a shrug, “What do you wanna do though, I’m not—”

“Great!” he cuts you off, smile too big. You narrow your own in suspicion. That tone of voice with that look on his face usually meant something mischievous, at best. “Remember when you said the first time you’d smoke would be with me, and then pranced away and took a bowl from Hange and got high as shit at Moblit’s party?”

“Why does everyone remember Moblit’s party but me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, waving the topic away, “Anyway… Do you wanna smoke now?”

You blink. “I… did you… smuggle weed all the way to France?”

“No, of course not!” he refutes, “…I got it here.”

You scoff, but don’t have the time to question him further before Eren’s tugging on your wrist and pulling you into the bedroom. You take to sitting on your bed while he rummages through his suitcase to retrieve a small, clear jar with several rolled joints inside and a lighter to match.

He shuffles next to you in the bed, mindlessly handing you the lighter while he unscrews the top off the jar. He takes out two of the joints, places one next to the jar on the nightstand, and tucks the other between his teeth. He asks you to hand him the lighter, and you do so wordlessly, distracted by the sight of Eren’s gaze and the blunt poking out his mouth.

“This’ll be fun, yeah?” He reassures you, “Technically, you let Hange take your weed virginity, but I’ll be better.”

“Can you not phrase it like that,” you roll your eyes, “You already took my virginity virginity, don’t be bitter.”

An all too smug grin settles on his features as he recounts the fact. “Besides,” you tack on, “I’ve never done it like this before. So, it’s still a first, kind of.”

Eren cups one hand around the joint, sparking the lighter with the other until it catches fire. He inhales, slow and deliberate, as if he were putting on a show, or a lesson, of sorts, taking the smoke into his lungs and out through his mouth.

You’d gravely miscalculated how attractive Eren would look doing this. Sure, he’s hot, you knew that, but the pronunciation of his jawline when he exhales, and the confidence with which he drags on the blunt is a stark reminder to you. He takes a few more hits, just as slow and sensual as the first, and the room begins to feel warmer.

“Come closer,” be beckons, smoke rolling off of his tongue with every syllable.

You snap yourself out of the haze of your imagination and scoot closer to him. He silently hands you the joint, and it feels heavy between your fingers. At the distance, you take in the smell—pungent and off-putting, but too familiar.

Eventually, you bring it to your lips, careful not to let your tongue press against the tip, and inhale slowly, like you’d seen Eren do before. You do your best to hold the smoke in your lungs for a bit, but seeing as the last time you did this you were amped up on adrenaline and drunk off your ass, the task proves to be much more difficult. It tickles before becoming uncomfortable and you exhale ungracefully, puffs of smoke punctuating your coughs.

Eren watches with a grin, amused at the sight of you fanning the excess smoke away with your nose scrunched in distaste. “You should have warned me you were gonna cough like a bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, trying to hide the hint of a smile creeping onto your face. You hand the blunt back to him, “You’re supposed to teach me, not tease me, asshole.”

Eren pauses his laughter, unsure of what to make of your tone; rushed, a bit embarrassed, but testy. It’s quiet while he stares at you, trying not to let the implication of your words run wild in his mind; but it’s futile when you’re pouting like that, the room is growing foggier, and he’s been semi-hard since you accepted his offer.

“Fine. Watch and learn,” he breathes, words coming out more jagged than he’d intended.

This time, he completely exaggerates every motion; he inhales at a tantalizing pace and flutters his eyes closed while he lets the smoke swish in his mouth, down his throat, and expand into his lungs. He cranes his neck upwards, and purses his lips to let the clouds exit in the streamline that follows the slope of his jaw.

Maybe it’s the drugs getting to you, but your mind is filled with nothing but sheer clouds that aren’t thick enough to block out thoughts of Eren. The weed is unattractive, potent in smell, and all kinds of wrong; yet, everything about him is soft, sultry, and pulls you in.

“Wanna try again, or do you need another lesson?”

You faintly mutter a profanity under your breath. His words end with giggles, a sign the drugs have already begun to take their effect on him, his expression is still smug. You forget Eren knows just how attractive he is. Motherfucker.

“Actually,” he cuts your train of thought, “I have a better idea, come ��ere.”

Eren beckons you forward again, closing the gap between your legs so that your knees graze each other under the fabric of your clothing while you’re sat next to each other. He leans over, far too close into your personal space, as if to test something; he freezes when his nose is mere inches from your face, a dissatisfied scrunch taking over his features.

He reinstates his hold on your wrist, motioning your body backwards until your back is against the frame of the bed. He hums in approval, positioning himself next to you again, equally as close, but far more comfortable for what he has planned next.

“I’m—I’m gonna try somethin’, okay?” he stutters, the first word mistakenly coming out in broken German, “Just, don’t freak out on me. It’ll be good, promise.”

You nod, unsure of what you’ve just signed off on, but you don’t have time to ask questions. Eren takes another hit, then passes the blunt to his non-dominant hand. He turns to face you, leans forward, and places his free hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer; the expanse of his palm leaving room for his thumb to venture over the bottom half of your cheek.

Eren pulls you in until your lips are millimeters apart, and he can see the pattern of your eyes in beautiful detail. He shifts his hand now so that the majority of it covers your face, the pad of his thumb running across your bottom lip. He applies the perfect amount of pressure to pry your willing mouth open, and then, finally, exhales.

This time, you can taste it. It’s woodsy, and bitter, but the sweet undertones dance on your tongue. This time, there’s more to think about than just the smoke in your lungs; like the burn of Eren’s hand on your neck; the pressure of his thumb against your bottom lip; the proximity of his lips to yours; the look in his eyes.

“Feel good?” he doesn’t bother to pull away before asking, and the words ghost over your lips with the remaining smoke. You nod; he smiles. “Wanna try again?”

You let out a breathy note of affirmation, and then he’s inhaling and exhaling into you, and you welcome him with pried lips and a heavy thumping in your chest. The confidence with which he maneuvers his body and the drugs is nerve-wracking, yet comforting at the same time; he has an expertise and power that intimidates, but compels you to follow.

Together, you finish the first blunt, and Eren lights the second without missing a beat. His hands are more demanding this around; they guide you into submission, and he’s pleased to find that you’re willing to listen.

After the third exhale, you stop focusing on his hands, and more on his lips. After the fourth, you think you might be high—not to the stars as you infamously were during Moblit’s party—but with a comfortable, dull buzz in your head. Everything feels a little fuzzy, out of touch, but you host a burning want for something more, something tangible.

You don’t know it, but Eren feels the same.

After the fifth exhale, Eren pulls away, the blunt a simple stub as he flicks it away onto the night stand, and you miss him being too close. You miss his hands, you miss his warmth, you crave his touch.

“Eren,” you call, unable to think of or see anything but him in the haze. He answers with a strained, “Yeah?” keening towards the sound of your voice, wide eyes flitting all over your face.

It’s too much, too close, too hot. That’s when you cup his jaw, pull him forward, and meld your lips together.

Kissing Eren is painfully familiar, and unnervingly satisfying. It’s certainly not your first kiss with him; and, yet he has a way of making you feel like it is while reminding you of your history. His lips are soft, and they taste like smoke and the chapstick you swear by because he refuses to buy or test out his own.

You pull away too soon, gauging his reaction with blown-out eyes, before dipping forward to have him against you again. Then again, and again, and again, until Eren is tired of your leaving, and his hands are back on your neck.

This kiss is deeper, Eren searching to satisfy the hunger aching inside of him, and you’re happy to comply when his thumb is pressing at your lower lip again. You open your mouth for him and he doesn’t waste a moment, brushing his tongue against yours experimentally, and then flush into your mouth.

He groans when you rake your fingers into his hair, and pulls back with a hissing noise when you scratch at his nape. Large hands move to grip at your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a concentrated gaze—a brief second for him to admire the sight of you on top of him, before he resumes kissing you. He sucks on your tongue, rolls his past your teeth, and bites on your bottom lip.

You know he relishes in the sounds he elicits from you, and under any normal circumstance, you’re willing to put up a fight with him, but not now. Now, you let him unzip the back of your dress and snake his hands beneath the fabric. The rubbing motions of his hands turn into gripping, gripping into grinding, and eventually, an unfiltered moan slips past your lips when you feel Eren’s erection roll against you.

“Fuck,” he pulls back with a suck of your swollen lip, “You’re so hot.”

Eren quickly switches your positions so that he’s hovering over you. You chuckle lightly underneath him, taking the opportunity to run both your hands through his hair and cradle his head in your hold, “Haven’t done anything yet.”

“I know,” Eren murmurs, dipping his head down to press kisses into your neck, “Still so sexy. So pretty, always.”

Eren bites a hickey into your collar bone, and everywhere he can touch; your neck, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Your moaning serves as the spark to keep him going, but he’s barely coherent himself the way you keep pulling at his hair and grinding yourself against him. Even through his clothes, you can feel how painfully hard he is.

He barely catches your tongue between his lips when you moan again, sucking harshly before bruising his lips over yours again. His hands are grabby again, finally pulling your dress completely off of your body, leaving it to form a puddle on the ground. They’re back on your as soon as possible, massaging over your tits, and running his index finger over your nipples.

“Eren... Eren, please,” you whimper, chest heaving as you look down at him. He rolls his index finger over your right nipple, with his left hand teasing the other with his thumb. You can’t tell if the look in his eyes is a product of the weed, or just his glassy, borderline predatory stare, but it makes you shiver with pleasure when he wraps his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

“I want you.”

“Want you, too,” Eren hums, pulling back with a thin trail of spit from your breast, before moving to give your left nipple the same treatment, “More than you know.”

You keen to him when he teases his teeth against you, finally having had enough you force him off of you with a tug of his hair. “Then take off your clothes.”

Eren blinks, wide-eyed but glazed all the same. He chuckles lightly, a blush spreading over his cheeks as he nods. He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, forgoing undoing the buttons, and pauses briefly with his hands over the zipper of his pants.

“Please tell me you’re not that gone that you forgot how to undo your zipper,” you tease him, chest still heaving from his previous ministrations. Eren smiles, doe-eyed and hazy, and shakes his head.

“No,” he reassures you, finally undoing his zipper and shimmying his pants off his legs, “Was trying to remember what underwear I was wearing. Didn't want it to be embarrassing.”

His honesty makes you laugh, and Eren pauses for a moment to soak it in. Even like this, even with him stumbling over the steps to undress himself, and you almost completely naked in front of him, he can make you smile. There’s something equally sexy and endearing about your giggles; a juxtaposition that makes him want to hug you or kiss you or something in between. And you—you like the look in his eyes even through your giggling; the way he smiles back and blushes and tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “Don’t think mine are particularly sexy either.”

Eren hums, shuffling back on to the bed so that he’s between your legs, and leans forward to kiss you again. He still can’t seem to keep his hands off of you, his fingers immediately flying to your underwear and peeling them off your legs, pulling you closer despite the lack of space between your bodies.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter,” Eren echos, tossing the offending item to the side, before cupping your face in his hands, “I’d still wanna fuck you in your granny panties.”

“You wanna fuck me?” you question, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

“Yeah, I do,” Eren can’t help but to smile again, happy and high and drunk on you, too, “Will you let me?”

Your feverish nodding is all it takes for Eren’s mind to go hazy again; clouded with you, you, you. You pull him into a kiss, arching your body into his, and running your hands down the sides of his back. He moans at the feeling, punishing you by nipping at your lower lip and pressing your stomach back to the mattress with his palm.

Your eyes meet his as Eren lines himself up with your cunt, teasing your folds with the head; but it doesn’t take long before he finally pushes in, sheathing himself inside you completely without movement. He waits a minute, whether it’s to make you comfortable, or to gather his own bearings, you’re not sure; but when he’s ready, he flashes you a smile and waits for one in return, before he starts thrusting.

You know Eren’s not gentle; rough whether or not he intends to be by virtue of his size in comparison to you, but you seem to have forgotten just how capable he is of making you lose your senses. He has you gasping, grasping at him at him unintelligibly, feeling full with his cock inside of you.

Eren groans, borderline growls, when he feels you clench around him, when he sees you shaking beneath him. He could do this all; could watch you all day.

“So pretty, the prettiest. Prettiest girl, my favorite girl,” Eren praises, eyes raking up and down your thrashing body, “My favorite fucking girl.”

“You—you, too.”

“Yeah? I’m your favorite, too?” Eren coos, reaching out to guide your arms over your head, the force of his body pinning your hands down; you can hardly gasp before he lacess your fingers together, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Promised you, didn’t I? That I’d be good to you, be on my best behavior,” Eren reminds you, leaning forward.

He eyes your necklace—eyes glued to ring around it—bouncing with your body. He bends his head down to kiss it, bites at the skin near it; a possessive streak overcoming him as the diamonds shine against you. “I said I’d treat you good, always. Meant it.”

He stutters, when you squeeze him back; fingers tightening around his hold, your pussy clenching around his cock. Your whining is insistent, and mixes with Eren’s low moans and guttural noises. Eren doesn’t let up his pace, fucking you fast and deep, and it’s only a matter of time before you feel a knot twisting in your belly.

You attempt to move your arms, searching for a release of the feeling building up inside of you but Eren is strong; stronger than you, and he keeps you in your place. Keeps your arms pinned above you, keeps his palms pressed into yours, keeps his lips hovering above yours, just out of reach.

“Eren,” you call his name through shaky moans.

“Yeah? What, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, his lips needy and hungry over yours. Eren fucks you and kisses you through your orgasm, tasting your moans on his tongue in timing with him cumming inside of you. You don’t let up; kissing him lewdly while you both come down from your highs.

“So good,” Eren croons against your lips, down your jaw, into your skin, “So good for me.”

You both moan in chorus when he finally pulls out, Eren’s head laying on your collar, nose nuzzling into your neck. He lets your hands free, and immediately you wrap them around his back, holding him close as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, with Eren on top of you, and your thumb rubbing circles into his cheek while he sleeps soundly. Maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less; but the euphoria of your sex doesn’t quiet seem to fade.

It might last all night, maybe even for the rest of your trip but you don’t mind. You think back to earlier in the evening, when you’d caught his gaze after your dance. The feeling isn’t all that different; warm, and fuzzy, and too much and not enough all at once. It feels good, it feels like Eren.

You hum softly to yourself, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy on your chest, when you realize exactly what these two moments have in common: a rare event in which Eren is still in front of you, steady and stagnant, no running or chasing; and you don’t want to let him go.

Sometimes Eren thinks you act oblivious on purpose just to fuck with him, because there’s absolutely no way you—or any human with a functioning nervous system and social cues—can’t tell that he’s completely, stupidly, and embarrassingly in love with you.

Long gone are his days of trying to deny it or get over it. He realized that sophomore year of high school—almost eight years ago—that no matter where he went, what kind of drug he inhaled, or how hard he tried, you’d be permanently etched into his heart. That doesn’t make it any less exhausting, and, in fact, only makes it more astounding that you haven’t caught on yet. Honestly, Eren’s considered hiring a private psychiatrist just to make nothing’s wrong with you.

Amazingly, the remainder of your vacation continues just like the former half. The only exception being that now you’re in Paris. And that he’s shamelessly coerced you into letting him fuck your brains out on several occasions. But besides that, everything’s chill.

Just two best friends traveling through France together and stopping to fuck in any semi-private location they can find. Just two peas in a pod walking along the Champs Elysées at damn near midnight. Just two best buds with linked arms tasting (see: feeding each other) every macaron flavor they come across while violinists play stupidly romantic, classical music in the background.

He knows he should probably talk to you about it, but for some reason he can’t. Like telling you would make it all too real, and give it a meaning that could so easily be taken away from him; give you a reason to want to leave him. Right now, it’s just a fantasy, and he’s free to keep dreaming, believing that he’s special and worth enough for the affection you’ve shown him.

He doesn’t want to be one in a list of your boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands; he wants to be your only one, and if he can’t be, then he’d rather be stuck to your side as your best friend. At least that way, in someway, he could remain special to you; not a forgotten, ordinary ex of your past.

Though, a best friend who he’s sleeping with regularly and he’s in love with and will always be in love with is starting to sound a lot like a husband to him. At least, the kind of husband he would like to be to you.

You call his name, asking him if he wants to try another sweet. Eren rolls his eyes. What he wants is to fuck you, and marry you, and have you bless his stupid little existence with two runts for kids that look like him but act like you so his life savings don’t run out by the time they’re twelve. But sure, he’ll settle for having you feed him another macaron in the meantime.

“This one tastes just like the coconut one,” he mumbles, chewing his way through the pastry you’d stuffed into his mouth whole.

It’s the seventh bakery you’ve stopped at tonight, and even though Eren’s growing pretty sick of the sugary treats, he’ll walk with you to every damn bakery in Paris tonight if that’s what you want.

He blinks at the thought. He’s so lovesick it’s disgusting. And he wouldn’t do a damn thing to change it.

“That’s probably because it’s almond and coconut flavored,” you say, wiping the stickiness from your fingers onto a napkin.

“I didn’t taste any almonds.”

“I don’t even think you could spell almond, much less tell me what they taste like.”

Eren simply pouts in refute, leaving you giggling at his expression. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, but you seem even prettier in Paris than in Nice. But, that’s probably his rose-colored glasses speaking.

“You think there’ll be macarons at the reception?” you question, biting into yet another pistachio flavored treat, “And if not, would it be rude to bring my own?”

He chuckles. “Yes, babe, I’m sure there will be macarons there.”

He’s always loved Paris, even when his mom moved away here and left him in New York, and he’d always loved it more when you’re with him. He feared that having to attend another, what he considered to be wasteful, wedding in arguably one of his favorite places in the world would leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but, thankfully, he’s only fallen deeper in love since being here.

