#rie writes

[blood-mocha-latte]

RARELY SOFT OR CONSOLATORY | 4.7K | RATED T

Merry Christmas (Eve), @sachart! I was your Secret Santa <33. I hope you've had a lovely lovely winter and will continue to have happy happy holidays, and truly hope you enjoy this fic. Your art and kindness is an inspiration, and I truly had the loveliest time creating for you :).

Bill used to think more about his brother. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of Henry that never received the letters that he’d still written.

However, now, in the frozen black belly of burnt-down France, he can barely think past Joe Toye’s blue-turning-black toes or George Luz’s red-ringed eyes or a dozen other things that stick out sore along the white backdrop. 

(Bill Guarnere, winter during the war, being out of commission, and winter after it. A reflective.)

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT

His stomach hurt. 

A slight exacerbation. 

Everything hurt, but his stomach most of all. Half from being empty, half from being cold, and another half on top of the first two from the goddamn worry. 

Bill was used to worry, too. That was the thing. He was used to worrying about his brothers — for Earnest, at least, and over his Ma for Henry — and used to worrying about the men — he’d thrown up behind a mole hill a few hours after Bull had gone missing. Not his proudest moment, one he kept secret. But one nonetheless. 

He was also used to worrying about pain. About how it felt, and more distinctly, the way that shrapnel had felt, like molten, liquid heat that’s only goal was to burn. 

As it was turning out, the cold burned, too. 

Most notably — or, maybe, most impactfully, at least to Bill — it was burning Joe.

“I’m fine.” Toye, in question, said, face tensely lined with what he wouldn’t voice aloud as he shifted against the frozen dirt of the foxhole, careful to keep his foot stretched out in front of him, leg ramrod straight. Bill just stared at him. 

“Joe, you look like a half-frozen vegetable.” Bill told him. Toye grimaced at him, like the action could somehow be mistranslated as a laugh. “Listen—” He started and winced, having shifted against the wall of the foxhole and alighting the sharp, bitter twang of old wounds all over again. “—there’s extra food with Ramirez, and I think that Skip has—”

“I’m not taking more than my fair share.” Joe told him firmly, not for the first time, uninterested in the rest of Bill’s sentence when he knew it would just be the same thing everyone had been telling him. Bill threw his hands up in the air, and the cold seemed to bite at the tips of his fingers like it was alive. 

“Your fair share ain’t enough, you know that—”

“There’s other guys that need it more—”

“Who? Because you’re the only idiot I see around stupid enough to still be—”

“Thanks, Guarno, but I’m fine.” Joe shut him down, more tense than before, as soon as the words left his lips. Bill shut his mouth with a click, reopened it with something to say on the tip of his tongue, then sighed and closed it again. 

“Fine.” He muttered, pressing his palms to the teeth of the frozen mud in order to pull himself up, shifting his weight gingerly from foot to foot until he feels loose enough to clamber out of the hole. He paused before he did so, however, glancing over his shoulder and watching how Joe watched him, face set in pain. “It’s… I care about ya’, you know.” 

Something in Joe’s eyes loosen, but not in his expression. Still, he says, “yeah, Bill. I know.” With enough gentleness to convince Bill to turn around again, pull himself out of the hole and wince at the sharp complaint of the shrapnel scar at his hip.

He started pushing back through trees and snow without much preamble, not exactly interested in waiting around and watching Toye freeze to death, and found George Luz waiting for him.

Waiting was probably the wrong word, since Bill was certain Luz wasn’t there for him, in specifics, but the other had his arms crossed over his sternum, fingers curled into his own body heat. In the absence and lack of cigarettes Bastogne has provided, he’d taken to running his tongue over his top lip before pulling the bottom one between his teeth.

He tilted his head at Bill when he saw him. A silent question. Bill shook his head, unneeding of preamble, and Luz just closed his eyes, brief, mulling and tired, before opening them again. They were ringed with red, and Bill didn’t have to ask why. Luz had been spending more time with Toye than Bill had, anyways, and even the limited time he had had was enough for his chest to feel tight. 

“Thanks.” He said anyways, voice somewhere between a deadpan that always seemed somewhat light on him and something genuine. Bill just cuffed him carefully on the side of his face before moving down to shake his shoulder. 

“No point in talking to him, I don’t think.” Bill told him. Luz just looked over his shoulder, pulling his bottom lip back in between his teeth. 

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll—” He began. Bill tossed an arm over his shoulders before he could get too far, and George walked with him without much restraint.

“Don’t see how you could get through to him when I couldn’t.” Bill told him, which seemed too harsh to say, but he couldn’t regret voicing when he knew that Luz would just keep trying anyways, with, he was near-convinced, the same results. 

They were both Toye’s friends, and if Joe wouldn’t listen to Bill, he doubted he’d listen to Luz. 

Luz went with him without much fanfare. Ramirez didn’t actually have extra food, not really, but Bill knew that they’d’ve been able to scrape something together between at least a few guys, in case Toye would have actually agreed. 