“You sure you won’t be sick of them by tomorrow?” he asks, watching you debate between taste testing another variation of vanilla bean or rosé.

“How could I get sick of them?” you answer offhandedly, not sparing him a glance away as you choose the pink snack. How could he get sick of you.

“By the time we get back to New York you’ll have forgotten all about them,” he scoffs.

“Don’t worry I’ll quit it soon. I’ll have to eat something solid if I wanna take my meds and go to bed,” you spew with a smile, unaware of what you’ve actually just said, “But they are delicious and I have no regrets.”

Eren pauses. Then so do you, mouth stuffed with sickly sweet.

“I mean—”

“I know, you know,” he cuts you off, “About the meds and stuff.”

You look like you could pass out, or scream, or cry, or everything in between. Eren figures saying more is better than saying less, so he continues.

“I saw a bottle in the bathroom a few months ago,” he admits shyly, but careful about his tone, “Didn’t understand half the words on the label, but it had your name on it so I just, uh… Googled it.”

Of course he knows. Eren’s always kind of known, just never had the words to express it. He imagines that’s what you’re feeling right now.

“Oh,” you finally gape, “Why didn’t you, um… you know, like, say… anything?”

“It seemed like your secret to tell,” Eren shrugs, features softening out, “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

Eren’s always been better at showing than saying, anyway. He hopes that his actions, small as they may seem, might have provided you with any sort of comfort in the past few months. Maybe even before that, too.

“Oh,” you repeat, continually blinking at him, “That’s… that’s it? You’re cool with it?”

Now it’s Eren’s turn to blink. “What do you mean am I cool with it? They’re your meds.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re not mad I didn’t tell—”

“Of course I’m not mad,” he cuts you off with a soft smile, “It’s not really my business. I mean, like, you’re my business because I care about you, but you have your own private stuff, too, which is cool. Besides, when I was, uh, researching it, I learned that it can be hard to tell people stuff like that even if—”

Eren shuts up when he feels your weight against him and your arms wrapped around him. Shell shocked, he takes a moment to hug you back, and slowly comes to rest his chin atop your head after leaving a flurry of kisses.

“You didn’t have to look it up or do any kind of research, you know,” you mumble softly into his jacket. Eren borderline chortles, but only hugs you more tightly.

“Of course I did. If not for you, then for myself, because I meant it when I said I’d never seen half the words on the prescription before in my life,” he replies, heart glowing at the sound of your small chuckles.

He’s expecting an equally witty response, but you surprise him when you pull back just enough to face him, a hazy smile on your face. “You’re amazing, Eren.”

Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush—fucking idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he boasts, leaning back into the coolest pose he could muster up while ignoring the growing heat creeping up his neck. It’s all in vain as you reach over to playfully tug at one of his ears.

He thinks you’re pretty like this. All the time, but most notably when he has you in his arms. So pretty, that he has to lean forward to kiss you; you don’t seem to mind, if the way you smile into the kiss is any indication of your feelings. Eren finds himself mirroring your grin; moving his arms from around your waist to the sides of your face.

The workers in this poor little café probably hate the two of you, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s got his favorite girl in his arms right now, and you taste like almonds and coconuts and like the love of his life.

And he should tell you. Eren wants to tell you, and he finds himself wondering if those same intrusive, fearful thoughts were part of the driving force behind your own reason to keep your secrets from him.

You pull away from him, hands lightly draped around his neck, and you smile like you’re shy—like he hasn’t known you your whole life. Still, Eren finds himself smiling back; and thinks that if you were brave enough to tell him how you were feeling, then he should do the same.

“(_____), I… I gotta tell you something,” he starts, voice soft as his fingers curl around your waist a little more tightly, “Though, I’m kind of hoping you already know.”

You blink at him, almost innocently. Eren bites the inside of his jaw; you’re going to have to stop doing that before he jumps you again.

Better now than never, he supposes. He tries to shake his nerves when he takes your hands in his, completely covering them with his palms, and closes his eyes. Despite that, you try to offer him comfort, squeezing his fingers as best you can; and Eren takes that moment to thank his lucky stars for whoever decided to put you in his life. Because he knows that no matter what, even if he royally fucks this up, you’ll find some way to be there for him.

He slowly blinks his eyes open again, gaze resting on the ring around your neck. A faded chuckle escapes his lips when looks at it. The only one who got the wrong idea about his gift was you. But, he supposes that’s his fault; he never did explain it, after all.

“It’s nothing… It’s just that, I’m in—”

But Eren’s startled by a voice that makes him freeze. He almost wants to believe he misheard it, but he can hear the telltale clacking of vintage heels on the floor of the bakery and he knows that he didn’t mishear a thing.

Eren turns his head, and sure enough, there is his mother, in all her five foot glory, adorned in designer clothing from her beret to her shoes. With a fucking street urchin on her arm.

“Well, well, well, what a lovely surprise,” Carla beams, red lipstick perfectly in place even after a long day of wear.

Eren’s eyebrows draw together, as he takes in his mother and her fiancé standing in front of him. He can just barely register you calling out towards her, carefully maneuvering yourself off of his lap, and into the neighboring chair; but still keeping your right hand wrapped around his left. He can feel you squeeze it—whether to give him comfort, or warning, he’s not sure yet; probably both.

“It’s so good to see you!” you beam, excitedly offering her and Mitchell a seat across from the two of you at the table. Eren opens his mouth to refute, but you squeeze his hand again; a warning.

Carla leans forward to encase you in a hug, exchanging cheek kisses, and leaving Eren to stare at the street rat across from him. Mitchell seems to know better than to make eye contact with him, irises scattering from Carla’s back to the décor of the bakery while the two girls catch up.

“We missed you at the rehearsal dinner on Sunday,” Carla recounts, eyes fluttering to Eren’s briefly. One look into her son’s eyes, and she understands why; one look into his mother’s eyes, and Eren knows she has him all figured out. “I was worried you might not show at all.”

Eren strategically averts your gaze when you turn your head towards him, choosing to look at his mother instead.

“I didn’t even know there was a rehearsal dinner,” you tell her, tone polite, but Eren can hear the clear jab directed towards him, “I’m sorry, I—we would have gone, otherwise.”

“No need to apologize, darling,” Carla smiles, “I’m sure you two were very busy.”

“We were,” Eren cuts in, words definite. He sees a hint of surprise flash in his mother’s eyes briefly, expertly covered up with her sweet demeanor. She only nods in understanding, sitting back a bit to wrap her arm around Mitchell’s.

“What are you even doing here, Ma?” Eren questions, even as you do the same with his hands under the table, “Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“After the third or fourth wedding, you grow tired of pleasantries and superstitions, my love,” she replies, “This place makes Mitchell’s favorite macarons, we thought we’d share a few before the big day. Maybe get some tea as a pre-celebration.”

The topic of sweets has you speaking up once again, engaging both his mother and Mitchell in a discussion about them, and your other findings from bakery hopping earlier. If Eren didn’t love you to pieces, he would have left the table a long time ago.

It carries on much longer than he can bear to endure; almost an hour of you, and his mother, and Mitchell making pleasant conversation while he tries his best not to brood beside you, but it’s futile. He feels like a little kid again. Stuck at the dinner table with his mother and a man he was being forced to get to know, only for him to become a stranger to him in a matter of months.

Eren grinds his teeth into each other when you laugh at something Mitchell says. He’s not going to sit through his any longer; or ever again.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eren says, voice blatantly monotonous as his cuts through the conversation, “But we should all probably head back go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Eren, we should—” but, he stands up quickly, hand wrapping around yours to force you upwards too.

He doesn’t care to look at you, knowing the dissatisfied expression he’ll be met with. He fishes for his wallet and pulls out too many Euros, neatly tucking them under an unused knife to pay for the meal.

Eren’s steps out from between his chair and the table. “We’ll see you guys tomorr—” But is stopped before he can take three steps away.

His mother’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She stands, significantly shorter than Eren’s full height. “Actually, Eren, could I borrow you for a bit?”

And he doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly the conversation waiting for him. But he looks down at her, lets his eyes flicker to you, and back to her, and he knows he doesn’t have the heart to walk away. Not even if he tried.

He sighs with a shallow nod. He can feel your hand on his shoulder, the proud smile on your lips when you tell him that you’ll meet him back at your hotel. Mitchell ensures him and Carla that he’ll make sure you get back safely, and Eren still can’t stand the guy, but he’s grateful that he can at least be of use for something.

Eren kisses you on the forehead briefly, a promise to you and himself that he’ll finish his confession later. After all, he probably should come to terms with the woman who taught him what love is before he vowed to love you for the rest of his life.

The walk to his mother’s hotel is silent, Eren choosing to keep to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent his mom from holding them. He’s probably acting like a child, but isn’t that what he is to her; isn’t that she treats him as.

“Look, Ma, you don’t need my approval to marry him,” Eren grumbles, when they finally exit the elevator into the hotel room, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Carla offers him a small grin, even if he won’t look at her directly, “But it matters to me.”

“Why does it matter now? It didn’t matter with Keith, or Henry, or Henri with an I, or any of the others,” Eren mumbles, reluctantly taking a seat on the stool opposite the vanity.

His mother tracks his movements with soft eyes and an amused grin as Eren absentmindedly bends a knee and begins to fiddle with the hem of his pants. Just like he used to when he was upset as a child.

“It mattered then, too, Eren,” she tells him, sitting on the stool and facing him.

He’s surprised by her words, his wide eyes giving him away even if he attempts to act unfazed. “It didn’t seem like it.”

Carla opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, words stuck in her throat. She watches Eren’s hunched figure, her tall son not even bothering to look her in the eyes. She exhales slowly; if he were five feet smaller, he’d have tucked himself under her arm, still refusing to look at her, but he’d have snuggled his head into her side while he pouted anyway.

“I suppose it didn’t,” she admits, “In the end, the love wasn’t enough to make it last, then.”

Eren is quiet for a bit at that, pulling at his pants leg. “And… and you love him enough, now?”

“It’s more than love, Eren. It’s... happiness—for yourself and another person—it’s being okay with somebody knowing you now, and forever. Whichever version of you that is.”

“Then why did you marry them before?” Eren asks, “If you knew it wasn’t enough, if you knew it was just going to end up as another big mistake.”

“Maybe the marriages were a mistake, and some of what came with them, but I don’t think the feelings were,” Carla muses, “Love is never wasted.”

“How can you say that?” Eren questions, disbelief and exasperation painted on his face, “Of course it is—you wasted your time, and your money, and your—your everything on those people who couldn’t care less about you now!”

“Eren—”

“You let them into our house,” Eren speaks over her, “You let them into your life, and they left. They always left—”

“Eren—”

“—And you even let some of them come back! Everyone, you let everyone have another chance, another anniversary, another wedding,” He’s ranting, crying, hot, irrational tears streaming down his face; hiccups interrupting his speech, “So—so, so if it’s not wasted and everyone gets another chance and another chance and another chance—why didn’t he come back, huh? For his?”

Eren’s standing now, arms flailing every which way during his breakdown, but his mother doesn’t try to stop him. She lets him continue, hears him out.

“If it’s love—if it’s not wasted, and it’s real—then why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t he want to? Why—why didn’t he want me? Why did I end up the bastard?”

Eren looks his mother in the eyes for the first time in the duration of their conversation with that final question; with his vision blurry, and chest heaving, and cheeks wet. Carla has no words to say; can only carefully open her arms, and wait for her son to come crashing into them. And he does; and it rains and pours, and Eren holds onto his mother for dear life, and onto the pieces of her breaking heart.

“Am I not good enough to have that kind of love?” Eren asks through tears, “Am I not special enough to want to know?”

“Eren,” she finally speaks, moving to cradle his head in her hands, “You don’t have to be special or good, to be known or loved. It’s enough that you were born. That’s enough to make you deserving of love.”

She doesn’t mind the tears against her palms or the hiccups of Eren’s breathing, “And you already have it.”

And Eren looks at her with eyes wide and wild like a child, staring at the first person to have ever loved someone as messed up, and plain, and ordinary as him; and he can feel more tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Ma, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, chin resting on her shoulder while his shake through his tears, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Carla hugs her son as close as she can, like he’s five years old and the apple of her eye and she can take all his pain away. “You don’t have to be. You’re my son, and I’ll love you always.”

It feels like they have all the time in the world like that, to hug and cry and apologize; but Carla hopes Eren knows that he was always forgiven; that he never had anything to apologize for in the first place.

“She loves you, too, baby,” she coos, holding Eren as tight as possible, “But you have to let her know that. That you accept it.”

“Do you think she knows?” Eren asks, words muffled into the fabric of her clothing, “That I love her, too?”

“I do,” Carla confirms, pulling away to look at Eren in the eyes; his beautiful, shining, green eyes, “But I don’t think that either of you really realized it. I mean, you did give her an engagement ring, darling.”

Eren huffs at the memory, “She thought it was a gift.”

“Because you gave it to her as a gift.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Love has a way of making people blind,” Carla muses, “Especially two lovesick semi-adults with too much money on their hands.”

Eren’s cheeks grow pink at the accusation, “It’s your money!”

“Yes, and I’m very happy to have it,” Carla chuckles, motioning for Eren to stand up. He does, and she looks up at him with glimmering, proud eyes. “Now, go, shoo. You have a girl to propose to, don’t you? There might be two Jaeger weddings this weekend.”

Eren nods, certain of himself for the first time in a while. He turns on his heel with a vigor igniting his footsteps, but pauses when he reaches the elevator. He makes a sharp turn, running back to his mom one last time, and squeezing her suddenly, and tightly against him.

“I love you, mom,” he says; the words too foreign on his tongue, and he vows to not let them be a stranger to his vocabulary from here on out.

“I love, you, too, Eren,” Carla calmly wraps her arms around her son one last time, “And I always will.”

You half-expected your walk back to your hotel with Mitchell to be painfully awkward, but he proves to be a pleasant conversationalist, even in Carla’s absence.

You know that Eren isn’t fond of him, but you wish that he would at least give him a chance. There’s no way to know if a marriage—if any relationship—will last forever, but, sometimes, you think it’s not about knowing about forever; but, rather about wanting it to make it there; about willing to go the distance with that person.

You can see that want, that willingness that works alongside love in Mitchell and Carla’s relationship, that stands out from her past marriages. You get the feeling they’re going to last; and that, most importantly, they both want it to, too.

It’s quiet out as you both walk the streets of Paris, Mitchell taking the time to point out small notes in architecture that interest you. You readjust your jacket as a gust of wind washes over you, careful to make sure your necklace doesn’t snag against your clothing.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” he calls to you gently.

“Thank you,” Surprised, you quickly let out an embarrassed cough, looking down to your left hand resting atop the uppermost button on your coat. “It was a gift.”

“I meant that one,” Mitchell corrects, carefully gesturing to his own neck to indicate that he was talking about the ring on your necklace, and not the one on your finger.

“Oh, thank you,” you repeat, “That one was actually a gift, too.”

The older man hums, continuing your walk to your hotel. “Must have been one hell of a gift. I don’t know many people who give out engagement rings as presents.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it wasn’t—it’s not an engagement ring,” you tell him, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks even in the chilly atmosphere of the night, “Eren gave it to me, actually, a few years ago—it was a Christmas gift.”

“Eren, huh?” Mitchell smiles fondly, “That makes sense. Carla tells me how much he cares about you.”

“You—she does?” you stutter. Mitchell nods. “I—I mean, I care about him, too.”

“Enough to accept an engagement ring from him, it seems,” Mitchell taunts, “I’m no specialist, but I know a Harry Winston piece when I see it. They’re not cheap.”

“Trust me, I know,” you scoff, “I almost killed him when I saw how much he spent on it.”

“And you took it, anyway?”

“Well, he—he was supposed to return it,” you defend yourself, “Because I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea! But he just, well, he gave me the other one instead, so I wear that one on my hand.”

Mitchell pauses, just as you both stand to the entrance of your hotel. “And what was the wrong idea you didn’t want people getting.”

“That... that...,” you pause, thinking back to that Christmas day.

Even though Eren is known for spending ludacris amounts of money, the ring came as a genuine surprise to you. A couple thousand on shoes, sure—you’re victim to that yourself; a couple hundred thousand on a lavish vacation wasn’t out of the ordinary, either; but a million, maybe even more, on a ring that you could have only ever asked of him in your dreams was another thing completely.

And, sure, even a few million didn’t mean much to you or Eren at the end of the day, but it wasn’t just the price; it was the object of the money, too. To accept a house, or a car, or a jet for that amount is something you could rationalize; but a ring seemed foreign, and far out of your league.

Then there was the display and value it held beyond money. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, but more than that, it’s tailored to your exact liking. The synthesis of your aesthetic and everything you could ask for, garnished with the memory of Eren in the very design; the diamonds you love, the flowers that remind him of you, and the way they stems wrap around each other and the petals meet in the middle.

A small gasp leaves your lips and instinctively, you reach to clutch the ring in your hold. There was no way this was an engagement ring... Eren hadn’t proposed to you when he gave it to you—in fact, he was so casual about it, that it had you stunned that he hadn’t thought to consider that other people might think it meant something more than what he intended it to be.

But, looking back, it seems like you’re the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Because Eren told you, even then, that he’d wanted you forever; you didn’t know how to hear him. It was all right there—not just in the ring, but in all his gifts, in the entirety of your friendship.

Eren loves you, more than you could ever know.

“It’s an engagement ring,” you say aloud, but more to yourself than to Mitchell, “Oh my god, it’s an engagement ring.”

Mitchell can’t do anything but smile at your revelation. You’re practically bouncing off the walls, connecting the puzzle pieces of your relationship in the middle of the street at damn near midnight, but you don’t care; because it finally feels right, and it finally, finally all makes sense.

“He, but he never pro—oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill him.”

You feel elated and confused and happy and murderous all at once. Eren wanted to marry you; Eren loved you. He wants you for the rest of his life, and you’ve been too blind to see it this entire time.

Still, you think that maybe a verbal proposal might have helped to open your eyes a bit.

“Mitchell, I have to—”

You’re cut off by the echo of your name coming from the opposite end of the street, and you can just barely make out of Eren’s figure in the faded lights of the street lamps. His name falls from your lips like a whisper, and you hardly register Mitchell’s amused, soft laughter from beside you.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, patting you on the shoulder, “I better get back to Carla. Something tells me you two have a bit to talk about.”

You can barely nod at him, eye still wide and stunned, but a smile on your face even in your fearful anticipation. You don’t have time to thank him before he turns away, bidding you goodnight; and then you have something else to focus on, as Eren’s footsteps grow louder, and his silhouette grows sharper the closer he gets to you.

He practically crashes into you, chest heaving, hair wind-swept and wild from his running. He puts his hands on your shoulders, to steady himself physically and mentally, labored breaths ghosting over the top of your head.

“Hi,” he finally squeaks; and that stupid, big, dopey grin is on his face.

It’s ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that you can’t help but greet him back. The two of you stand there, smiling like fools for god knows how long, before the realization strikes you for a second time.

Eren opens his mouth to finally speak, but a pained squeal leaves his lips instead as he feels the back of your hand slap his chest. “Ouch—hey, what was that for!”

“What the hell do you think you were doing proposing to me without telling me?” you screech, packing another punch to his chest for good measure, but it’s a poor barrier and does nothing to stop your tears from falling, “You’re an idiot, I should kill you for this, you know that, Eren Jaeger?”

Eren laughs softly, only to be heard by you in close proximity. He takes your offending hand in his, and reaches for your other, pulling both of them between your bodies. He can feel tears welling in his own eyes, as he looks down at the necklace, glimmering perfectly under the moonlight.  

“In my defense, the first thing you told me to do when I gave it to you was to return it.”

“I might not have said that if you told me what it meant,” you can hardly choke out a laugh through your tears; and Eren can’t stop his from falling either, “It’s insane, you know. This whole thing—to ask me to marry you at 19. For me to not realize until we’re 21.”

“I know,” Eren agrees, inching closer even though there’s barely any room between you, “I know. But I know I love you, every version of you. I always have, I always will.”

You close your eyes as Eren’s hands move to your face, gingerly sweeping your tears away from your cheeks. He feels too close, it feels like too much; but you don’t want him to move.

“You know... if you had asked me, then,” you start, blinking your eyes open with a sniffle; you’re met with Eren’s emerald greens one with far too much hope and love glimmering in them, “I—I don’t even know what I would have said.”

“And if I asked you now?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, slowly raising your hands to wrap around Eren’s wrist, and lower them to your neck, before looking at him again, “Ask me.”

Eren blinks, carefully trailing his hands up and around your neck, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your necklace. He hardly lets the chain pool into his hand before it’s tossed aside, and the ring is still between his thumbs and index fingers as he lowers himself on to one knee.

“You are the love of my life, and there’s not a single version of life—a single version of you, or me—where I don’t want to be with you forever,” Eren says, “And you know how shit I am with my words, but I fucking mean it. I swear to you, that I’ll do my best every day to show you how much you mean to me; marry me, and I’ll prove it to you, I swear, I will.”  

Your lips are wobbling at Eren’s confession below you, and you can just barely beckon him upwards in your state. He’s hardly back on two feet before you’re pulling him against you, ghosting the word “yes” on his lips before you kiss him.

You both melt into the kiss, Eren’s hands skillfully cupping your cheeks, while he keeps the ring in his hold and bruises your lips together.

“You don’t have to prove it to me, Eren,” you assure him, hand shaking when you pull apart and let him slip the ring onto your finger—where it belongs, “You already have.”

For his first birthday as a married man, Eren requested something intimate. He wanted just a small celebration with all of your mutual friends, some good food, alcohol, and lots of fun.

Supposedly simple and intimate for him entailed renting out the top floor of the Whitney, which was currently encasing an exhibit portraying some kind of abstract modern art that allowed for a very drunk Eren and Armin have to entertain themselves by trying their best to recreate the paintings using very flawed couples aerial yoga.

The art, paired with the dimmed lighting, Jean’s choice selection of overtly sexual music, and Eren’s pick of overpriced champagne also meant that Marco, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha found everything ten times funnier than they were—which meant they were a million times louder than usual.

Jean stands next to you by the bar, watching as Eren attempts to hold Armin above his head by holding on to just his waist. They’re unsuccessful, of course, resulting in both boys toppling onto the ground as the majority of their older friends laugh along.

“Lucky me, I get to take him home at the end of the night,” you drawl, turning to the bartender to order another drink.

She smiles, easily preparing your martini and sliding it you with an inquiry. “That’s your boyfriend? The tall one with the brown hair?”

“No,” you sigh, eyes closed for a moment before taking the glass between your fingers. “That’s my husband, unfortunately.”

× even more notes: this fic. is my baby. it’s been a draft of mine for over two years at this point. it’s gone through various fandoms but i’ve never quite been able to complete and post it, so i’m very happy that it’s finally here! i hope you all enjoyed, and i just wanted to say that i’m glad to finally have been able to share this with you all!

[awful-creature]

Even when I was young, I felt no connection nor desire for masculinity — I always hated it. I wanted nothing to do with it; I wanted to kill that part of me. Since I was a child, being around men has felt unsafe. Being in a men’s bathroom has always made me deeply uncomfortable. It’s interesting to look back now and see all the points where I got so close to realizing but didn’t let myself. I even wrote something about that, too. As I move closer towards myself, I move further from the stuff that used to hurt him. There’s still bad thoughts sometimes, but they’re rare and silent now. Any time they come back for a second, it’s always “everything is so exhausting and I’m tired” instead of “I’m worthless and will never be happy.”

When I believed I was a depressed self hating anxiety ridden boy, I thought me dying wasn’t a big deal. Now that I’m a punk possum bitch, I don’t want to die. I feel like I’m only just starting to live. I finally feel like my life is worth something. It feels weird to say that, but it’s true. I will not throw it away. And besides, people need me now. Sometimes, to protect yourself, those in your community, or those you love, you have to be willing to go as far as you need to. Pacifism only benefits those who use violence to achieve and maintain control. Old me would probably be an ass about that, but fuck that bitch, he’s dead and buried.

What I can say is that he taught me who I wasn’t and helped me find who I was. But his time is over. And he was right, he’d never be happy. Nothing but letting us free would make him happy, and that requires he leaves. And, like, sure, continuum between one to the other. But I don’t believe he and I are the same person anymore. We were never separate, but we are distinct. Going from one to the other has made me more confident, more emotionally honest, more vulnerable, and I will never give that up. No matter what anyone says.

So fuck you if you try to define who I am. I won’t listen.

[allfortheaesthetic]

so now i’m going to post my reactions while watching jatp for the first time. enjoy (keep in mind i know a lot that happens because i got so spoiled because the internet)

1x01

“hollywood 1995” AHHHHHHHHHHHH i’m gonna cry

“sunset curve showcase sold out” MY SONS

“one two three” ALEX

i’m in public. don’t cry.

BOBBY HOLDING UP THE GUITAR

LUKES NOD AND THEN REGGIE BOUNCING OVER TO SHARE THE MIKE

THEYRE SO CUTE

BOBBY KICKING OFF THE DRUM STAND THINGY

“we ain’t searching for tomorrow” “tomoRROW”

THE GUITAR SWING

bobby!!!!!!!

you gotta appreciate them giving it their all for sound check

REGGIE’S WINK

THE HANDSHAKE/FIST BUMP THING

luke is an adorable puppy

so’s alex

NOT STREET DOGS

bobby “terrible flirting activated”

i mean he really tried the vegetarian

i relate tho because i also cannot flirt

“size beautiful” all y’all suck at flirting.

tho she got a free shirt so good for her.

i’m taking way too long to watch it because i keep pausing it to freak out. stupid second hand embarrassment

luke you did bobby dirty...i’d do it too.

yall i may be stupid but i would never eat hotdogs out of a CAR

“it’ll help with the rust” EXCUSE ME. NOPE. GO BACK INSIDE WITH BOBBY. BECOME VEGETARIAN

“that’s a new flavor” “chill, man, street dogs haven’t killed us yet” wow. yall stupid stupid.

okay. i know it’s sad. and i’m really upset about it. but the cut from the eating to the ambulance made me laugh so hard.

I HATE HOW THEYRE ALLOWED TO WEAR HATS IN SCHOOL IN EVERY KIDS SHOW BECAUSE ITS A LIE. A L I E

“hey underachiever” “hey disappointment” wow. that’s accurate best-friend representation. also damn flashbacks to my parents.

FLYNN IS NOW MY WIFE “demon”

ight so carrie may be... bitchy. but damn she’s got style.

matter of fact so does julie. and flynn. damn they’re all just better than me huh.

i love how the teacher says “take your time” like i know how it talks about how she said it was julie’s last chance but her being kind about it makes my anxiety ridden self wish my teachers were like that.

i love ray.

also the old instruments. i’m dying on the hill that bobby gave the house to rose and asked her to keep them.

THE CD OOOOOOH

poor julie was just vibing and then they show up 😂😂 also i love her slippers.

the crucifix!!

luke “that’s definitely not my six string” “can you give me a second? just one second!”

“maybes she’s a witch” god i love reggie

alex saying he’s got a softer touch and then loudly saying “why are you in our studio” these himbos

“it was gonna change our lives” “i’m pretty sure it did” i love these boys

“i’ve been crying for 25 years! how is that possible?!” “well you’re a very emotional person” “i am nOt”

“i-im luke by the way and this is” “reggie. i’m reggie. hey” “alex how’s it going” “ba-da” i love these boys so much it’s unreal.

they just hopped through that front door so cheerily.

luke really just wanting to play music where no one can see them 😂😂

she’s so good. i stg it’s not fair. i wish i had that talent.

1x02

i love flynn an unreal amount yall. and julie. and their friendship #doubletrouble

their clothes are still there?????? bobby???

reggie and luke crying because of ray

THEY REMEMBERED BOBBY

“guess that vegetarian lucked out” EXCUSE ME. MY MANS HAD THREE OF HIS BEST FRIENDS DIE AND HE “lucked out”

honestly i love the casual way it handles alex being gay. like it’s not a huge thing. he’s just gay and that’s how it deserves to be.

ALEX DOING THE BEAT ON HIS BODY OH MY GOD.

i’m gonna cry this is so cute.

the way luke ruined that sandwich for her by bringing up the hotdogs

damn. say what you will but dirty candy gets me hyped.

1x03

luke hurt about reggie saying julie should be the lead singers is the embodiment of this emoji 🥺

WILLIE

“i’m actually i think you’re joking her band” FLYNN IS MY QUEEN

1x04

the high school musical vibes tho

“one of us isn’t there. we had a blowout in 2031. my moneys in alex. he’s just so sensitive”

THEYRE IN THE MUSEUM. THEY HELD HANDS.

oh no. oh no. oh nonononono. they’re about to find out about bobby and the songs. i’ve got a who lot of feelings about this but i’m not about to go into a whole rant about that so.

willieeeeeeeeee

1x05

okay. calebs a bad guy i know. but the other side of hollywood is a BOP

and willie was looking nice!

but i feel bad for julie

and honestly is getting back at bobby worth all this?

1x06

honestly if i was julie and i had to partner up with my crush i would simply pass away. that would be it.

honestly reggie. fixing an amp in the rain???

their little sorry song is so cute.

i’m gonna cry. the way he’s sitting on that counter so sad and his parents setting out a cake. ahhhhhh 😭😭

okay i love tia victoria

1x07

reggie. i love you. your hearts in the right place but i don’t think this is going to end well.

i love ray

and i love reggie and ray’s, one sided, relationship

“and don’t you look shArp” the way he says sharp. i can’t y’all. 😂😂

poor nick getting called luke

luke’s hair oh my god!!!!

willie and alex! i’m gonna cry!

“girls am i right?” “no❤️”

willie! 😫 my poor son

1x08

yall. watching them get ready to go is depressing. like reggie saying “i’m gonna miss them” but oh my god unsaid emily

poor julie. her life’s going good and then BAM caleb. she even rejected nick?!?!

tho that artwork is good

and the poor guys.

1x09

yall it says panic at the disco! no exclamation point tho.

“i’d do anything for you” WHEN I TELL YOU I DROPPED MY PHONE I MEAN IT

“only love baby”

fucking caleb.

julie looks so nice!!!!

bobby!!!!!!!

his look that he gives carrie when she says, “been here before”

bobby looks so sad! those are his boys!!!

you know bobby probably think “wtf is up with luke’s hair”

julies gonna make me cry i stg

AHHHHH IT HURTS EVEN THO I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS

damn poor nick.

tho caleb be looking stylish and steampunky

aaaaaand now i’m gonna put the soundtrack on repeat. deuces yall ✌🏼

[eyeofthedrgn]

A Heavy Battle Symphony Chapter 6

Catch up here >> AHBS Masterlist

TW: language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), drinking (comes up late in the story) just a lot of trauma, angst, smut - lots of lovely gay smut

Word count: 1597

Chapter 6 - By Myself

Because I can't hold on when I'm stretched so thin

I make the right moves, but I'm lost within

I put on my daily façade, but then

I just end up getting hurt again

Lorcan felt like shit. It was 2:30 in the morning. He was staring at the shadows on the ceiling. All he could think about was how Rowan's face had crumpled in the cafeteria and it was all his fault. Hellas, he shouldn't care, but he couldn't help it. Every thought morphed into Rowan and the absolute hurt on his face.

He had to talk to him. Hopefully, he'll walk through the park today. If he does, Lorcan will try to redeem himself. For some reason, being hated by Rowan made him feel terrible. Made him want to change, to be a better person. It was such a strange feeling.

The hours passed slowly. He was restless and wide awake. Reading wasn't an option. He already tried. He just kept seeing the tears fall down Rowan's soft cheeks.

It was 4:30. He decided to just start his day early. He showered, dressed, made breakfast, and was out the door as quick as he could be without raising suspicion.

Lorcan made quick time to the park and decided to just sit on a bench that was on the path he was confident the silver haired boy would cross. His knee bounced, he picked the dead skin off his bottom lip. This was taking too long. He started pacing in front of the bench. He wished he could cross his arms, but this fucking cast was a nuisance.

As soon as he turned on his heel for the thousandth time, he saw him. He was by himself. Lorcan froze and just watched the silver haired boy. His head was down, he was shuffling his feet, thumbs tucked up the straps of his backpack. Rowan didn't look as put together as he normally did. It made Lorcan feel strange, sad almost. Rowan got closer, Lorcan was trying to get a hold of his anxiety. Maybe this was a bad idea. This was definitely a bad idea. He bit his cheek until he tasted blood.

Rowan looked up. Their eyes met. No going back now.

++++

Rowan hadn't slept well. He took the revelation with Lorcan pretty bad. Unconsciously, he had worn all black, forgot to brush his hair, and generally looked disheveled.

As he was walking through the park, he felt like he was being watched. Looking up, he wasn't expecting to see Lorcan staring at him, his backpack almost falling off the bench and standing in a puddle. Rowan noticed his hands fidgeting with the cuffs of his hoodie.

Confused as he was, he continued walking. Then stopped next to Lorcan and waited. He was going to keep walking, but it was the look in his eyes that made him stop. Lorcan took a deep breath and shakily let it out. He was so confused.

"I didn't do it. My aunt did it. She thinks friends are a waste of time." Lorcan's eyes were closed and he was shaking, hands now in fists, knuckles white.

Gods above, Lorcan was a mess. An anxiety ridden mess. It was a side of him that no one had probably seen before and it was genuinely heartbreaking. So vulnerable.

"Why?"

"Because I don't deserve friends, or love. I am a worthless, bastard born half-breed."

The words were so quiet and sounded rehearsed, like he had said them countless times, but Rowan caught them and his heart broke. And he forgave Lorcan right there. The boy in front of him was so broken and Rowan just wanted to drown him in love.

"Did she tell you that?" Rowan fought the urge to pull him into a hug. "Everyone deserves friends and nobody is worthless."

Lorcan's eyes were still closed when a tear slid down his cheek. Rowan wanted to wipe it away. Before he realized what he was doing, he raised his hand and his thumb grazed against Lorcan's beautiful olive skin. The dark haired boy flinched. Flinched. His eyes shot open and he fell back on the bench. Fear filled his glassy eyes, he was breathing hard.

Shit. Rowan realized his mistake immediately. The vulnerable boy trying to hide in the corner of the bench was obviously beaten, often.

"I'm sorry!" Rowan held his hands up. "I'm sorry." He slowly sat down on the opposite side of the bench.

Rowan's dark haired crush looked like a small child sitting with his back to the arm rest and his knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs, as best as he could anyway with a full arm cast. It would have been comical to see such a tall, broad shouldered male like that if he wasn't faced with the reality of what was happening, of the crippling anxiety that was flowing through Lorcan's veins right now. It made Rowan want to take him somewhere safe, somewhere where he wouldn't be beaten anymore.

"Lorcan, we want to be your friends. I-I want to be your friend. If you move again, at least you'll have friends here." Rowan looked at Lorcan and sighed, unsure if Lorcan was hearing him. His eyes were distant, his right hand was shaking. It was quiet for a few minutes. "Can I hold your hand?"

Those distant onyx eyes came back to the present and shot to Rowan's. Rowan saw Lorcan's right hand open. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rowan brought his hand to meet Lorcan's. Their fingers brushed and he heard Lorcan stopped breathing. Rowan closed his fingers around Lorcan's.