Luz turned to him as they hit the slight slope where some of the others had dug in, mainly Perconte and Skip. He looked tired, more tired than Bill had ever seen him and more beat down than some of the guys in the regiment. “Thanks for tryin’, Bill.” He said, seeming genuine, and Bill just shrugged.

“Joe’s my friend.” He said, didn’t tack on the so are you, and hoped that it was understood. He still didn’t understand, entirely, why Luz had asked him to check up on Toye, but figured that it had to do with having more guys on board leading to a likelier chance of the goddamn moron accepting more help. 

Roe may have gotten him new shoes, but Bill doubted that frostbite was the sort of thing to be cured with a dead mans worn down leather.

They parted ways, after that. Bill went off to find Babe or Buck. Or maybe Lip.

-----

Bill didn’t write very many letters anymore. Earnest couldn’t read, and Henry was dead, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he had trouble trusting his ma, anymore. 

He didn’t understand, why she wouldn’t tell him that Henry was killed. Why they wrote letters back and forth about nothing for five months and he wrote one sided letters that never reached Henry for five months and nothing ever came of it until he had to learn about Monte Casino from Pat Martin. 

Still, he was trying to be dutiful, and he tapped the blistered, frozen end of his index finger against the letter he’d been trying to write for the better part of a week before lowering it, slight, with a huff. 

It was hard to focus, out here. Not a lot to talk about, anyways. Nothing he wanted his mother to know about, at least. 

It was still early in the day, at least when a watch was counting, but the sky was dark from a combination of an early setting sun and clouds of artillery fire, and Bill carefully folded the already ripped and freezing letter before putting it back into his pocket.

Compton was asleep next to him, barely moving. Bill would even doubt that he was breathing, if not for the white clouds that hung intermittently in the air, neatly suspended.

Careful not to wake him up, Bill pulled himself out of the grave and turned, careful, on a knee. He bent down enough to grab his rifle and pack and, glancing around for half of a second, set off. 

He was looking for Lipton, mainly because Lip probably had something for him to do and, if he didn’t, at least would put up the effort of attempting to find something. 

Navigating through the forest mainly on memory, Bill paused, for half of a second, when Toye’s voice caught on the icy shards of the air for half of a second before dispersing. 

“‘S not going to work.” He said, sounded tired, and there was an exhale of breath that didn’t seem to belong to him, equally tired but maybe more determined.

“It might.” George Luz retorted, voice hoarse. “It might, so I’m not gonna stop—”

“George—”

“Joe.” Luz’s voice again, but firmer, less like himself in how little room he left for any type of humor. “Please.” 

His voice broke on the word. 

Bill hesitated in place, boots shifting against the snow for half of a second, unsure of whether or not to move on. If Luz was still trying to convince Toye to eat, or at least take some semblance of more rations than the other guys, then Bill should be there, he felt. But this felt like something different, more intimate, somehow, and he wasn’t sure about how to intrude. 

It felt like maybe he wouldn’t need to, since the silence from the foxhole stretched on for too long, carried by the stillness of the frozen air, until Toye said, voice lower, rougher, “fine.” 

Luz sighed, a quiet, heavy and relieved sound, and Bill shifted, started walking away. 

He still had to find Lip, anyways.

-----

Two days later, it was December 25th, and there wasn’t much fanfare. 

Earlier in the day, they had talked about it briefly. Malarkey had said, rather glumly, that he didn’t think Christmas could exist, here, and Bill had decided to agree with him and move on. No use dwelling when there were better things to complain about.

However, but and in spite of this, when it was dark enough out again that Bill thought it may be midnight at four in the afternoon, George Luz pressed a cigarette into his palm and said, “Merry Christmas, Ghonorrhea.” 

Bill just blinked down at it. “You’re shitting me.”

Luz, apparently mistaking Bill’s bewilderment at his ability to save a cigarette out here, just shrugged. He turned against the foxhole he’d dropped into to present the gift to Bill, sliding down to sit next to him and pressing their shoulders together for warmth. “Nah.” He said, rather dully. “It’s Christmas.” 

Bill snorted a laugh. It was sort of happy. A bit of an in-between, half-hearted amusement that was only funny because of who told the joke. “You give smokes to everyone?” 

“Everyone I could.” Luz agreed. When Bill looked over at him, his eyes were closed, head dipped back against the frozen wall of the foxhole. The tip of his nose was blue. 

Bill shifted, patting down his pocket with numb fingers until he found his lighter. 

It was almost out, as Bill had taken habit to flicking it on and off for temporary warmth once the nights had stretched darker and smokes had run out, and it took him four tries to correctly spike the wheel and get the cigarette to catch. 

Once it did, he held it out to Luz. George just shook his head, pushing Bill’s hand back towards his own mouth. He didn’t say anything, and Bill just shook his head before taking a drag. 

“Hell, I’d think you’re dying.” He said grimly, perhaps slightly ironic. George huffed, like it was any sort of particularly amusing. “Giving up a smoke and then refusing to share it.” 

The laugh he got for that seemed rather real. Luz shifted enough for them to be further apart but still share warmth, propping an elbow onto his knee as he pressed fingertips to his lips, as if in memory. 