Rowan just watched Lorcan, he was finally breathing again and he buried his face in his knees. A sob shook his shoulders and Rowan gave his hand a squeeze. Another sob wracked through his battered body.

The silver haired boy had never felt so helpless in his entire life.

---

Lorcan felt like he was breaking, like his body was cracking and soon he would be rubble. There was no coming back from this. He would be lost, he was dying. Hellas himself would welcome him to the afterlife.

He couldn't breath, he was being smothered. Lorcan had half a sense to let himself be smothered.

Suddenly, there was a soothing sound and a warmth. There was a comfort in that sound, it calmed him. His breathing evened out. Maybe this was death.

"You're okay." The words were distant. "I got you. Just breathe." He felt a gentle rocking.

The roaring of his ears eventually became quieter, he could hear cars driving by, the birds singing their songs, and the comforting sounds of a voice. Whose voice was it? And it smelled like… like snow and pine trees.

"You're okay, Lorcan. I've got you, it's me, Rowan. You're okay. You're safe."

Rowan.

Rowan was the silver haired boy with the pine green eyes. Why was Rowan here? Where was here?

"We're in the park. I found you waiting for me."

Had Lorcan said those thoughts out loud? He decided to open his eyes. It was bright, he blinked a few times to adjust. Taking stock of his surroundings, he deciphered that he was on Rowan's lap, his face was against the boy's chest, Rowan's arms were holding Lorcan tightly, but not constricting. How did he get here? It was oddly comforting. He didn't want to move. When was the last time he had been held? No memory came to mind.

"Lorcan?" Rowan sounded worried.

"Please, don't let go," Lorcan's voice sounded strangled.

"I won't. I won't." Rowan rested his cheek against Lorcan's hair. "I won't."

++++

"I won't."

Rowan would stay here all day if Lorcan asked. He would pay for the repercussions of missing school. Lorcan was more important right now. He gently rocked him, it seemed to help.

The urge to rub his neck and play with the hair at his nape was strong, but he didn't dare move for fear of setting Lorcan off again. Rowan had only pulled him to his lap to calm down the obvious panic attack that started wracking Lorcan's body.

Rowan felt Lorcan drift off to sleep. A sound of contentment left Lorcan's throat as he buried his face into Rowan's neck. He wanted to be happy that his crush was snuggled into his neck and wrapped in his arms, but his heart was filled with sadness.

There was a buzzing in Rowan's pocket. Ever so carefully, he pulled it out. It was his mother.

"Hi Mom," he said, quietly.

"Love, why aren't you at school?"

"Well, um, I met Lorcan in the park on the way to school and then he had a breakdown followed by a panic attack. Now he's asleep on my lap."

Silence.

"Mom?"

"I'm going to come pick you two up. What's Lorcan's last name, love?"

"Salvaterre. Why?"

"So, I can excuse both of you for the day. I'll see you soon, love."

"Bye, Mom."

Rowan set his phone down on the bench next to him. "Lorcan?" He gently gave his shoulder a shake, a grunt followed. "Lorcan? My mom is coming to pick us up. She's excusing us from classes today. Okay?"

He kissed his hair. Lorcan tensed. "Sorry. I, uh, it just seemed like the right thing to do."

"More." Rowan barely understood what he said, his voice was so gravelly. But he did as he was told. Placing more kisses against Lorcan's head. As he did, Lorcan pressed his face into Rowan's neck.

"I got you."

____

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you want to be tagged.

@thenerdandfandoms @starlightorstarfire

[ceratonia-siliqua]

I saw you were open to prompts and I was wondering if you could write something with Android Peter?? (bonus points if smut is involved) Your writing is so good and I would love to see your take on it!

Thank you for waiting! I hope it delivers!!

Ship: WinterSpider (former Stucky mentioned)

Warnings: Nudity mentioned, some dehumanization due to the nature of androids, and some asshole Steve mentioned (sorry buddy)

“Bucky, come on. Just give it a shot.” 

“Tony-”

“You’ve been depressed for months, just take him for a few weeks. If you absolutely hate having him around then you can return him. I just finished designing a maternal instincts chip for Pepper, worst case she’d love to use him as baby practice.” 

“Fine, fine. Whatever, what do I need to do?” 

Tony beamed like Bucky had been the one begging rather than the other way around. The bastard put a hand on his shoulder as he led him out of the study and into the lab. It wasn’t a long walk, just a quick pop down the hall and a few stairs. The room was not a place he ever went, having heard legends of the absolute horror show it was. 

The rumors were on the fucking money but not in the way he had expected. 

It was filled with mechanical body parts, shocking realistic ones that left him staring as he tried to put together that they’re entirely creations of tech. He knew Tony built droids, fuck, the whole world did. It was his business. He’d gotten so good at the task in fact that he was facing some news shitstorms given the advancements in AI leading to a genuine conversation in what to do as the creations gained further and further sense of sentience. They’d tried to stop Stark, but when you have enough money to buy out the federal government, not much could be done on that front. 

“You’re gonna love him. He’s an absolute sweetheart, in fact, he’s got a heavily modified Gen 4 Sweetheart Build. One of a kind! Even perfected the synthetic curls working on him. Possibly one of the kindest AI’s I’ve ever constructed, little bit of a trickster when he wants to be though, couldn’t let you get away without a bit of a challenge-” Tony continued to go on as he practically shoved Bucky towards a side room. 

“Tony, please don’t tell me you made this android specifically for me.” He had been under the impression it was a match Tony had made after the fact, not something with genuine thought put into it. 

“Can’t just throw any random personality at you, Bucko! You need a specific set of traits and I am happy to deliver seeing as how nothing like this kiddo is like what we have on the market.” 

“Tony, you should have asked first. What if I can’t take care of this-” Machine? Man? How was he supposed to refer to this gift Tony was trying to give him? 

“Trust me! You will.” 

“Tony.” He stopped just before the closed door leading to the room where this now present anxiety was lurking.  “Why are you doing this?” 

There are several beats of silence before a word passes through the space. “Bucky… you haven’t been the same since Steve left. I want to help you move on from him. It doesn’t take a super genius to see that he broke your heart.” 

It would have been kinder to just have punched him in the gut. Steve had abandoned him. Left him for a woman from his youth after promising a life with him. There had been no reason, no suggestion Steve had been unhappy with him, yet one day he was there and the next there was a note on the coffee table and a gaping hole in his apartment. 

“Please, just try. I know you’re still trying to work through this but just try him out for a little while. You deserve to be happy, open yourself up to it. That asshole wins if you stay hung up on him forever.” 

He really fucking hates when Tony is right. 

Without another word he opens the door without Tony’s permission and steps into the room. The tiny form that lays on the fluffy duvet takes his breath away. 

The boy is lithe, so small Bucky is scared for a second that Tony has given him a child. Getting closer though he sees the marks of manhood, more defined muscle, raised cheekbones, a lack of true baby fat anywhere on his body. He couldn’t help but notice the way a set of small, smooth balls peek out from his pressed thighs. Yet to see his face and Bucky was already feeling the tugging connection, a need to know more. 

Rounding the bundle, he can’t help but pull a blanket off of one of the random shelves, covering the slip of a thing in front of him. Taking the opportunity to glimpse the face of the android coming home with him, he crouches in front of that seemingly sleeping face. 

It takes his breath away. Small noise, delicate cupids bow, wild and frenzied curls framing rosy cheeks. He desperately wanted to see those eyes, wanted to know if they were just as soft as the rest of him. 

“His name is Peter. One of the most high end models, he has features not even on the market. He can feel cold, heat, pain, pleasure. Both his throat and anal cavity are outfitted with the most expensive and durable stimulation sleeves we have available. I picked a version that everyone loves, top seller. He’s able to cum if you want him too. Knows how to groom himself but has preferences. I picked… something a little more dependent. He’ll keep you busy. Utter love bug is what he is. He’s had a little bit of ‘on’ time, just enough to calibrate some settings. His list of enjoyment is fairly open, he’s predisposed to certain things but since he’s never experienced anything he’s not sure what he likes quite yet. Gentle, kind hearted, and designed to form deep attachments, he should be perfect.” 

He is the opposite of Steve. Not the exact opposite, but it seems Tony worried about hitting too close to home and made something that was unfamiliar enough to be wholly new while still takinging into consideration what he might enjoy. Even size wise, where Steve had been bigger than him, Peter was much smaller and maneuverable. Peter could be a doll in his hands if Bucky wanted, put him in control. 

“He’s also the second ever android to be programmed with the ability to form connections of love and feel the full range of emotions available to humans.” 

Bucky’s head shot towards the other man. “Tony, that’s illegal.” 

The frown on that goatee ridden face shows just how aware of that fact he is. “I know, but only on market versions. If you self construct a droid or personally program and install the coding needed, which most people can’t, then it’s fine. I’m not allowed to sell people love, but I can give it to you for free.” 

Already stuck in this deal, already tender for the angelic little thing in front of him, he sighs. “We’re not gonna get in shit for this? He’s not gonna get disassembled if people find out?” 

“Most people aren’t even going to know he’s not human. Unless they get really close and study him, no one on the street is going to see him and think he’s anything but a regular young man out with his boyfriend.” 

“... Alright Tony, you win. Where do I sign?”

____

Becoming conscious, and aware of that consciousness, it is something humans were unprepared for in their creation of AI. After all, children forget the trauma of being born, but how do you prepare a being that can already understand the complexities of life for the sudden plunge into reality? Really, you don’t. 

Peter woke up and for the first time, was aware. His systems were all fine, green lit and all areas functional and ready to go. Yet, he didn’t move. Everything was sounds, shapes, colors, objects, things he knew but that were not familiar. It was something to take in, how do you even begin when there is so much? 

There is a pressure between his shoulders, and suddenly he is focused on what it is to feel. 

“You seem a little overwhelmed, sugar. Everything okay?”

The voice is smooth, registers as male in his system, compared to things he’s never heard but knew the sound of. 

“Yeah… just- trying to get my bearings.” At least speech wasn’t a difficulty. It was not comfortable on his tongue but they were still doable, something he could succeed at even as his vision is too full. He closes his eyes, sighing as the lack of input makes everything feel less chaotic within him. 

“Take all the time you need, I’ve got plenty to give.” 

“What’s your name?” A basic way of understanding, something so ingrained in his code that it was the easiest thing he’d done so far. 

“Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes if you wanna get technical but Bucky is fine.” 

“Bucky,” The name rolled across his tongue, smooth and buttery. It was new but old, as if he’d been told the name thousands of times. It felt like an old hat, a detail he would remember even if everything else in his memory failed. “I like it.” Something clicked, a sense of enjoyment, a rush of pleasant feelings across his skin and the delicate, hair thin wires underneath. 

That seemed to knock the man into silence. Peter reached out, groping for the being that was with him, showing him kindness despite their lack of previous introductions. Fingers grazing something slightly scratchy, he gasps, eyes flying open on reflex when a light pressure envelopes his wrist. 

The man is fuzz but Peter knows enough to know what beauty is and this man must be the very definition of it. Long hair, dark shadows across his upper lip and jaw. Blue, a color he had not realized had a name till he saw it here. He feels warm, a giggle escapes him, something he knows is a sign of his happiness, one he hopes Bucky will share in. 

Smiling is a sign, a good one. Something that makes Peter giddy as he flexes his fingers against that same scratchy surface on Bucky’s face. 

“What is this?” Scritching away with the tips of his digits. 

A chuckles, soothing and filled with a note that rolls slow and low across Peter’s ears. “A beard, you know what that is?”

He looks up the word, searching in his head for an answer until it pops up. “Oh! Yes, I do.” 

“Really are new to this, aren’t you?” 

His cheeks suddenly feel heated and an odd feeling curls in his belly as he glances away. 

“It’s okay darling,” There is a rustling of fabrics and a gentle set of lips pressed to his forehead. A sign of affection, and one Peter knows he loves the second he feels it. “We’ll get you all figured out.” 

[zamoimagines]

This Means War

Word Count: 3,769

Pairings: Venable x Reader, Cordelia x Reader

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Warnings: None

Summary: You’re sent to Outpost 3 on behalf of the coven with Coco to protect Mallory. A spell is put over you so that you forget anything you ever knew of being a witch, including all of your memories of your girlfriend, Cordelia. Without the Supreme and being confined to the Outpost after a nuclear missile launch, you feel empty for what seems to be no reason at all. That’s until a new woman, Miss Wilhelmina Venable takes an interest in you.

A/N: You sluts are gonna live for this shit. I’m extremely proud of this chapter, and I’m excited for you guys to read it. Let me know what ya’ll think ;)

The Outpost was a much warmer place with Venable by your side. When you had first arrived, this seemed like the coldest place on Earth. Lifeless. Depressing. That kiss had changed everything. Suddenly, the corridors seemed much brighter. You were so much nicer and talkative toward the other residents. Hell, the mineral cubes even tasted better. Love had such a wonderful effect on you. It was noticeable that Wilhelmina was becoming happier too. She’d stopped yelling at every little thing, and she’d even become much more lenient. It was obvious when she merely started laughing at one of Coco’s hissy fits.

“This whole place is bullshit! I swear to fucking god if you don’t get me some decent shampoo, I’m going to lose my fucking mind!” she screamed.

All Venable could do was chuckle to herself. No harsh words, no punishments. Just laughter. When Wilhelmina left the room, the blonde looked at you with a crazed expression.

“What the shit just happened?”

“Perhaps she’s just loosening up a little.” You shrugged to her.

Coco squinted her eyes. “There’s something weird going on… I can smell it.”

“No, you can smell that disgusting perfume you’ve been wearing.” Mr. Gallant retorted.

Coco shrieked as you tried hard not to giggle. Mr. Gallant was already cackling. Mallory, one of the Greys that often joined in their conversations, was trying her best not to be unprofessional. You could see a smile crack on her face. 

“I will fucking end you!”

“Oh, I’m shaking, really!” He mocked. The three of them had become entertaining to you, rather than annoying like they had always been. You might have even considered them to be good friends of yours now. 

The Outpost was starting to finally feel like home. Every night after all the others drifted off to sleep, you would sneak off to Venable’s room to sleep in her chambers. Some nights were just as steamy as the first you’d spent with her. Others were gentler, in which you would stay up all night listening to her read to you or talk about everything and nothing. Wilhelmina was slowly becoming your other half. It didn’t take long for you to completely forget about the mysterious woman that had been haunting your dreams months before. 

Everything was growing to some sort of normal. You could admit that you were finally happy once again. 

One night, you entered Venable’s room excited to see her after a long day of her working. She’d stayed distant all day but you just figured that she was busy doing things for the Cooperative. You put on the prettiest smile for her. 

“Mina!” you sang out as you closed the door behind you. “I missed you at dinner-”

You were caught off guard. Usually, when you came at night, her eyes would sparkle. This was much different. She wouldn’t even meet your gaze. The redhead was pacing back and forth, her silk robe dragging heavily behind her. She hadn’t even taken her hair down yet. Something was most definitely wrong. 

Slowly, you made your way up to her and touched her shoulder gently. 

“Mina? Are you okay?”

Her face was ridden with fear. You had never seen her this disturbed before. 

“Someone’s coming, Y/N.” 

“What do you mean?” you replied, “I thought no one else was alive?”

“The head of the Cooperative is arriving tomorrow. He intends to conduct interviews on everyone that resides here… All of the Greys, the other residents, Mead, you and I-” She bit her lower lip nervously. “Something isn’t right. I can feel it.”

You took her hand into your own. Placing a soft kiss to her knuckles, you managed to get her to crack a small grin. 

“Y/N- You’re so good to me.” Wilhelmina pulled you in close and let her arms wrap around you tightly. You rested your head in her neck. 

“You must promise me something.”

“What is it?”

Her chin leaned gently against your hair. “Promise me you won’t go to your interview. I don’t care if this man is running this facility. I don’t trust him, and I have to keep you safe.” She gazed down at you as her hand cupped your cheek. 

“Promise me that you’ll stay away from him. No matter what he says, no matter how persistent he is, you must promise me that you will not partake in an interview.” 

You weren’t sure what to say. Seeing Venable this shaken up was scaring you. Wilhelmina Venable, fearless leader of the Apocalypse, was showing an emotion you’d never seen from her before; fright. Wilhelmina was frightened. If this woman was worried, then you were completely terrified. 

“I-I promise, Mina.” 

Wilhelmina pulled you into another tight hug. 

“I’m going to do everything to keep you safe, Y/N. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

You wholeheartedly believed her. You trusted Venable with your life.

The next morning, everyone was up at the crack of dawn. Venable was back to her strict ways. It was very obvious to you that she was tense, and you were sure that the others could tell something was up. 

“Venable, it’s too early for this shit-”

“Ms. Vanderbilt, I will NOT stand for your catty remarks. If you so much as breathe near me, so help me, I will have you in a straight jacket for the rest of your stay here. Do I make myself clear?” 

Everyone was very taken aback. Coco couldn’t even reply. She just remained completely silent the rest of the morning. 

A couple hours later, Venable called a mandatory meeting in the common room. Everyone did as they were told and made their way down immediately. No one wanted to be on her bad side today. You sat on the couch in the spot closest to where Venable was standing. Her posture was rigid, almost as cold as the day you met her. You wanted nothing more than to comfort her.

“As many of you may know, the Cooperative is running our operation. We are forever in debt to them for saving all of our lives. We should feel lucky out of all the people in the world, we were the ones they showed mercy to,” she began, “We should also feel honored that the head of the Cooperative has decided to pay us a visit. May I present to you all Mr. Langdon, our savior.”

From the shadows, a well dressed man slithered his way by Wilhelmina. He had long hair, ice blue eyes, and an evil smile. Something in your gut told you this man was bad news. He almost made you want to flee for some odd reason. He made your blood boil and you barely even knew him. 

“Hello.” He greeted everyone in a sly tone, “I’m Michael Langdon. I’m here for the next phase of business.” 

“Business?” Coco piped up. “What business is there? The world ended.”

Venable shot a deadly look at her. Mr. Gallant surprisingly spoke up as well.

“She’s got a point. What else can there be?”

Michael flashed a smile to the pair. 

“I’m so glad you asked. You see, this facility was only meant to be temporary. Our mission was to gather the lost souls that may survive all of the nuclear fallout,” he began, “You are the lost souls we needed.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Coco muttered.

“It means that some of you will be coming with me to your new facility. A true safe haven. I will conduct an interview with each resident… And I expect all of you to speak with me.” He paused for a moment to gaze down at you. You could feel his piercing gaze, almost as if he could see right through your soul. You didn’t dare to make eye contact with him. All of a sudden, you felt a finger lift your chin.

His eyes were locked on you. Michael was studying you rather intently, making sure not to miss a single detail of your features. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Venable’s fingers twitching upon her cane. Her teeth were clenched tight together as she tried hard not to show any sort of weakness toward you. 

“You look familiar… Don’t I know you from somewhere, little one?” Michael cooed as he brushed your hair behind your ear. His touch made you want to vomit. 

“Ms. Y/L/N was one of the first to arrive. She doesn’t remember anyone from before the apocalypse.” Venable cut in. 

“I see.” Michael’s gaze lingered. There was something about him, something absolutely foul. You knew him from somewhere. Langdon radiated malice and hate. His intentions were cruel rather than merciful. 

“Will everyone go to the safe haven?” Dinah asked. 

Michael left your side to step to the others. You were glad Dinah spoke when she did. 

“Not all of you will be eligible. If your interview goes well, then expect a desirable outcome. If you don’t pass…” He grinned to himself. “Then you’ll be left behind.” 

“Left behind as in stay here?” Coco laughed in disbelief, “I can’t be here! Not when there’s a utopia waiting for us!”

“Let’s hope you meet the requirements so you don’t stay and rot.”

His remark made Coco’s face twist in disgust. All of you were completely terrified. 

“Interviews will begin immediately. Are there any volunteers to go first?” 

Everyone remained silent. His head snapped in your direction. 

“How about you, little one?”

Anxiety rushed over you as Venable’s eyes widened in horror. You opened your mouth to say something, though someone else spoke instead. 

“I’ll go first!” Mr. Gallant cried out. You glanced over in his direction. 

“I wanna get this over with anyway. Let me go.” 

Michael raised a brow. “Very well. The rest of you may be dismissed.” 

The man returned to the shadows to make his way to the spare office waiting for him. You mouthed a “thank you” to Mr. Gallant. He gave you a sympathetic smile before following Michael upstairs. 

Once everyone had dispersed, you were alone with Venable. Wilhelmina instantly sat down next to you. 

“Are you alright, my darling?” 

“Mina, there is something just awful about him.”

“I know, my love.” She murmured as she gave you a tight hug. “I have a plan to get us out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Y/N, we can’t stay here. We’ll die if we don’t go.”

“But where will we go?”

“I know where the safe haven is. If we travel by foot and don’t stop, we’ll be there in two days.”

“Mina, what about radiation poisoning? What will we do about food? What if we die out there-”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. If you want to live, you’re going to have to trust me.”

This was too much to take in all at once. On one hand, going outside of the Outpost was incredibly dangerous. Though staying inside would get you killed eventually. You realized that you didn’t have much of a choice. 

“Okay. Tell me what to do.” You replied.

Her lips barely touched your ear as she whispered to you.

“Stay out of Langdon’s sight. I’ll keep him away from you as long as I can, but whatever you do, do not let him conduct an interview.” She squeezed your hand, “Halloween is tomorrow. Langdon wants us to have a celebration, we’ll sneak out while the party is happening.”

“What about the others?”

“Never mind them. Make sure to gather your things tonight, and pack light. We have a long journey ahead of us.” 

You nodded to her. She kissed your cheek lovingly as a single tear fell from her eyes. 

“I love you, Y/N. I love you so much.”

Your lips found her own as you kissed her. It was long, almost bittersweet.  

“I love you too, Mina.”

-----

You weren’t sure how you’d done it, but you managed to stay out of Michael’s sight. Perhaps it was the fact that you’d locked yourself in your room for the rest of the evening. You were just grateful he’d never found you. Everything that you thought you might need was packed away, lightly, just as Venable had instructed. You were ready to run. 

“Halloween?” Mr. Gallant spoke. Everyone at the breakfast table had smiling faces at the sound of a celebration. Even Venable managed to grin today. 

“That’s right. We will be hosting a Halloween party this evening in the style of a Victorian Masquerade. At 6:30 sharp. The Cooperative has provided us with some gifts that will be dispersed during the festivities.” Wilhelmina explained.

“What kind of gifts?” Dinah asked.

“What does it matter? They’re gifts! When’s the last time any one of us was given something!” Coco giggled. 

You were trying to be as excited as the others. It was hard to think that you’d be leaving all of them behind. As much as these people annoyed you at times, they had become like a little family to you. You’d never admit it but missing out on Coco’s temper tantrums or not being able to listen to Mallory’s stories was something you were going to miss dearly. Wilhelmina winked in your direction as the others began to chat amongst themselves about the evening ahead.

“I assume everyone is giddy about the party tonight?” 

Michael appeared out of nowhere, staring at everyone around the table. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck you thought to yourself. He was already gawking at you. 

“We’re stoked, Langdon!” Coco replied.

“I’m very glad,” he muttered and completely ignored her presence. “Ms. Y/L/N, I do believe we still have to conduct your interview.”

“O-Oh, are we still doing that?” You squeaked.

“Yes, little one. You missed your slot yesterday.” 

“I’m sorry. I forgot all about it, that was my mistake.”

Michael sauntered over behind you and gripped your shoulders. His hands were strong, as if he could crush bones with them. A shiver ran up your spine. 

“That’s quite alright, dove. Let’s just make sure to take care of it today.” 

“Mr. Langdon, I don’t think conducting her interview today would be necessary.” Venable added. Her expression remained cool and collected, though you could tell that she could lunge at him at any second. “After all, today is a celebration. Perhaps the rest of the interviews can wait until tomorrow.”

“It won’t take but a moment. Besides, hers is the last interview of the residents.”

“That’s not true!” Dinah said, “You still haven’t given me an interview.”

Michael loosened his grip. “Ah, Ms. Stevens. I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten yours as well.”

“Save the interviews for tomorrow, Mr. Langdon. Everyone deserves a bit of a rest today, don’t you agree?” Venable cooed. It amazed you how great she was at manipulating the enemy.

“Perhaps. Well then,” Michael moved to stand before the table. “I expect to see all of you tonight. You are dismissed.”

Mr. Gallant pulled on your hand and guided you over to where he, Coco, and Mallory were going. You were secretly glad about it. Who knows what would’ve happened if you’d stayed at that table. 

“Okay, I’m doing everyone’s hair. Coco, I think for you, we should do a huge French updo! Like one of those powder wigs!” 

“Ooooh! I’m going to look fucking amazing!” She squeaked. 

“Y/N, I’m thinking maybe a half up, half down moment?”

“Oh, you’re too kind. But I’m not sure if I need my hair done-”

“Of course you do! You’re gonna be beautiful.”

“It’s Halloween, you have to glam it up with me! I can’t be fabulous by myself!” Coco begged. 

“I’m sorry guys, I’m not one for the spotlight. I appreciate it though,” you gave them a tired smile, “I’ll be excited to see how yours turns out though. You will look amazing.” 

“That’s alright. Coco’s hair is gonna take forever anyway. This bitch can never sit still.” Mr. Gallant joked. 

“I’m gonna choke you.”

“I double dog dare you to do it.”

Coco smacked his arm playfully as Mallory rolled her eyes. 

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, though you didn’t dare to let them out. You really were going to miss them. Without thinking, you pulled all three of them into a tight hug.

“Uh-” Mr. Gallant began,

“Y/N?” Coco muttered.

“Just shut up and let me have this.” you said with a small laugh. They all scooted a bit closer and engaged in the group hug happily. You never wanted to let go of them but you knew that you had to. Tonight was going to be the night you departed from this place forever.

----

Music was booming throughout the halls. Laughter and hollering could be heard from the common room. It was hard to believe that you could hear it all from your room for the Outpost was never this loud. It was nice to know that everyone was having such a wonderful time. 

Instead of your normal dress, you had put on the pants and shirt you’d come in. It had been so long since you’d seen yourself in normal clothes. You were surprised that you’d found your old shoes as well. You took a deep breath, stopping to take a good look at yourself. You were sure that you were ready. 

Just as you leaned over to grab your bag, you smelled that strange floral scent that used to intoxicate your dreams. The room remained the same. Despite this, you could feel an overwhelming presence beside you. 

“Don’t leave. I’m coming.”

It was that damned mystery woman. 

“I-I have to go. It’s the only way.”

“You must stay. Trust me.”

“I don’t even know who you are! How in the hell am I supposed to trust you?”

“Yes, you do, my love. I’ll be arriving soon.”

“Who are you?” 

“You already know the answer to that.”

“Stop fucking with my head!”

“Y/N?”

You looked to your door. Wilhelmina looked very different. Her hair was up in a sleek ponytail. Rather than her usual black ball gown, she was dressed in a lavender pantsuit. She held on tight to her cane. Mina must have been a knockout before the apocalypse happened. You wished that you two had met in different circumstances. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah-” you stuttered, “let’s just go. Are you ready?”

Wilhelmina nodded. “I’ve taken care of the others, so we have to leave now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to go.” 

It scared you to hear her words. You loved Mina, but she still did cruel things in the past. She was known for killing others prior to your arrivals. You hoped to whatever God was out there that she hadn’t hurt anyone. 

The two of you rushed down the hall trying hard not to make a sound. You figured it would’ve been easier over the noise from the party, though to your surprise, the building had gone completely silent. This was the eeriest you’d ever seen the Outpost. Mina led you down the stairs and past the common room. Your eyes widened at the sight of the party. 

Michael was nowhere to be found. Bile and blood covered the tiled flooring. All of the residents were dead. You covered your mouth so you wouldn’t scream, but you were completely mortified. 

“Y/N, come on.”

“Mina- w-what happened to them?”

“We have to go, darling.”

“But, Mina-”

“I’m not arguing with you!” she snapped. She had never gotten snippy with you before. Though, you were sure it was only because she was scared. You couldn’t blame her. 

You continued to follow her until you reached the front of the Outpost. This was the hallway where you had first come inside. It seemed much more daunting to go outside rather than staying here. Mina took your hand. 

“Are you ready, my love?”

There was a small silence. You honestly weren’t sure. 

“I have to be.” 

She gave you a weary smile. You could tell that she wasn’t really sure about this either. But what choice did you have? 

“Come on. We have to get out the door before Michael notices that we’re gone.” 

Wilhelmina began to make her way toward the entrance. Just as you went to walk behind her, the door at the end of the hall swung wide open. A strong breeze whipped into the building as Venable covered her face with her elbow. 

“Oh, what now?!” She cried out. 

Though there was something stirring inside of you. You slowly stepped past Wilhelmina and gradually made your way toward the door. 

“Y/N! Get back!” Wilhelmina yelled. 

You couldn’t bother to hear her. Another softer breeze swirled around your body. That same intoxicating scent of flowers filled your nose. This time, it was all different. Your mind began to wander. 

Memories flooded back to you. Robicheaux, the coven, New Orleans, the pretty greenhouse you loved to study in, practicing magic with other women; it was all coming back to you. You could feel your veins surging with power. 

More memories came to you. That evening; Mallory was there. So was Coco. That mysterious woman faced you, and you could hear her voice clear as day.

 “I will come to see you as soon as I can. I promise that I will find you.”

“I can’t! Delia, I can’t be without you! P-Please!”

“Y/N, I love you more than anything. Please remember me.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the breeze grew stronger. Everything made sense now. 

“Y/N, stay back! Jesus fucking christ-” Wilhelmina moved to rush to your side, but as the wind picked up, she noticed that you weren’t fighting any of this. You seemed different. Something in you had changed. 

All of a sudden, the wind stopped. The clicking of heels echoed through the doors. 

“What if we can’t find them?” A British accent rung out. 

“We will. They’re here, they have to be.” 

That voice. Your heart was racing. It was her. 

Three women entered the Outpost. They were all dressed in black. One, a younger blonde, had a concerned look upon her face. Another with bright red hair and thick glasses was keeping an eye out for enemies. The third woman was-

“Cordelia?” you whispered. 

It was the mysterious woman from your dreams. It was Cordelia Goode, Supreme of your former coven. She had finally come for you. Her gaze instantly met your own as a beautiful smile widened across her face. 

“My love.” Cordelia said through choked tears. 

It was really her. She had finally come for you.

REQUEST MORE IMAGINES HERE!

[charmingpplincardigans]

January Kitchen Sink Check In

This is mostly for me, because I’m trying to become a better person this year, for varying definitions of the term ‘better’, and I like to see my progress laid out all organized like. It helps me move forward. So I’m gonna go through my Body/Mind/Money goals for January and note how I did and what I’m going to do moving forward!

BODY

Working Out: 

My two work out goals for the end of the year are to 1) be doing yoga semi-regularly and 2) be working out four days a week reliably, including the yoga. I’m working on easing myself into these (and all) habits, because I don’t want to overwhelm myself and give up on everything, so my goal for January was to work out one day a week. And I worked out *drumroooooooll* NONE! NOT A ONCE. I don’t have an excuse for this. Part of it was stress, part of it was depression, part of it was sheer laziness. I promise myself I’m gonna work out at least once a week in February, but also shoot for the two times a week that is the February Goal. 

Food: 

I have several overall food goals for the year. One is to give up soda near completely, or at least to break my addiction to it. The others are to start planning meals and eat less meat. For January I wanted to drink only two sodas a day (20oz max). I managed that 23 days out of 31. In looking at the calendar you can reliably match the days I failed to the days that were extremely stressful or anxiety ridden. I have a very bad habit in those moments of throwing up my hands and deciding that I’m a failure anyway so nothing matters. That’s definitely a mental tick to keep an eye on over the next few months as my job no doubt just gets more and more stressful. The other goals I did okay with. I decided to plan one meatless meal a week. New recipes I made in January were: 

Black bean soup

Moroccan sweet potatoes

Spinach lasagna

Black bean & sweet potato enchiladas

Do recommend most of them. The lasagna had way too much cinnamon in it, which was kind of weird. If I make that recipe again I’m gonna quarter the amount. But I might just find a different veggie lasagna to make. 

For February I want to drop the soda to one a day (12oz max), and start to plan to make two meals a week. I’m doing okay with meat, but I could for sure do better. It helps that I have started making THE WORLD’S BEST SANDWICHES for lunch. Probably just gonna eat those forever instead of ordering out Huey Magoo’s or whatever. (The sandwich is hummus, cucumber, and feta on toasted Good Seed bread. Try it!)

Doctor Things:

Uff. I need to figure out the CPAP issues and the chest pain issues. I absolutely despised the first mask they sent me for the CPAP. It gave me panic episodes and I was ripping it off IN MY SLEEP. Insurance refused me a new mask until April, but my doctor came in like an angel with a sample version of a different type of mask to try. This one is...better. I’m still not comfortable in it and it’s not appreciably helping my sleep. People keep telling me it’s going to change my life, but that has not happened yet. On the other hand I have friends who’ve tried to make them work for YEARS and never did, so I’m wary of this whole process, but still trying. 

I had a sort of fraught meeting with my cardiologist last week. My chest pain symptoms had been getting better as of October, but with the change in my job I’ve back slid almost entirely. I had a 36 hour period of chest pain two weeks ago. I go whole nights having every heart attack symptom in slow motion, but doing nothing about it because I can’t afford for the ER to tell me I’m fine five times a month. I cried when she asked me why I didn’t go to a hospital when that happened. I feel so helpless all of the time and I’m certain I’m going to die any day now, even though my heart is technically physically fine. Can you anxiety yourself into a heart attack? I THINK YOU CAN. She did tell me to try to speak to the psychiatrist again about anxiety medication. The last time I tried the woman I saw didn’t want to prescribe me anything. She told me to work on my sleep and come back. Welp! The cardiologist said that if that happens this time she’ll write a note telling her to prescribe me something. We’ll see. I need to try to make that appt this month. 

MIND

Therapy:

My therapist thinks I’ve done really well over the last year with working on myself and said out loud that she thinks I’m better at dealing with some things and am in a good position to move forward. But I’m so stressed right now that I just feel like I’ve fallen apart again. We’re meant to start on EMDR this week, but I’m going to have to put a pause on it so I can talk about how I’m at like, the lowest point of my life, which she will be very supportive of and then probably remind me that if we could just get to the EMDR and work with the older traumas this might not feel so dire. I’m just, on the struggle bus and too tired to do anything but freak out about that. 

Writing: 

I have so may creative goals this year! Too many probably! I should put some back! My creative goals for the year are:

Complete a rough draft of AMLD (10,000 words a month)

Complete and mail out the Girls Who Date the Universe chapbook

Complete and mail out any remaining art for people who helped me with the car fund

Work on poetry and short fictions (Monster Story?)

Actually check in to @gywo every month (10 days a month goal)

My creative goals for January were to write 10,000 words on AMLD, work on the extra poems for GWDTU, and send the remaining postcards from the car fund. And uh...look. I did work on writing. I worked on the chapbook layout and editing pieces that needed to be edited/replaced, because there are several. I did also work on the outline for AMLD, but didn’t write new words on it. Not anywhere 10,000 of them at any rate. 