“Nah.” He said around his hand, quiet, but still amused. “It’s… I shared one earlier.”

He looked vaguely embarrassed. Bill watched him, close, for half of a second before shrugging. 

“Alright.” He said, ambivalent. “I’m not gonna complain.” 

The tip of Luz’s nose was still tinged with blue, but his face looked almost red. Bill chalked it up to the cold and left it at that. 

-----

Bill used to think more about Henry. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of his brother that never received the letters that he’d still written.

However, now, in the frozen black belly of burnt-down France, he can barely think past Joe Toye’s blue-turning-black toes or George Luz’s red-ringed eyes or a dozen other things that stick out sore along the white backdrop. 

Among those things stand sound. 

When he was younger, his mother had once told him that he could hear a bell ring from five miles off and come running to see the what for. Now, in war, it turned out to be very much the same. 

He’d come to his friends when he’d heard them laughing, he’d come to them when he heard them swearing, and he didn’t have to think about it for very long at all before coming to his friend when he was calling for help. 

That was all that he remembered, for a long while. 

I gotta get up. 

-----

The slow hobble back to America started in France, and the hospital that was just outside of Foy was crowded, smelled putrid, and was still somehow cold. 

In spite of that, Toye was running a fever, and the dots of crystal that ran along his brow made Bill more worried than the fact that he couldn’t feel anything below his belly button. 

“Y’think George is alright?” Joe asked him, his words slurring in strange places and vowels drawing out in others as his voice dragged along the line of incomprehensible. 

Still, Bill could understand him, and just coughed. He was thinking of his friends, too, of Babe and Malarkey and Muck and Penkala and Compton and Lipton and hoping they were alright.

He reached out clumsily, clammy palm knocking against Toye’s too-dry one in a gesture he hoped was comforting. 

“Sure.” He said, patting Toye’s hand again. “He’s on a lucky streak, ain’t he? Never been hit.” 

He couldn’t move his neck at all, some sort of numbing, absent ache that had settled in between his vertebrae on the transport over here. They’d already put him through one surgery, and he hadn’t looked down since. Didn’t know if he could, didn’t want to. 

Joe was worse off, though, was nearing delirious, and he coughed, once, the noise almost as dry as bone, and said, “I miss him.” 

Bill… Bill didn’t know what to say to that. 

He kept his hand on Toye’s and listened to other wounded men cry.

-----

Once, when he’d been a kid — maybe eight or nine years old — he’d walked with Henry down to the local pound. 

It was a miserable place, smelled like vomit and piss and was run by a mean old woman with an even meaner mug, and Henry hadn’t let him get too close to the bars that held the dogs back as she walked them through the halls. 

Looking back on it, Bill didn’t know why she even let them do that. They clearly weren’t gonna get a goddamn dog. Maybe she was bored.

At the end of the hall, where one of the lights had stopped working and it was easy to tell something with the electricity had been fried by the smell in the air, there were two dogs, grown and skinnier than sticks, pressed together with big eyes and bigger teeth.

Pack bonded, the old woman had excused with a wave of her hand, like it was a disease without any cure. Can’t get one out without the other. Giving them another three days before it’s lights out. 

Bill didn’t like to think of the pound. It made something underneath his skin crawl.

Still, the words pack bonded probably had meaning. 

They somehow stayed together from France and into England, beds together and everything. 

The hospital in England was much nicer than the one in France, and although Bill was sure being back in the States would be better, the warmth of the hospital made the subsequent, subsisting ache of his leg and hips and back die out, somewhat. 

Joe’s head was bent over his work, nose almost touching the paper as he traced over the same words he’d already written out twice.

Ages ago, Bill probably would have poked at him for it, but now, that type of entertainment has vanished, as intangible as being sick. 

Since getting out of France, Joe had been writing out a letter every Saturday without fail, and always did so at least three times. 

Would write out the letter clumsily, triple-check the spelling, wait for the ink to dry, and then write the exact same thing out again, and a third time for good measure. 

Bill didn’t necessarily get it. Joe didn’t have the neatest handwriting, but it’s not that bad. Still, he didn’t say anything, and Joe didn’t look up when there’s a clatter on the other end of the hall.

They’re still mostly bound to the bed, January becoming a friendly greeting of wet ground and cold air that makes walking so soon after everything nearly agonizing. Both of them — most of the time, at least — want to get moving, but it could be worse.

Joe sat upright and slouched in his own bed, bad leg stretched out to the side as he wrote on the tray that a nurse had brought around about a week ago that he just kept re-using. The second letter he’d rewritten was by his elbow as he redid the third with ink-stained fingers. 

It was a bit ridiculous, Bill thought, since he always trashed the first two letters. Only ever writes to one person consistently. Still, he didn’t say anything. 

He missed his friends, too (Babe, Malarkey, Compton, Lip. Didn’t want to think about Skip or Penk, anymore), but not with the same devotion that Toye seemed to miss George Luz. 

Bill didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t look to closely at it, either. 

He didn’t want to. 

-----

When they finally get back to the US, it was still cold, but in the same way that everything felt cold, now. Same way that everything ached. 