The owing people art thing is just...it fucks me up, man. I have learned a huge lesson between the car fund and the patreon. I get so in my head about how these people deserve beautiful things and then I tell myself I’m not capable of making things worthy of them and then I put off doing the thing because I want to put off letting them down and then it just spirals from there. ALL THE WHILE I AM FOR SURE LETTING THEM DOWN. I realize this is both unhealthy and unprofessional. It’s why one of my goals this year is to clear all of this once and for all so that I can square myself away with everyone and try not to end up here in the future. 

So, the January Goals now get rolled up into the February Goals, which leaves the new list for the month at: 

10,000 words AMLD

Complete extra poems for GWDTU

Send postcards from car fund

Complete layout for Boston chapbook for car fund

I did check in for GYWO. 

Future Plans:

Part of letting off the pressure for the now for me is always about planning for the future. Not like, the actual future, I’m not starting a 401k, let’s not go nuts. But for something that is one step forward. In my notes for my year goals this is all about moving back to Boston. I need to set a date for it. I need to save money for it. I need to keep my job until after I’ve done it. But now I think this part needs to include notes about my job itself and the ways I can either move forward with it or move away from it once and for all. 

I talked to Lisa and Kait at the beginning of the year about the moving plan, and now I just need to talk to my apartment complex to see if it would be feasible to extend the lease to December or February without paying an exorbitant amount in rent each month. If rent ends up being more than $2k/mo for the extension then I’m just going to have to have to wait until June 2022. This frustrates me, because I hate not being able to just follow through with decisions once I’ve made them, but patience is another thing I’m working on eternally. My goal for February is figure out money stuff well enough and talk to complex and set a timeline. 

Work is. Wow. It’s awful right now. I still have my job, which takes up much of my days, but because of re-org I’m also having to learn a whole new job which would also take up much of my day. I can’t not learn this job, because the person who used to do it is in another department now too, so there’s no one to get the work done if I don’t learn to do it. But I also can’t do both. I CAN’T DO BOTH. An issue popped up last week with my job that literally brought my ulcer back. I asked my boss for help with it and she sent me a message at one point saying she wanted to cry about it. So like. She knows now, right? She knows I can’t do both jobs?? BUT THERE’S NO ONE ELSE TO DO IT SO I GUESS I JUST GET TO SLOWLY KILL MYSELF. I’m just so frustrated, and angry that these decisions get made without taking the people in them into account, and of course anxious and miserable. I’m currently dreading work in a way I haven’t since I was in text perms. It’s real bad. So I have to find a way to make it work or find a way out. 

My February approach to that is to finish this Love It or Leave It book and see if I can’t divine where my true motivation lies, and also to research library school. I kind of would rather not go back to school. Not because I wouldn’t spend my entirely life in school if I could. I WOULD. But because it’s expensive and time intensive and there’s no promise my life will be better after it’s over. But every job I think I want pretty much requires that masters, so. We’ll look into it at least. 

MONEY

Eating Out:

During the pandemic, one of my money sinks became DoorDash. I never used it before, because it costs literally twice as much as just going to get the food. (Also because I kind of like eating in restaurants alone. Ah, one day again I hope!) But the more afraid I became of the outside world, the less inclined I was to go into a restaurant to pick up take out, so I’ve had it brought to me. And I need to cut that shit out! I have food at home! My goal for January was to order out only 4 times a week. I managed this for three of the weeks, but when I blew it it was definitely those weeks at the very beginning and very end of the month where I was super stressed. The goal in February is to only order out 3 times a month.

Savings:

I need to open a high yield savings account. I’ve had the starting money for the move just sitting in my bank account making me no extra money for like, four months. The latest reason I haven’t moved it over is that I’m worried I’m going to owe a lot in taxes this year because of the partial unemployment I got. Hopes are that since it was a work share the taxes were taken out ahead of time, but I do not trust the government with my money as far as I can throw them, so. I’ll do my taxes this month and finally know for sure. And then I WILL move the rest of the money into a high yield savings account. I WILL. 

Also, every time my credit union savings hits a grand, I’ll move $500 of that over into the high yield account to put toward moving expenses. 

Budget:

I keep meaning to sit down and work out my new budget for 2021. I’m bringing home a little bit less in my paycheck because I changed my health insurance, and I’m also, of course, trying to save as much as I can ahead of moving so I don’t put anything on credit cards. (I’m doing so well paying those down!) This means I need to save everything I can and not spend money on stupid frivolous stuff. I’m not buying clothing like I did in the before times, but I AM spending too much money at Target still, because the app lets me just peruse any dumb idea I have and then pick it up that day! What a disaster! So, I really need to work something out. Or at least, I need to check my bank accounts more often and keep tabs on how much is actually going out. I have a bad out-of-sight-out-of-mind habit when it comes to bank accounts. Just another piece of me to try to cure this year.

And that’s it for January. I’m now late to bed because I’ve been working on this post for an hour and a half. Working on my sleep is also a goal, but we’ll see how exercise and the cpap handle that. Til next month!

[winter-soldier-vibes]

Avenger preferences: you self harm warning

Avenger preferences: You self harm

Word count: 3382

Warnings: self harm, depression

Steve Rogers/Captain America

Steve had been away on a mission for a few days now. He wasn’t due back for another couple of days. Your depression always got worse when he was away, mainly due to being alone. That coupled with anxiety awaiting his return - or rather if he would return - caused you to develop some unhealthy methods of coping. You were in the bathroom, knife in your hand, with blood running down your stomach. They were the easiest scars to hide.

You heard a door close. “(Y/N), I’m back!” you heard Steve call

Shit 

You called back as evenly as you could, “Yeah, hun, I’ll just be a minute in here.” Steve put down his bags and stepped into the kitchen to get a glass of water. That’s when he saw something that puzzled him - one of the kitchen knives was missing from the set. And based on the open slot, he realized that it was the sharpest one. 

He made his way to the bathroom you were in “Darling,” he started nervously, “Where’s the last knife to the kitchen set?”

Double shit.

“Uhh...I’m not sure Steve” you replied weakly, trying to clean up as quickly as you could. 

There was a beat of silence as Steve stood outside and you held your breath. “(Y/N), I need you to open this door. Please.” 

You closed your eyes and exhaled. Everything was cleaned except for the knife. Where were you supposed to hide that? Realizing you didn’t have an option, you walk over to the door and open it to see a very disheveled and tired Steve. He must have come straight to you when he got back. Looking behind you he saw the knife, and straightened up, looking you up and down. He was checking for where your injuries were. 

“I’m sorry Steve,” you said, lifting your shirt. After a few seconds, he wrapped you in a hug and said “It’s okay. We’ll get through this together.”

Tony Stark

You didn’t exactly feel the need to worry about Tony finding out. He was always in one of 3 places: out saving the world as Iron Man, throwing a party, or in his lab. So he never really noticed when you started wearing long sleeves or when you began flashing fake smiles. He was always busy with something more important.

You were self harming almost every night, and it was mostly on your arms. You did it at night because Tony thought you were sleeping, and was in his lab. Little did he know you had other things in mind for when the sun went down

But one day, you were talking to him while in his lab. You had picked up some of the science-y knowledge that Tony knew, and were vaguely familiar with all of the random things he said to himself. He found it cute how you would try to help, and he’d let you

“Hey, can you hand me that wrench over there?” he asked you.

“Sure thing,” you replied and walked over to grab it. You went to hand it to him but when you did, you didn’t notice how your sleeve had begun to inch it’s way up your wrist.

“Thanks babe,” he said, then did a double take. “Uh, babe...what’s that?” he asked. You immediately realized that your sleeve had rolled up and he had seen some of your cuts. You tugged it down and crossed your arms, chuckling lightly. “It’s nothing Tony, don’t worry about it.”

He dropped the wrench and made his way over to you, grabbing your arm and tugging up your sleeve to reveal scars and scabs in neat lines all over your wrist and forearm. He gasped and looked you hard in the eyes, gesturing to your arms. “This is nothing? Because it looks like you're slicing your arm open. Please, tell me I’m wrong. And don’t try to blame a cat because there isn’t one in this building.”

You looked away in shame. You knew he was just trying to lighten the mood but it still stung a little. “Look, I’m sorry. I just get depressed sometimes and this helps. I can’t explain it.” 

He let out a laugh. “So when you’re in pain, you cause yourself more pain to deal with it?” he deadpanned. 

“Tony,” you finally looked him in the eyes and he got more serious when he saw how in pain you were. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just helps.”

“Well can I try and help?” A baffled expression crossed your face, and he mocked being offended. “Wow, (Y/N), yes I, Tony Stark, can help people when I want to.” which caused you both to laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes”

Natasha Romanoff

You were training one morning (make that EARLY morning) with Nat and were working on your hand-to-hand combat. Nat being Nat, she was easily beating your ass, thoroughly tiring you out. You went to land a punch and she grabbed your arm and flipped you. 

You groaned in pain and made no moves to get up, thinking that you earned yourself a small break. Trying to catch your breath, you didn’t notice that when she had flipped you, your shirt had ridden up, revealing your secrets.

Natasha looked at you with a confused glance. I don’t remember her ever saying anything about this. She doesn’t even seem depressed or remotely sad. “Hey, (Y/N)? What are those marks on your sides?”

You bolted up and turned around, tugging your shirt down and cursing yourself for slipping up. You fumbled through possible excuses in your head, finally settling on “I got them on a mission.”

You turn around to see an unconvinced Natasha. She questioned “Really? Because you haven’t been on a mission for over a week now and these,” she lifted up your shirt again, “can’t be more than a few days old. So i’ll let you try again - where did you get these marks from?”

You sighed and raised your hands in defeat. “Fine, Nat, you win. I did it. I hate myself and I cut myself most nights because of how fucked up I am. Happy?”

Natasha was taken aback. I mean, she knew what the marks were but she didn’t realize how you felt about yourself. “Hey, I never said you were fucked up, (Y/N). No one thinks that. You don’t have to either.”

Tears started forming in your eyes. “I’m sorry.” you said.

Natasha came over to hug you. Don’t worry about it. Just don’t let it happen again or I will have no choice but to fight you for trying to hurt my friend.” 

Thor Odinson 

You wanted to tell him, you really did, but you knew he wouldn’t understand. Not in the normal “you-don't-get-it” understanding that most people have on Earth, but quite literally wouldn’t know anything about it. He was Asgardian, after all. 

So you didn’t you kept your self harm to non-obvious places. Places that were easy to hide or explain. Shoulder, back, stomach, thighs...that kind of thing. 

Thor always knew that something was bothering you but he decided not to push it and to wait for you to open up to him. Until one night he walked in on you wearing a tank top. You had always worn some kind of sleeves around him, but baring your shoulders gave him a clear view of the cuts across both of them.

“Lady (Y/N), What has happened?!” he exclaimed. “You’re hurt!”

You turned around, mortified at what was happening right now. This could NOT be happening. “Look, I can explain -”

“Do that later. Right now we have to get you to Banner. He can -” “NO!” you screamed, and Thor for a second looked scared. “My lady, what do you mean? You’re injured. At least tell me who’s done this to you.” At this you chuckled and shook your head. “I did, Thor. It’s just something I do.” He looked at you questioningly. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t understand. This isn’t a problem on Asgard. When I feel trapped in my mind, I hurt myself to distract myself. Physical pain for me, is easier than emotional pain.”

He approaches you and cups your face in your hands. “You are right, fair maiden. I know not what you speak of, this is all new to me. But hear me when I say that I will do anything to help you. I love you.”

Bruce Banner

You and Bruce were always pretty open about topics like depression. He struggles with it too, a lot of it was behind him but it still flared up every now and then. But you never quite told him everything - you never told him about the cutting. Or about the suicidal ideation. You knew he’d understand, you just didn’t want the conversation to end with him freaking out and turning into the Other Guy.

And so you would talk about the emptiness you felt, but you would leave it there. You hoped he wouldn’t notice. But every now and then he would pick up on different things. 

When you bumped into objects, you always seemed to wince in pain before resuming your usual appearance. When he would move to hug you, you would stiffen up as if you were afraid. And he never caught you in anything but long sleeves - which was concerning considering it was the dead of July.

And he would ask about these things. He could tell there was something you didn’t want to tell him, but he would drop it, not wanting to push. 

But one night, he woke up to use the bathroom to find it closed and locked with you inside. And he heard you crying. He knocked on the door and immediately you stopped. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked behind the wood. 

On the other side you were curled up in a ball leaning against the bathtub, blood now dried on your stomach. “Bruce, it’s like, 2 AM, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Shouldn’t you?” he retorted. You sighed. “Besides, I kind of need to use the bathroom so I’d greatly appreciate you opening the door.”

“Shit…” you cursed softly. But Bruce had heard you, which only caused him to worry further. “You sure you’re okay (Y/N)?” he asked. “Y-yeah…” you responded, trying your best to clean up as quietly as possible. “Just give me a sec.” 

A minute or so later you opened the door and  smiled softly at him, which he returned. He could see the dried tear tracks on your face but decided to leave it for now. But when he went to hug you, you hissed in pain.

He pulled back, worried that he had hurt you. “What’s wrong? What did I do?” You shook your head. “Nothing you did wrong, Bruce.” He looked you straight in the eye. “(Y/N), seriously...what’s going on? I’m not backing down this time.” You sighed in defeat and looked away, which told him what he needed to know. Gently, he lifted up your shirt to see the newest cuts among older ones, ranging forms days to months old. “Oh (Y/N)...Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to freak out or leave me.”

He looked at you and shook his head. “You know I’ve had issues with depression too. I understand this kind of thing. Look. “ he lifted his sleeve to reveal faded marks on his wrists. “I tried to get rid of the Other Guy. to forget him. But he’s not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

Peter Parker

You went to school with Peter and were really good friends with him. You loved his science puns and T-shirts with jokes on them. He loved how you understood him and shared a love for science. You two would often geek out together.

One night, you were bother studying, and you felt an itch. The itch. You needed to do it, you needed to cut. You didn’t know why, there was no trigger. It was just something that needed to be done, and fast. 

You began itching at your wrist, hoping the stinging sensation would help it to subside until you Peter left and you could do it in peace. After a few minutes you realized that scratching wouldn't help enough and you needed a blade instead of your nails. You lifted the book from your lap and stood up. “Be right back,” you said to Peter. He merely nodded in acknowledgement, too wrapped up in his chemistry to notice something was wrong

You had it all down to a few minutes. Slice, wash it, bandage, hide the blade, flush the bloody napkins. Which was exactly what you did and 3 minutes later you were back in your room with Peter

But little did you know that this time, you cut a little deeper and were bleeding a little bit more. And the blood had seeped through the bandage and was beginning to spot your sleeve. Neither of you noticed at first. But when Peter went to ask you a question, his eyes stopped on  your sleeve. “(Y/N), is that...Is that blood on your sleeve?”

You looked down and quickly clasped a hand over it. Shit this can’t be happening. “Uhh…”

Peter looked you in the eye, worry etched on his features. “What’s going on right now? Why is there blood on your sleeve?”

“It’s nothing Peter-”

“”Then let me see your arm.” He held out his hand. You looked between his eyes and his hand. “What? No, I said it’s nothing.” “If it’s nothing then let me see for myself. Why don’t you want me to see it?” He questioned. “Because I said, it’s not a big deal.”

“Dammit (Y/N).” He started as he moved to sit next to you. He pulled back your sleeve despite your protests and froze when he saw the bandage completely soaked through with blood. When he peeled back the bandage, his face went white as he realized what was going on. 

He held you in a bone crushing hug, and you had a little trouble breathing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as his voice wavered. “I dunno, I didn’t know what to say.” He held you a little tighter. “Well I’m here for you now.”

Bucky Barnes

You felt inadequate. Like you didn’t deserve anything you had, especially not your boyfriend, Bucky. Sure, he had some rough days as the Winter Soldier, but he remembered now.  He was the sweet, caring, and protective man you were dating. He still had nightmares most nights, and you would talk him down from the panic that was evident in his eyes. You calmed each other down.

But something that you had never told Bucky about was your own past. You never really liked to talk about it with anyone. You fought a long battle with depression and self harm years before the Avengers were even a thing. But as you came to work for the team, things improved. You stopped self harming and you didn’t feel numb all the time. But you still had reminders of your struggles all over your body. 

But one night, as you were getting ready for bed, you caught Bucky staring at his left arm, running his flesh hand over where the skin met metal. “Hey there,” you said. “Something wrong?”

He looked up at you with pain in his eyes. He just shook his head and said, “Nothing really. I just...I hate this arm. Every time I look at it I see all the things that I did, all the people I hurt. I don’t know. There’s just no escaping it.”

You looked down and nodded. “I get that. I know what that feels like,” you said as you met his gaze again. 

He gave a forced smile and asked, “No offense, Doll, but how could you understand?” You sighed to yourself. This was it. You were wearing a sports bra under your shirt, so you removed your shirt, revealing all the scars that adorned your body. You watched as Bucky’s jaw dropped slightly, taking you in. “I did this to myself, years ago, and even thoughI don’t do it anymore, I remember every single one of them. And I'm reminded of that anytime I see myself.”

He got up from the bed and made his way over to you, hand hovering over you, afraid that if he touched you you might break. You meet his gaze again. “I don’t do it anymore, Buck. I feel a lot better now. But i do understand what you mean.”

He smiled back at you. “I know you do, doll. I love you so much.”

Clint Barton

You were in the shooting range with Hawkeye himself, giving you tips on how to shoot an arrow. You were very grateful for the help, and Clint was just happy that someone finally showed interest in archery besides him. 

He stood in front of you, giving you tips on how to adjust your form to have more control of the shot. As you were drawing back arrows, though, the sleeves of your windbreaker were riding up, revealing some angry red lines on your wrist.

He noticed, but decided not to say something immediately. Later on when you guys were packing up, he decided to bring it up. “Are you feeling okay (Y/N)?”

You chuckled back at him. “Clint, I just killed it with the bow and arrow. Yes, I’m feeling just fine.”

“What happened to your wrist?”

Your smile faltered. Surely he hadn’t seen..?

“ (Y/N), What’s going on?” he asked. 

You crossed your arms in front of you and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just helps when my emotions are out of control. It’s one of the only things that makes me feel good.”

Clint lifted your chin to look you in the eyes. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Maybe I can help you. And if anyone causes you to feel bad about themselves, let me know so I can shoot them.” he said with a wink

Sam Wilson.

You had a lot of guilt that had eaten away at you over the course of your life. Your parent’s divorce, making other people angry...but most importantly your mental health. Years of self doubt had taken a heavy toll on you, and you had gotten to the point where you thought everything was your fault. That you messed up. And that you had to fix it. 

And for you, fixing it meant causing yourself pain in whatever way you could. And most of the time you wouldn’t take care of the wound afterwards, which leads to some nasty infections. 

Sam, having led a group that got together to discuss moving past guilt, recognized almost immediately that you held a lot of it, and that you blame yourself for it. One day, he decided to approach you about it. 

“(Y/N), are you okay?” when you gave him a confused expression he continued, “I don’t know...you just blame yourself for anything possible even though you had nothing to do about it. Why do you think everything is your fault?

You shrugged, averting your gaze. “Dunno, Sammy. It always was my fault. And I deserve to be punished for it. That way something is being done about it.”

Now it was Sam’s time to be confused. “What do you mean (Y/N?)”

You pulled back your sleeves enough to let Sam see what you would do to yourself every night, and his expression saddened as he looked you in the eye again, you were now crying. “Everything is always my fault.”

He moved to hug you. “Hey now,” he started. “None of this is your fault. I don’t know what happened or what someone said to you, but I am telling you this: It is so totally not your fault.” You continued to cry. “Do you want to talk about it?” you nodded at him.he held you a little tighter

“Where do you want to start?”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #362

(this is actually from yesterday but i never posted it and now i don’t feel like updating the answers, so yeah)

Have you ever been cheated on? No. Who’s car were you last in? My mom's. Have you ever thought about getting your nose pierced? It's been pierced multiple times, but each time the hole closed after my piercings had to be taken out at the psych hospital. The final time though, it closed because the damn stud fell out in my sleep for the billionth time, I couldn't find it, and I let it close out of annoyance. Have your parents ever smoked pot? My dad has. Do you tend to make relationships complicated? I mean, I don't think so. I hope not. Are you good at giving directions? NO. Like, I can't. I would accidentally lead you to the middle of the ocean. Would your mom care if she found condoms in your room? She'd be confused as fuck because I live with her so she knows for sure I'm not seeing anyone. Did you speak to your father today? No. Did you kiss someone before you were sixteen? No, it was actually a month after turning 16. Could you go a day without eating? Nooo. I've said before and I'll say it again, I don't deal with abdominal pain well, so yeah. Are your nails always painted? They never are. Have you ever met any bands/band members before? No. What color is your hair? Boring 'ole brown. .-. Your best friend needed somewhere to stay, could they live with you? She absolutely could. I know Mom would welcome her without hesitation. Have you danced in the rain? No. When you said something naughty when you were little, did your parents wash out your tongue with soap? No, but it was threatened. What do you think of spanking little children when they do something wrong? Okay or not? No, it is absolutely not okay. You do not teach children through fear, ever, nor do you show children that it is ever okay to hit people when you're upset. Who was the last male you hung out with? Uhhh, I think Girt? I haven't truly hung out with a guy in a long time. Who is your favorite person to text? Sara. Who did you last take a picture with? My sister. What’s your favorite brand of jeans? I don't have one. Which show is better: Spongebob or The Fairly Odd Parents? The latter. Both can be funny, but Cosmo cracks me up. Has anyone ever told you that you looked like someone else? I actually think the only time I was ever compared to someone else (make-believe, at that) was when I dressed up for Halloween one year and a friend told me I looked like Eileen Galvin from Silent Hill 4: The Room. Do you enjoy the sound of crickets at night and birds in the morning? Yesssss. Who is the most overrated singer? Idk, I don't even know who's "in" right now. What is your favourite planet? Saturn. Do you have any pets that you had since you were born? No. Do you own anything that you had when you were a baby? Yes, stored away. Do you enjoy Mario games? Mario Kart is fun, but otherwise I'm not a massive fan. What’s your favorite online game? World of Warcraft. Have you ever been hit with a ball in gym class? I think so. I was always terrified of the days we got to play dodgeball or whatever, like that shit hurts. Do you ever turn your cell phone off? No. Who was last to cook for you? My ma. Do you check your texts right away when you receive them? Usually. Who is your most trusted person? My mom, probably. How late did you stay up last night? God, I don't even know. Last night was my sleep study, and I was so uncomfortable in that bed that I slept maybe only an hour or two. Hell, or less. I also couldn't sleep on my stomach, which really didn't help because that's always how I sleep. I'm exhausted now and have such a headache. When/where are you most likely to sing? In the car, I guess. I very rarely sing anywhere. Would you ever wish to explore a cave? FUCK YES. You see the person you fell hardest for. What do you do? Panic like a motherfucker internally, avoid eye contact, and try to evade him (not like he'd actually pursue me) without being too obvious. Have you been/are you depressed? Both. Are your pop-ups blocked on your computer? Yes. Have you ever ridden in a car with someone who was high? Yes, because I was afraid to tell her I didn't want. Thank fuck we got home safe. I was absolutely, positively terrified we'd be pulled over. Who is the best hugger you know? Ha, actually the person I just mentioned. Have you ever had to be put to sleep for an operation? Yes. Does anybody have any proof of stupid things you have done? Oh, Facebook comments... Why did you text the last person in your inbox? I was replying to my mom. Have you ever been able to do a split? No. Did you ever date the last person you kissed? Yes. Are you intimidated by the last person you know talked badly about you? She doesn't "intimidate" me, no. She just gets on my last goddamn nerve every time she opens her mouth. Have you ever cried in school? Yes. Last person of the opposite sex you screamed at? I've never screamed at a guy because I'm afraid of them. I've sobbed at Jason, so like my voice was raised, but it definitely wasn't screaming. Do you have any weird sleep habits? Well, speaking of screaming, my nightmares have me shrieking in the middle of most nights. I also talk in my sleep like, a lot. Do you consider yourself an emotional person? Very. When was the last time you had a headache? This morning, I'm sure because of how shitty I slept. When was the last time you encountered a puppy? Prepare for a rant... We have one right now, even though our landlord told us specifically no puppies because of all the housetraining they require. My mom has been wanting a dog, and Tobey finally agreed to it, and she's been looking for a while. So my sister Ashley randomly shows up with a stray puppy a friend was keeping, terrified and LOADED with ticks, and she's reminding Mom and I why we DON'T WANT A PUPPY. She's peeing everywhere BUT outside (specifically on a stupid fucking expensive carpet that Tobey will have a cow over just ONE stain), is terrorizing my cat, and has an overwhelming amount of energy. Ashley specifically told me that if Mom doesn't let Ash know, I needed to tell her if the puppy was stressing Mom out, "because this isn't supposed to be a stressful experience for her." Well, she's been sobbing again and again and I literally just came back mid-question from comforting her because she broke down so hard she could barely breathe because now she had diarrhea on the fucking carpet. Ashley's all bitchy now about it for no apparent or even remotely valid reason, and by God do I want to cuss her the fuck out over this bull she brought on. Safe to say we're not keeping the dog, but not quickly enough. When Mom hurts, I hurt, and I am so goddamn furious. Is there anything that happened a long time ago that you still laugh about? Yeah, a number of things. Do you ever try to interpret your dreams? No, given I don't believe most have any meaning. It's brain word vomit, lol. What was the last thing you bought impulsively? I don't have the income for impulse purchases. When I get money, what I'm after is well-planned. How do you feel about singing songs out loud in front of other people? I don't, usually. I'm very self-conscious about it. When was the last time you were feeling really, really nervous? That nervous, I'm unsure. I've been nervous, sure, but I haven't had a massive anxiety episode in a while. If you’re no longer in school, what is something you miss about it? If you’re still in school, what’s something you think you’re going to miss about it? I miss feeling productive and like I was going at least somewhere. Do you use your turn signals when you’re driving? Yes; I hate when people don't. How exactly are you feeling right now? Mad at my sister. Have you ever had to board up your windows because of a hurricane? No. Do you tell anyone to chew with their mouths closed? No, to avoid "confrontation" that is too negligible to even quality as conflict. I'm just a lil bitch when it comes to stuff like this. Have you ever ordered pizza and sent it to someone else’s house? No. What was the first thing you drank when you woke up this morning? My nurse or whatever her position is (I don't mean that dismissively, I genuinely don't know her title) brought me some orange juice. Do you think stretch marks from having a baby are ugly or badges of honor? Oh my god, fuck off. Anyone who can carry a child for nine months and then endure what I assume is the worst pain (usually) survivable has every ounce of my goddamn respect. The natural result of making room for a like 6+ lb. human being is not "ugly." It's a part of life and to me shows an incredible amount of bravery and love to be willing to go through something I could absolutely never. Ever done a keg stand? Haha, no. My dizzy ass will pass. Who is the last person you lent money to? My mom. Do you share clothing with anyone? Mom and I will share bras or pants sometimes. Have you ever visited anyone in a rehab? No. Was the last thing you drank a Coke or Pepsi product? No, I have lemonade right now. Honestly, do you think that you’re going to be an overprotective parent? IF I wanted to be a parent, I feel like I definitely would be. Not like... overbearing, but still extremely protective in cases I think it's called for. What was the last kind of chips you ate? Veggie chips yesterday, actually. They're honestly not that good, but it's a doable snack with salsa. What is one thing that you really wish you could understand, but don’t? Economics. I dread taking care of my own money because idk what the fuck to do with taxes and such. What is the last thing you charged? My phone. Have you ever held a snake? I've held plenty of snakes, I love them.

[lihikainanea]

When BFF!Bill needs some love and saving of his own.

Listen, the two longer drabbles I have been trying to crank out for a week have totally evaded me, but this one just basically wrote itself.

Good Dude Bill takes such good care of tiger, but shit, we all have our demons that we fight against. And sometimes those demons win, don’t they?

Edit: For more on tiger and her knife incident that I mentioned below, you can read that drabble here and part two here.

***

He usually only got like this after a long stint full of things he hated—a press junket or tour full of invasive questions or constant interaction with strangers, the fake smile he had to turn on for weeks at a time when promoting a movie, a long shoot getting into the mind of a challenging character where he inadvertently soaked up some of their issues that weren’t his own. His withdrawal, his avoidance of other humans and his need to be alone with his thoughts, at peace, were normal after events like that. You knew when he came home he would be mostly quiet, he would usually stay in bed for days at a time and even eat his meals there, he’d sometimes have to be gently reminded to shower. Sometimes it was jet lag taking over, sometimes it was some emotional healing that was needed, but when you knew the cause of it you were usually able to help give him what he needed to get back on his feet.

This, though, this was new. This couldn’t be attributed to jet lag, or to exhaustion. Bill had been off work for awhile, longer than he ever had been, and it wasn’t due to lack of effort. Calls were coming in, auditions were being had, but he wasn’t booking the gigs. And the feedback, the criticisms, seemed to be coming in droves—tips that were meant to be constructive and helpful somehow always seemed biting and over-critical, particularly about things that he couldn’t change. It had worn him down, you saw it happen and witnessed the daily descent into his depression, his anxiety. He had been with you for three solid weeks, not returning home once—and you wanted him there with you, thought it would be much safer to be able to keep a close eye on him. When it became clear he didn’t have any intentions of going home any time soon, you had taken to stopping at his place a few times a week before work to water his plants, collect his mail, do some dusting. 

It was awful seeing him this way, someone usually so full of life and positivity, sulking and bed-ridden. It was a chore to get him to try and eat, he wasn’t saying much, and any attempts at sex had been gently rebuked. You were at a loss, the only hope you were holding onto was the way he would still reach for you every night, wrap himself around you and if you kissed him, he wouldn’t push you away. You still managed to get him out of the house twice a week when you drove him to his therapy appointments—ones that you gently insisted he go to and he wouldn’t fight you on it—hanging out in the waiting room for an hour and a half each time, until he was done. He seemed a little better after each one, he’d maybe stay out of bed long enough to have tea or dinner with you at the kitchen table, but a day or two after he was right back to staying in bed all day. A week and a half ago, he had given up shaving. This week, you had to pull him up and out of bed to shower and even then, you had to stay with him. Get him to bend down so you could wash his hair, but at least he would hug you for nearly the whole time. It was the most contact you had in weeks, and you missed him.

You would try again today. You would try not to push, not to be insistent, but to just be there for him in any way he needed. Pouring some of the hot liquid into two mugs, you placed them on a tray with the rest of your supplies and headed to your bedroom. He was awake, lying on his side staring at the wall, blinking slowly. He didn’t turn his gaze to you when you entered the room and plunked your tray on the nightstand, climbing onto the bed and slowly pushing him onto his back. 

“C’mon Billy Goat, up you gets,” you straddled his waist and pulled at his arms to get him sitting up. He helped, rising lethargically and resting against the headboard. His gaze washed over you, but he stayed silent.

“Hi,” you said with a small smile, reaching to stroke your thumb over his scratchy cheek. He swallowed hard, his eyes big and glassy as they held your gaze, full of a meekness you rarely saw in him.

“Hi,” he whispered, and his voice was rough and hoarse. You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against his chapped lips and you waited a beat to see if he’d respond to it. Your heart soared when you felt his lips move tentatively back against yours.

You reached for the tray when you pulled away, picking up the two mugs and handing one to him. You watched as his brow furrowed, smiling to yourself when he brought the mug closer to smell it, taking a tentative sip. Nostalgia and recognition flooded his features, his eyes taking on a fondness, as you gave him a knowing look.

“Is this the tea Granny used to make?” He asked, and you nodded. He took another sip, closing his eyes as he let it slide down his throat.

“I miss her,” he murmured. 

“I miss her too,” you brushed the hair from his forehead, taking the time to run your fingers down his brow. When you heard the shaky breath he took in you continued to trace your fingers lightly around his features.

“I miss you, too,” you admitted, “I hate seeing you like this.”

His frown deepened, and you worried that your words may have set him off. Eager to change the topic you cupped his cheek, leaning to place another gentle kiss on his lips.

“This—” you rubbed your thumb over his stubbly jawline, running it over his chin, “Is getting real scratchy for me. It’s like kissing a porcupine.”

Setting your mug down, you reached for the tray of supplies and placed it on the bed. Taking the warm washcloth, you pressed it gently to the lower half of his face before grabbing the can of shaving cream.

“What are you doing?” He asked, watching your movements.

“Shaving you, so you don’t look like a lumberjack,” you explained as you squirted some of the foam into your hand, “And so you’re softer to kiss. Which means you’ll get more kisses.”

You spread some of the foam onto his face, lathering it up on his jaw and contouring his mouth. He let you do it, closing his eyes briefly and resting a hand on your leg. It made you giddy, that he was seeking out contact with you again. It was a reassurance that the Bill you knew and loved was just beneath the surface, trying to break free. It made you smile.

“You look like Santa,” you teased when you were done, the shaving cream applied in a makeshift beard on his face. He didn’t smile, but you caught the slight amusement in his eye.

“Is this a good idea?” He asked, as you reached for the razor. You took another sip of tea, scoffing at him.

“Of course it is, I’m excellent with a blade, remember?”

“Are you, though?”

He reached for your hand, stroking his thumb over the scar on your palm from when you needed 20 stitches after attempting to impress a guy at a bar with some tricks with the switchblade you kept on you at all times.

You stared at him, incredulous.

“Rude, Bill,” you said, flicking the razor in your hand for emphasis, “Now hold still, unless you want me to even out that cheek scar on the other side.”

And he was as still as a statue, obedient and trusting, as you ran the blade down his cheek. His gaze stayed on you as you slowly shaved him, taking extreme care not to nick him. The only sounds in the room were the razor you would occasionally slosh in the cup of warm water to clean it and your quiet breathing—you could swear you felt him relax a little under you, maybe saw a hint of fondness and gentleness in his eyes, but it could have been wishful thinking.

“Roll your lips under,” you commanded quietly, leaning in close to shave his upper lip. You pursed in concentration, trying to get it all but not cut him. Resting your thumb on his nose, you lightly pushed it up to get a better angle.

“I love this thing,” you said when you were done, giving his nose a little pinch as you leaned to kiss it, “It’s so fucking cute.”

He smiled at that, a small one but still perceptible, and you grinned back. You reached for the washcloth to wipe the remnants of shaving cream off of his face, and he surprised you when he pressed his hand flat on your back, pulling you closer and tilting his head for a kiss. He laid his lips on yours solidly, pressing into them and parting them tentatively. It was heaven, and it hit you then just how much you missed kissing him. You tried not to squeal, not to press more forcefully into him when you felt his tongue slip hesitantly past your lips, but you couldn’t stop the low groan that escaped your throat. It had been so long since he had kissed you—really kissed you.

He let it linger, nothing heated or pressed about it, just more comfort and seeking affection. When he eventually pulled away you bit your lip, rested your forehead on his, and he swiped his thumb across some of the shaving cream he got on your chin.