Still, Toye snorted a short laugh when Bill flipped a handful of sand at him, and then used the wire-and-wicker side of his wheelchair to get a hold of it and dump him into the sand.

Bill swore, startled as his elbow hit the soft, heated surface, and he kicked more sand at Joe with his remaining leg before maneuvering back around, smacking at Joe’s bare shoulder.

Toye was unperturbed. 

He had, frustratingly, infuriatingly, and perhaps traitorously, taken to the wheelchair like a fish out of water. His own chair, a few yards back, had been easily abandoned, and Bill envied him only slightly for the coordination that seemed to come more naturally to him. 

“You’re a bastard.” He said to Joe, who just shrugged. 

He was wearing a white undershirt, but the waist of it had ridden up enough for the thick, rubbery scarring of old shrapnel and flak surgeries to still show. 

Bill was dressed nearly identical, down to the too-warm slacks pinned at the bad leg and bloused at the good one. 

“Any word from the Airborne?” He asked, as had become half-hearted tradition since mail-call had begun with more regularity since winter had begun to wane into a precariously hopeful and no less bloody spring.

Bill just grunted, shifting around in the sand for half of a second in order to tug the thin stack of letters out of the pocket he’d initially shoved them into. 

“One from Malark, one from Liebgott, of all damn people. And…” He trailed off, dropping the last letter onto Joe’s lap without having to address it. 

Technically, there’s two from Luz, although the envelopes have been secured together with a fraying piece of twine. Bill counted it as one, anyways, and went about tearing open the letter from Liebgott. 

Toye opened Luz’s letters in much of the opposite way, carefully working open the edges. It always drove Bill up the wall to watch, so he looked away again. Out at the sparsely occupied beach, the water, back to the handwriting in his lap. 

They were still on hospital grounds, out here, with the only other people around other men with similar problems. Bill doubted that Joe would have come out here at all if that hadn’t been the case.

“Any news?” He asked, something along the dip of his throat itching for a cigarette as he dipped his hand into his pocket to fish out a pack and a lighter. 

Joe just hummed, the sound low, more focused than he usually was. “Nah.” He said, quiet. “No news. Boring.” Contrary to his words, the corner of his mouth was curved up into a smile that Bill hardly ever saw.

Bill just snorted, pushed at his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” He said, dry and rapport in an effort to remain guileless. “War’s a real boring affair, y’know. Real boring.” 

“Real boring.” Toye agreed, toneless. 

“Real boring.” 

Bill flipped over Liebgotts letter. Something about swimming trunks. 

There was extra space at the bottom of the page, and, after fishing briefly for a pen, Bill wrote out ASK YOUR DAMN MA in big block letters and made a note to return to sender.

-----

It was cold most nights, and this one was no different. Still, the walls and windows did most of the work to keep the cold out and the rest unphased him, nothing as worse as it had been even a year ago.

Fran laughed as he pretended to dip her, and then nosed at his cheek playfully when she was righted once again. 

Pressing her lips to the spot before pulling back just briefly enough to glance over her shoulder, she says, “I think that the lights on the wall are going out.”

Bill taps lightly at her calf with his left crutch but still looks over at them, squinting against the blinking soft reds and greens of them. “Guess so.” He said, not really being able to tell but trusting her anyways. “Want me to fix ‘em?” 

“Nah, someone else will get them.” She let him turn her around again. When she shook her head, a curl fell into her face and Bill brushed it back with two fingers. She smiled at him, brilliant, and Bill snorted and looked away. 

The Christmas party that they’d pulled together had turned into somewhat of an Easy Co. reunion, with enough guys close enough to Philadelphia being able to drive or take a train down to the tiny conference room they’d rented out with whatever savings they had to go to waste. 

Johnny was dancing with Pat about five feet from them, and Fran pulled his focus back to her by patting him on the side of his face. 

“Joe okay?” She asked, by way of conversation starter, and Bill blinked at her. 

“Joe? Joe’s fine.” He said, turning around to locate Toye and prove his point before pausing, frowning. “Huh.” 

Joe had — grudgingly, if the letter and short phone call had been any tone indicator — come out from Hughestown for the party, and had been sitting in the same place for about an hour. Turning around and finding him absent was new, but Bill just shrugged. 

“Probably moving around.” He dismissed easily. “Y’know, stretching out the muscles, and the like.” 

Fran just hummed, stepped back half of a step in a silent request to be spun again. Bill did so, and, after listening to her laugh, realized that he didn’t know where Luz had went, either. 

For being further away, Luz coming to Philly had been easier to convince and swing than Toye, the man as easygoing as ever and brushing off Bill’s grudging offer to assist in travel with a simple statement of planning on being in the area anyways, and then not elaborating. 

The music switched and a Sinatra song came on. Fran crossed her eyes at him, playful, and Bill did so back before forgetting all about it. 

-----

Bill didn’t even think about it until later.

Franny was talking to Pat about something-or-the-other after announcing she’d gotten tired of dancing, and, with Johnny and Babe wrapped up in some sort of conversation that Bill had decided he wanted no part in, he’d started down the hall in order to find something to fix the lights with. 

Old habits must die hard, however, or something within Bill must, because he heard George Luz’s laughter — quieter than usual, and maybe more breathy — and paused, leaned against the wall. 

“Just come back with me.” 

Toye hummed back, the sound turned up at the edges, and Bill shifted between his crutches and the wall. “I already got the ticket.” He said, like a fine point. “That’s good money to waste.”

“Give it to Johnny. He said that they were lookin’ to see more of Pennsylvania before getting back home.”

When Bill turned around the corner, just enough to see the sight beyond it but not be spotted in return, he blinked. 

Luz’s back was to the bleached brick of the hall, otherwise empty, head tilted back against it. Toye, leaning heavy against one of his crutches while his other arm wrapped around Luz’s waist, had bent his head enough to press his forehead to the others cheek, Luz’s hand carding through his hair, keeping his head in place. 

Bill blinked and stepped back again. 

“That’s not a bad idea.” Toye said, sounded warm and not entirely grudging. 

“‘Course it’s not, it’s mine.” Luz said back, like a joke. “Plus, that gives us — what? An extra day? Half of one?” 

“Could have a whole lot more than that if you moved.” 

“Impatient, impatient. Three more months, right?” 

“Three more months.” Toye said back to him, the last thing uttered before a lull in sound. 

Huh.

Bill beat it.

-----

He couldn’t say that he never really understood Joe’s whole relationship with Luz. 

He felt like it was a friendship, but deeper, somehow, than the others in the Airborne (at least that he knew of) and the scene in the hall — which he now moved briskly away off, keen on not being caught — had lit up some other thought in him about them that he decided to not look at too closely.

And maybe that was the best way to go about the whole thing, in a way. Don’t look at it too closely. 

Toye seemed happy, and so did Luz, and Bill didn’t want to think about what their friendship was, exactly, so the best way to go about it seemed to just not think about it. 

-----

By the time he made it back to the room, Sinatra was still playing, and Fran lit up and waved when she saw him. Bill waved back and made his way over to her, still thinking about the hallway. 

“Find the right stuff for the lights?” She asked him, staying seated but turning at the waist as he leaned against the wall beside her. 

“Nah.” Bill said, then paused. He looked across the floor at the still blinking lights and then shrugged, reached out enough to press his fingertips to her shoulder. “I think it’s probably fine. Just don’t look at it too close, I guess.” 

Fran just leaned into him. “If you say so.” She said easily, but didn’t seem to mind either way. 

-----

(Three months and two weeks later, Fran is sorting through their mail. 

“Huh.” She said absently, flipping a letter over to examine the blank back before turning it back again. “Guess George Luz moved down to Hughestown.” 

Bill was sitting opposite her at the table, painstakingly writing out thank-you letters to Christmas cards received. “It say why?”

“Guess he got a job down there. Good for him, I suppose. If it pays better, and all.” 

Bill realized after half of a second that he was smiling, somewhat. “Yeah.” He said, tapping the side of his nose absentmindedly. “Good for him. Pennsylvania’s better than Rhode Island or Massachusetts, anyways.” )

[wingsofbadass]

Ranma 1/2 au where Lan Zhan falls into the Spring of the Drowned Girl, except it's a blessing instead of a curse.

With art by @lilkikibat 💖

[riewritten]

How about Erwin just being a gentleman and protective? 🥺

ahah... 4 months before i catered to this req... ahaha... sorry didn't mean that. i was just feeling silly. this is a very general premise tho, so i made the particularities myself!

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. gen neutral!reader x erwin smith 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬. 1.1k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬. hurt/comfort, mental health issues & nuances of self-harm, basically erwin smith comforting and protecting you from… tada! yourself! (pretty ppl with ugly demons unite!)

The room is warped with sheer worry on your end while apparent scrutiny on Erwin's end. Only the two of you are in the room, facing each other, with the table separating both of you. He squints his eyes yet again; yours averts elsewhere but his deep stare.

"You've been wearing clothes quite too warm for this summer recently," he starts. "Do you have anything to tell me?"

"What else would I tell you? It's cold for me. Is it my fault that my skin isn't too thick anymore?"

He sighs upon hearing you feign ignorance. You very much know what he's talking about. 

"It's true, Erwin. My skin has been turning thin and fragile recently."

"May I see?"

"No."

"Why?"

You don't answer. Instead, you lower your head from him, lacking confidence for your reasons. Erwin waits, albeit he intentionally puts pressure on the question. After minutes, you finally give in to it, "It's been quite itchy recently."

"And...?"

"So I wear the sweatshirts. It would help ease the cold. It would help ease the itching."

"And?" he presses again, emphasizing the one-word question with utter urgency. Erwin's not one to lose his patience, but he's slowly coming to terms with the situation at hand and it is, indeed, getting quite urgent.

And with the lack of your answer, Erwin finally stands up. Despite its graced and precise sounds, the heel of his shoes is ringing your ear in further trepidation. He kneels when he's in front of you, urging you to look at his face.

He holds onto the tip of your sweater to gesture that he wants to fold it up himself, "May I?"

"Erwin," you mutter. A warning, perhaps.