“Thank you, tiger,” he whispered, and you nodded slowly as you held his gaze. 

But emotion swept over you suddenly and forcefully, your eyes flooding with tears. He watched you closely.

“I don’t know how to help you, anymore,” you admitted. You sniffled, blinking hard to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deep breath to even yourself out.

You pecked him once more, sighing as you grabbed the washcloth and rubbed it along his face. Cupping his cheeks when you were done, you smiled sadly at him as you stroked your thumb back and forth. Grabbing your chin, he drew your face to his and rested his forehead on yours.

“You are helping,” he said, “Every day, you’ve done nothing but help me. I’d be lost without you, kid.”

You sniffled, the tears coming back to your eyes.

“You’ve taken such good care of me these past few weeks,” he said, and his voice matched his pained expression, “And I want to be better, I do. I just can’t figure my way out of this mess in my head.”

You nodded, the tears streaming down your cheeks as you mumbled an apology. The last thing he needed was to be dealing with your emotions, amidst his own.

“You make it a little easier, tiger,” he continued, and his voice was barely a whisper, “You make the path a little clearer. Please, don’t give up on me. No matter how much of a lost cause I seem.”

You kissed him, wiping at the tears on your own cheeks.

“I won’t bud, I won’t,” you said, “You’re not a lost cause.”

“Promise?”

And you cracked, a small sob escaping you as you fought to hold it back. Shadows, cracks of your best friend, the man you knew and loved, were shining through. He was in there still, fighting with every ounce of strength he had, to come back to you. It never occurred to you that sometimes the strength he relied on wasn’t his at all—it was yours.

“I promise, Billy Goat. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got promises to keep,” you put your hand on his heart and he leaned to kiss you again with a bit more vigor.

“And miles to go before I sleep,” he murmured against your lips, pulling you in to hug you tightly against him.

[sapphicambitions]

Y’all know that post about writing your own trauma and problems into the characters and stories you write? Here’s a scene from the book I’m writing right now that does just that:

——

Skylar took another swig of his Lemon Drop, and then dropped it on the bar, head down. All of our friends, more like his friends actually, drifted off, talking to each other and securing that corner spot with the couch, leaving him and I alone up at the bar counter. It wasn’t particularly busy for a Sunday night, so there wasn’t a roar of a crowd or tons of people pushing between us to get the bartender’s attention. It was just him and me, sitting in silence, staring at the wood grains of the counter, trying desperately to come up with something to say. Things had been so weird between us recently that I wasn’t sure how to approach him. It was his fucking birthday, I should have been able to throw my arm around him and clink our glasses together and be able to look him in the eyes without that feeling in my chest-

“Do you know why I love my birthday?” He said, staring down at his glass.

“The presents?” I asked, trying to tease. Trying to lighten the air or at least get him to smile. It worked, briefly. He let out a scoff of a laugh, and ran his hand over his face, shaking his head.

“It’s the one day a year I believe that people like me,” He said, swirling his drink like that was a thing you did with a Lemon Drop. “It’s the one day a year my brain actually believes that people like me. Every other day of the year, it’s like I’m constantly debating that fact in my head, sword fighting with my mind over it. I have to convince myself that the lady at the bank doesn’t hate my guts. I have to convince myself that my parents splitting up wasn’t my fault. I have to convince myself that people actually care about my existence,”

My heart clenched. My hand twitched, wanting to reach out to him. But I kept it at my side. “People like you, Skylar,”

He shrugged. “Logically, I know that. But good luck trying to convince my anxiety ridden brain that it’s true. And that’s even before the depression steps in.”

I sighed. “Skylar-”

He held up his hand, cutting me off. “Will you just let me finish?”

He still wasn’t looking at me.

“Yeah,” I said, and took another swig of whiskey.

“My birthday is the one day of the year that I feel like I’m free of that. People send me messages and cards and flowers and presents and it’s like physical proof I can show my fucked up brain that people actually care about me. It’s the one day a year I feel like I have a right to be selfish, that I want to be selfish,”

I said nothing. Just watched him fiddle with his glass over and over in his hand.

“So I’m going to be selfish,” He swallowed. “Because it’s my fucking birthday and I have a right to be selfish,” And then he turned his gaze up to meet mine, his big brown eyes finally meeting mine. It sucked all the air out of me and made my chest clench up. He held my gaze for a moment, just a breath’s moment, where I swore he could hear the beating of my heart.

“I have loved you my whole life,” He said, holding my gaze. “I have loved you my entire fucking life, Jacob,”

Time stopped.

“And it kills me that you don’t feel the same way. It kills me that when we kissed, you pushed me away and we have never been the same”

My heart might have stopped, too.

“And it fucking destroys me that one day, I’ll have to watch you love someone else in all the ways that you’ll never love me,”

The whole damn universe might have stopped.

“And I can’t do it anymore, Jacob,” He shook his head. “I can’t go on loving you like my life depends on it. I just can’t,”

I tried to speak but my throat was closing in on itself.

I don’t know what I would have said anyway.

For the first time, he looked away from me, and somehow that was the worst of it all. He looked back down at his hands, and for a moment I was grateful. If he looked away he couldn’t see the fact that there were tears pooling in my eyes.

“I need some space from you, Jacob,” He choked a bit at the end, and I could see that he had tears in his eyes. “I just need some space. I can’t keep loving you this way,”

I cleared my throat, desperately wanting to say something, anything. “Skylar-”

He shook his head. “You should go, Jacob,”

“Skylar-”

“Go, Jacob,” He gritted his teeth, and turned his head away from me.

I’d never known what true heartbreak was until that moment. I didn’t know what it meant to have your world crash in around you and feel like your heart was shattering into a million pieces until he got up from the bar and left me without looking back. I didn’t know what it meant to be so utterly devasted until he left me at that bar with the echoes of everything I wanted to say to him on the tip of my tongue. At the time, I didn’t know all the things I was feeling. I didn’t know why that look in his eyes when he spoke to me felt like the sun was crashing in and I was trapped in the mud. All I knew was that I had to wipe my eyes with the palm of my hand and pay for my drink quickly. I had to get out of that bar as soon as humanly possible.

Because that was what he wanted.

And it was his birthday.

So he was allowed to be selfish.

[skittlestrash]

little things that could’ve made That better:

penny astral projecting into julia’s mind to find out her own damn choice

like seriously, if they still needed to make it angsty and have him make the choice, they could’ve had him TRY and then for whatever reason--oh cause of the possession axes!--it just not work

realize that alice could’ve been allowed to be just as sad even if she and q were ~only~ friends again instead of shoving them together again right after an episode where he was totally not into her anymore

idk i basically forget everything else that happened besides that and the worst thing to ever happen on television.

SO, ship related:

maybe, i dunno, allow quentin to actually ever LOOK at eliot after the monster was fuckin expelled out of him?

look i know the writers were morons and thought it’d be ~better~ or whatever for them to not even get a reunion scene but even that could’ve been handled better, and so easily; check it out:

they do the spell, the bottles are locked up, blah blah, quentin moves towards eliot

penny’s like UH HELLO WE HAVE TO DO THIS NOW

q is so torn but ultimately knows penny’s right, so he tells eliot and margo he will be at the medical...whatever as soon as he possibly can, he promises

then boom. he never gets there. 

TADA, ALL THE SUFFERING AND PAIN THEY WANTED WITHOUT FUCKING PRETENDING Q/EL DIDN’T EXIST UNLESS THEY WANTED RATINGS.

and for a tiny, TINY bit less pain (not really), since penny has read all their books, he could’ve maybe, idk, told quention that eliot loved him back so q didn’t have to die assuming otherwise. just a thought.

ways they could’ve not fucked up everything ever by throwing jason ralph away (unless he really did WANT to leave, but that remains unclear so forgive me for not trusting the creators about this point): aka: ways they could easily bring quentin back, both in this ep and beyond:

(personally i half expected him to like get sucked into the seam and then he’d be stuck with the monsters and be like SERIOUSLY, STUCK WITH YOU AGAIN AND WHY DO YOU STILL LOOK LIKE ELIOT?? and then the monster would be upset q helped kill him but decide to protect him from the other evil monsters in the seam because some human things are still so beautiful)

(but i digress)

(someone write that though, please)

so he could’ve seen his friends all weeping about him and then been like YOU KNOW WHAT, it doesn’t matter if i not-so-low-key-wanted to die; i want to be with the people i now know for sure love me even more. 

after julia gets her magic back and is asked what she’ll do with it: I’M GONNA GO GET Q, MOTHERFUCKER

her, eliot, and alice get right to that 

(the others help but you know)

q totally reminds penny that he wanted to escape, too, so they’re gonna do that together, bitches

q has a metro card, which penny wanted earlier because it would help him find his way back to the fuckin living, right? quentin can totally do that now. it’s right there, baked right in.

ALL of this is baked right into the damn show, and as much as i would hate another whole season of separation and trying to save each other, i would take it a million times over this shit. what they did. what they now won’t do, which is all of the above.

because ha ha, his story was totally over, guys! depressed, suicidal, anxiety-ridden, bisexual nerd = actually fighting to live and being happy ever again?? what were we thinking, amirite?? 

no wait, sorry, this WAS his happy ending. dying. was his happy ending.

what a great fucking message to send. 

i went to bed, slept for like 4 hours, woke up and cried for two and a half hours before sleeping again, only to wake up a few hours later for good, to cry some more. i don’t know if i will ever be able to watch this show again--4x05 was the best thing i’ve ever seen, and now it’s completely ruined. also ruined now: take on me. i sort of want to delete my entire tag and everything in my drafts and queue. i keep feeling nauseated all over again, and ragey, and hey, it took me until like two hours ago that i have apparently had suicidal ideations as long as i can remember that absolutely centered around like “wow i wonder what it’d be like to see what people thought of me if i died” and dreaming that they’d care. 

so that was a fun realization in the car.

and there are people far worse off than me right now, pain-wise. 

this? this is NOT WHAT ENTERTAINMENT IS SUPPOSED TO DO. 

it is not meant to actively harm those that partake in it. this was a fucked up, dangerous, CRUEL decision for them to make, and they don’t even know it. they’re proud of themselves. they kept it from their own fucking cast almost as long as they did from us. 

they don’t deserve to be entertainers, not when this is what they do with it.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Killer has a bad time

fandom: undertale aus

characters and pairing: Killer!Sans, Horrortale!Sans, Error, Nightmare killer x hatchet x Error

warnings: panic attack, sensory overload

Summary: Killer has a panic attack, but his boyfriends are quick to help him calm down. 

tagslist: @anxiety-is-married-to-depression @angelofthehalfmoon @trainwreck-of-skeletons @hisame-amadashi​ @therandomskelekey @capisnotonfire

Killer had just gotten back from a solo mission for boss - it had gone fairly well, all told. It was a curse-ridden and post-pacifist Overfell. Tensions were incredibly high between monsters and humans, made worse by the fact that both sides were suffering from the lingering curses that each race had cast upon the other towards the end of the war before the two races had been separated by a very powerful magical barrier for three hundred years.

He'd reported in to Nightmare, who seemed to have been pleased by the amount of data that he'd gathered. And Killer had even been sure to stick to the no stabbing on recon missions rule that the other absolutely insisted was necessary on missions like that. He wasn't entirely sure why when it was likely that they were going to cause chaos later, but Killer had done as he was told.

He stretched a little and concentrated for a moment, frowning a little as he realized that he couldn't sense either of his boyfriends... As far as Killer was aware, Hatchet didn't have any missions (unless something had come up) and Error had decided to stay with them at the castle, as it was a damn sight more secure than the Antivoid, which both the Star Shits and Fresh could access if they wanted to.

Unless Error had wandered off to go make sure that Ink wasn't too busy? Killer tried to shake off the worry that bubbled where his stomach would be, if he had one. He meandered over to one of the common rooms, sitting down and switching on the TV, doing his best to watch what was going on in that portion of the Undernovella AU that they were currently following. There was a lot of shouting and fighting and -

Killer groaned quietly as he felt a headache pounding the front of his skull and squinted a little as he wondered just who in the hell had turned on the lights this bright? The shouting and flailing of the beings he was watching was grating on his nerves, so with trembling fingers, Killer switched off the TV. His breathing was fast and shallow, and he felt as if what was left of his soul was slowly being strangled.

He panicked a little and summoned his soul - the red target-look still the same as ever. It wasn't dripping or melting or changing color. So what the fuck was wrong? He tugged his hoodie over his face as he tried to slow down his fast and frantic breathing, a shudder running through him as he tried not to break down into miserable tears. Stars above and demons below, why was he such a weak and useless fucking moron? There was no Asgore-damned reason why he should be reacting like this. He had to calm down... But he couldn't for some stupid fucking reason!

"Hey... Babe... Mind coming out of hoodie town for a moment?" Hatchet asked suddenly, his warm presence next to him and magical aura startling Killer.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to. We just want to show you something, love." Error murmured from his other side, a couple of strings gently wrapping around one of his wrists. Not to try to restrain or pull him anywhere, but to show that the other was there and that he was there and sent a pulse of soothing magic through it.

"T-Too bri-bright..." Killer managed out, leaning into Hatchet's familiar warmth as he clung to him desperately.

"Alright... I'm going to get up and turn off the light. Is there anything else that's bothering you, love?" Error asked, staticky voice filled with love and care.

"J-Just t-try to keep speaking q-quietly please.” Killer begged, shaking a little bit as he clung closer to the other. Some of the fearful static in his mind was quieting down a little at the sound of their voices “B-But please k-keep talking. I-It helps me to hear your voices…”

"Alright sweetheart. We've gotcha... Anything in particular you want us to talk about, or just the sound of our voices?" Hatchet asked, his voice a pleasing rumble as the other gently rubbed little circles into his back "Can you do some of those square breaths for me, sugar?"

"C-Count f-for me?" Killer asked timidly, pressing a little bit closer to the larger sans as he heard Error moving around the room.

"Alright, In for one, two, three, four." Hatchet started, his voice calm and caring as he counted out the square-breathing exercise.

Error called out after a couple of moments, sounding close again "Do you want us on both sides of you, or just one of us at a time? I know that pressure can sometimes bother you, Killer."

"Mnn... Want to feel you both close... Please?" Killer responded after a moment "But only if it won't bother you being so close, Error."

"I wouldn't have offered something that I wasn't able to give you, darling." The glitch reassured his anxious boyfriend as he walked over and sat down next to the other, reaching out and gently placing a hand on one of the other's shoulders.

"O-Okay... Th-Thanks." Killer responded after a relieved sound, feeling himself relax a little further. After a couple of minutes he tugged his hoodie down and asked quietly "What is it that you two wanted to show me?"

"Error made us both a couple of dolls!" Hatchet explained with a grin, revealing to the other the tiny, plush versions of the two of them, along with a doll-Error. The three of them were very cute.

Killer gasped softly and reached out for the Hatchet and Error dolls, carefully picking them up and kissing them on the teeth, purring softly "Th-they're really well made, thank you, Error."

"You're welcome, Kills." Error hummed, purring a little in response, the other's hand still resting lightly on one of his shoulders.

Hatchet was purring as well, still rubbing gentle circles into the small of his back. He wanted to ask how Killer's mission had gone, but he wasn't sure if that was part of the reason why the other was so anxious - something might have happened on the mission and Killer was now freaking out because he was in a safe space. Nightmare had summoned the both of them as soon as the negative guardian (and their boss) had sensed Killer's panic attack, so that they'd be able to help him through it. "Hey... I learned a new recipe while you were away! I figured out how to make meat and cheese ravioli from scratch. It's a repetitive task, but the movements are kind of meditative, after a while. And I figured I might as well make as many as I could, so there's a bunch for you to try... The first batch aren't the greatest, but they still taste good. And boss even let me use fresh herbs and some of the tomatoes from that big-ass garden of his, too. For the sauce. And the ravioli themselves, in exchange for a bunch of them."

"Oh... That does sound tasty... Did you just make the ravioli and sauce, or did you make cheesy garlic bread too?" Killer asked, half-hopefully. He loved everything that the other made, but garlic bread just made any pasta dish so much better.

"Of course I did, made the bread myself- we were out getting a bit more yeast, 'cause we used the last of it for the dough. I missed you in the kitchen, kneading the bread, but orders are orders." Hatchet answered with a grin, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Killer's forehead.

"I like the feeling of the bread in my hands... 'Nd it's nice to be able to use my strength to make something, for once." Killer half-mumbled as he nuzzled into Hatchet, still purring a little. The feeling of impending doom had almost gone away. The tightness in his chest had stopped entirely, though he was still feeling a little bit shaky.

"I quite agree... It's one of the reasons why I like making these dolls... It's nice to see how I improve over time." Error remarked lightly as he gently patted Killer's shoulder gently "Is there something we can do to help you? Or would you rather we stay close?"

"Stay, please." Killer answered immediately. He was kind of hungry - and that plate of pasta and garlic bread sounded really good... But he would rather his boyfriends be in the same room with him, then one of them getting him something to eat.

"Alright." Hatchet and Error acknowledged at the same time. The three of them stayed snuggled together on the couch until they slowly fell asleep.

~

Killer shifted a little, waking up just enough as he realized that someone had draped a blanket around the three of them. He could just barely make out the figure walking out of the door. “Thank you…” He calls out, tired and starting to wake a little.

“You’re welcome. Go back to sleep, Killer.” Nightmare responded, voice just barely above a whisper, sounding amused and… An emotion that Killer couldn’t readily identify when this sleepy.

“Okay… I can follow that order…” Killer mumbled with a sleepy smile, drifting back off again. It was nice to know that Boss did actually care for him, as grumpy and grouchy as Nightmare could get. Cuddled between his boyfriends and feeling utterly safe, Killer was so glad that he’d finally found a home to call his own.