Nonetheless, his other hand plays on your fingers, running circles on your palm in a calming gesture. He calls your name, "May I?"

You take minutes before getting the courage to nod. Anyone would've lost their patience by now, but Erwin instead responds with a small but sheerly proud smile as if to say: there, there. It wasn't too hard to do, was it?

He slowly folds up the sweater to expose more of your skin, holding precise gentleness as if he's really taking your dilly-dallies into account—that it is indeed fragile, and the sweater you're wearing is to alleviate its fraying.

Then there it goes. The answer is unveiled with the revealed skin. Aggressive and swollen nail scratches stain your skin. It's not something acquired by sharp objects. No, not at all. And that worries Erwin even more. He could easily put you off limits to external objects, but if this is the case, then, "How did you get this?"

You try to swat your hands away, getting irritated and defensive. "I told you, it's itchy."

"So you were scratching it?"

"Obviously? You have so many questions."

This is when his tone goes stern, "Answer me properly."

"I'm getting uncomfortable with this talk. Let me out of the room now."

"The uncomfortable one in this talk is the one causing the wounds."

"I will apply anti-irritant cream later on, okay?"

"And you know well the scratches didn't stem from something physical."

Indeed. You purse your lips tight. Erwin got you. He caught it badly, and his tone clearly shows he won't let it go.

Your itches are coming from anxiousness. The scratches stem from sheer uncomfortability and rattling thoughts. It's all coming from the inside, and thus fraying your skin mayhaps is a way for you to spit it all out.

"That's why I've been wearing sweaters," you say, the defense not so mighty anymore, but when Erwin doesn't answer, your face finally crumbled into guilt—a pang of genuine, reeking guilt. "Are you angry?"

Instead of answering, Erwin holds your fingers again and examines your nails. Then he stands up, goes to the closet, and returns to you.

"Stand up."

Erwin—when slipping into the tone of a commander—isn't someone to mess up with. So you follow suit. You stand up from your chair.

"Sit on the table."

"Eh?"

"Sit," he orders strictly.

Strange enough, you follow suit. Despite the glare and confusion, you hoist yourself up the table and sit. Erwin replaces your spot on the chair and faces you.

"Erwin, what are you doing?"

He holds your hand; the gesture answers your question. The thing he got from his closet was a nail cutter. Snip snaps cover the room. His silent yet resolute stance leaves you no choice but to let him. After all, he's right. The one uncomfortable in this conversation is the one causing the wounds. He's not angry at you per se; he could never be when he's worried. But the facet of you that causes this wound, this anxiousness, is what he wants to go away. This man would swear to protect you from anything and anyone, just as you would do for him. But at the same time, his most brutal rival is you—the hardest thing to do is to protect you from yourself. Not like he could crack your brain open and scoop the voices rattling inside your head.

So instead, he snips the sharp of your nails. Then he gently damps cream to the scratches of your skin, all the while thinking of different alternatives for you to do aside from fraying your skin—perhaps another way for you to spit the overwhelming voices out, something that would not result in wounds hidden by your sweatshirts.

He'd pretty much do everything—everything to protect you, everything to counter your aggressive mind by his sheer gentleness and resolve—precisely what you deserve for everything you had gone through.

"I'm sorry, Erwin," you mutter in guilt, worrying about his silence amidst his huge gestures.

"Does it hurt?"

You nod weakly, "It stings a bit. It didn't bleed, but it seems to be irritated."

"You do know it's not your fault, no?"

"Tch," you huff in mock, "not like someone else caused the skin scratches."

"You wouldn't want to enter a discourse you're certain you'd lose."

"Thank you," you mumble, "for cutting my nails for me."

"This isn't a free service."

"Then how else would I pay you back?"

"Live with me," he interposes, yet he sounds too resolved to ask your opinion. "At least until the itching subsides."

"N-no, I'm okay, really!"

"That was not a question. I'm merely informing you. That's the only way you could pay me back."

"Is this non-negotiable?"

"It is. You have no choice but to follow."

The only response you could come up with is a chuckle.

Erwin chuckles in turn. His sternness has wholly subsided.

The uncomfortably subsides a bit, too; the silence that follows suit no longer feels cold. Perhaps Erwin's presence is akin to the sweatshirt you've used to conceal your frayed skin. If you try to rely on him this time and let him cover you with his warmth, you wouldn't need to persist in the hot weather. Erwin could protect you with his devotion and care without forsaking your comfortability, without the need to resist and hide your vulnerability.

🔖 @frenchdyer @watyousayin @collinnmckinley @aeanya @xiaotopia | SUBSCRIBE TO STORIES

MORE OF SWEET SUBTLETIES SERIES HERE

[caparrucia]

Written wholly and entirely for @garbria who always comes up with the best ideas and enables me terribly.

[riewritten]

CRYING. CYING CRYINNGSNDJGNDNR!!!?!?@#?@ first johan liebert fan art, a MAJESTIC one at that, dedicated to my fic‼😭💘 yOU ARE SUCH A GREAT ARTIST what the hell?!?!?! LIKE THE LINES?!?!? THE SHADING AND COLORING STYLE?? delicious. SUPERB. i will eat ur art 1000/10

now i CAN definitely imagine johan shamelessly huffing a lil cig at YOUR bathroom door (the audacity of this bitch!!!) after removing his anna liebert costume, make up, and all because he's confident not even the stink of cigarette smoke could wake his favorite roommate up 😔✊ he had spent a lot of nights observing you sleep to know that much, after all.

the only con is that he'd have to clean the ashes along with his make up kit among many other things. you see, it's actually quite apparent to notice that someone had smoked inside your bathroom—there would be ashes on the floor, the stinky smell would stick to the tiles, and it would all be piled up with your annoyance to whoever the fuck would break into your house while you're sleeping just to do such an abhorrence.

but johan, this unhinged man, is living off the thrill of being caught, of being noticed and known by you—well, much to his denial of his own existence. he thinks it's just his self-destructive tendencies at work, but deep inside you should know that this fucker is sometimes disgustingly filled with satisfaction during scenario-buildings—an event where you could see him all bare and exposed, a point in time where the monster lays itself bare to the one who interests him most. oh, you'd be so terrified. perhaps your whole world would crumble, even. he sure knows it would—that is in accordance to his will—for the monster, for the first time in his life, wants to have a tumultuous impact towards another living being.

he doesn't know the reason why, though. this is the first time the monster inside him took this type of interest towards someone.

HERE'S THE OIL WELL FIRES FANFIC for those who haven't read it yet btw <333

@riewritten caught johan getting out of drag

kept procrastinating on this cuz i kept nitpicking but i need to work on my perfectionism so i went ahead and tried to finish it instead of throwing it in the WIP dungeon LOL. now go read “oil well fires” by riewritten. genuinely the best johan fic i’ve read and i can’t wait to read the future chapters 🙏🙏

[eatenthing]

An old one, an old tale

[plrle]

Idk if you still have requests open but if yes can you draw Prieur wearing a choker with a π shaped charm (like this: https://www.amazon.com/necklace-mathematics-jewelry-math-teacher/dp/B01FLW687U) ? 🥺

sorry for the long reply! finally made it to your request :]

it seems that Prieur likes it!!

[blood-mocha-latte]

THE MORNING SUN | 31.5K | RATED E

for @luztoyeweek day one: other historical time periods and love languages

“Believe it or not, there aren't a lot of guys like you.” George said, bit at Joe’s bottom lip as he pulled back, rubbing an open palm over his chest.

Joe just smiled into his mouth, an absent curve of his lips, tracing a few fingertips up and down George’s waist. “There's a hundred of me here.”

“You let me do what I like, and you like it, too.” George said, light and warm, like something worth thought, like a rebuttal. “It’s — I ain’t used to that.”

“Been hanging with the wrong guys, then.” 

“Yeah.” George murmured, pressing his forearms into the mattress on either side of Joe’s head as he sank down to kiss him again. “Every guy that’s not you is the wrong guy.” 

(Bare knuckle boxing, lakes, colleges. What changes in a single summer.) 

READ ON AO3

TAGLIST:

@moghraidhs @ewipandora @disastrouscanasta @spinteresting @junodarling @teheitsasecret @screwby @gorgeousundertow @sachart @chris-the-random @mstiemountainhop @scarecrowmax @luzlylovely @brosreal @gillespiejr @ladyofthebears @dreamingoftzu @zehroni @lamialamia @webgottism @jesslovesboats @pfctipper @secretagentofcaos @quillandink22 @ackackh

[riewritten]

and the way he could be so experienced yet inexperienced in handling your very giant affection, right?

like he'd start at innocently asking, "are you okay?" whenever you flinch, face flushed, as he languidly examines your arm for vital signs. and you'd just nod at him meekly, still couldn't look him in the eye, screaming in your head "man, have pity on me."

and perhaps your body eventually takes phoebe bridger's waiting room so seriously because you'll start getting sick more often. more reason to come to him! until one time he just tells you with a defeated smile after check up, "eat and sleep well so you won't have to come back here, okay? look at you. you're never been this sickly before!" then he pats your head. he means well, he really does, but it garners nothing but a glare from you.

"then see me outside your clinic room."

tenma's smile turns awkward, "c-come again?"

"go out with me! that way i would stop being sick because my body keeps on finding you!"

tenma slowly retracts his hand on top of your head, and slowly but surely, heat creeps up his face. you run out of his room out of shame even before he could say more such as, "b...but... code of ethics... doctor and patient are not supposed to go out..." oh bullshit. you want to pounce on him. the code of ethics could go fuck itself when you two end up fucking each other.

oh god, how embarrassing. with his handsome face, you just knew he'd have lots of experience with romance, so why is he so shocked and flushed at your remark? as if your body listened to you, you stop getting sick after that encounter, perhaps because your own ailment is utter shame of showing your face to him again.

it was until you saw each other coincidentally at some cafe did your body feel unwell again—head dizzy, stomach churning, knees weak and mouth holding back a squeal—all because of his new haircut. he's already handsome in his poorly maintained straight hair that he couldn't cut because of busy schedule, but now? oh man. oh man. and the way his eyes perk up as soon as it sees you? the way he smiles? the way he calls your name in delight as if you two haven't seen each other for decades? this man is so undeniably hot, but his adorability is what got you wrapped in his pretty (broad and rough) fingers that you want somewhere indecent.

and yet, and yet, and yet! the first thing you blabbered as soon as he reaches you was, "my word, you look so hot in that haircut."

he gets all red again but his fluster is immediately cut off when you slap yourself in the face, hard. "sorry," you mutter weakly afterward.

"thanks," when you look at him again, he's now genuinely smiling. "you look much better now, too. perhaps you don't need to go out with me to feel better, yeah?"

with utter shame you look away, "i think i have this chronic ailment of not thinking of my words before i speak."

"that i can see well," he teasingly adds. "mind sitting with me, then? perhaps we could talk about it and i could come up with a..." he thinks it through, "prognosis."

oh, he's so corny and pathetic. you adore him so much. please stop the urge to pounce on him in public, though.

"sure thing, doctor."

ACTUALLLYYY im kind of in a Tenma mood right now. I want reader trying their best to not look at him disrespectfully, because it feels downright sinful to think of him in that way.

[wingsofbadass]

fic author self-rec

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers.

Thank you for tagging me, @sassybluee and @wrecklwj, and thus forcing me to let myself be perceived, lol.

1. Keep Me (MDZS, wlw Wangxian, E)

My pride and joy, tbh. My first ever Wangxian, my first ever NaNo win, something I never thought I could accomplish. It falls into one of my favorite tropes in this fandom which is straight boy/girl/whatever wei ying, which is just always such a joy. I really poured myself into his and I feel like I'll never be able to top this one. But also, Lan-er-jiejie made me lose my mind and write 50k of [confused horny noises] so.

2. Like a Knife to the Heart (MDZS, Wangxian, E)

Plot? I don't know her, normally. But I tried my hand at such a thing for last year's Bottomji Big Bang and it was such a fun experience. It was also unexpectedly fun to really lean into the unapologetic romance of historical settings for once and then mix my Wuxia love into it.

3. you bring it out of me (MDZS, wlw Wangxian, E)

Somehow, every Wangxian fic I write is some kind of new experiment for me. This one, written for a Subji event, had me writing the probably niche-iest thing I've ever written, wlw subji with jealousy and exes to lovers and a flavor of bdsm I wouldn't even know how to categorize?? But this was really peak freedom, peak "I do what I want!" to write and I'm so happy with how it turned out.

4. trostlos (SNK, JeanMarco, T)

I wrote this for one of the many JeanMarco Gift Exchanges I was a part of and I think it's my favorite bit of worldbuilding I've done. It's not a very long fic and by now I wonder how I managed to squeeze so much post-apocalypitic angst into 8k, but it's a powerful one, I think. I'm still really proud of it.

5. Only You Build Me, Only You Break Me (VLD, Shallura, E)

I may no longer fuck with this show or fandom, but I do still love some of the nsfw propmt fills I did here, especially the Superhero AU and the Sailor Moon AU. Just looking at it now makes me want to do something similar again for more current obsessions.

I now curse @flecksofpoppy @materassassino @avoidingavoidance @reservoirmonks and @ilip13 with having to expose themselves like this <3

[riewritten]

Child Erwin looks like chucky

indeed!!! but ok hear me out!!!

i acknowledge this official art to be his canon face (like only this official art xksjxjsjs) look how bbg he is tho!

i bet he'd be a cringefail little lover boy and his father would amusingly encourage him in his cringefail escapades because he is just so adorable to watch. you would be the classmate he has a crush on and because our baby doesn't have anything to worry about just yet, all he aims for is your attention! he's still a silly goofy geeky baby here, though, so you'd either be amused with him just as his father is, or perhaps you'd be flustered too because "oh man why is the erwin smith, our smartest in class, in front of me and kissing my hand?!"

now imagine seeing him again years after in his commander physique. you already had an inkling back in childhood that he'd grow up to be a fine young man, but walls be damned, you didn't expect him to be so utterly grim and devoid of light.

nonetheless, seeing you again would remind him of those peaceful times where all he worries for is garnering the affection of his first crush. that's why he'd reenact the scene in a very funny way (or so he thought because bloody hell he looks so charismatic and hot flashing that sweet smirk on you!)

he'd hold back a laugh as he say the cringefail remark, "my lady, i fight for you." then he'd kiss your hand, tipping his head sideward with a smirk, "my legs aren't stubby anymore to trip over it, though. how about that?"

and oh you'd be so whipped. perhaps you'd think that it was your karma for making fun of him way back in childhood because the tables have turned this time around.

(or the turns have tabled?! 🤔 what the hell is wrong with you, couldn't even come up with coherent words just because of a chaste peck on your hand?!)

you almost stutter, smile almost crooked as you quote what you said back then, "w-well, my good knight has no need to fight the whole world for my sake."

then his smile becomes even sweeter, "if that's the case, then perhaps you could indulge with my affection this time around?"

[dailyreine]

　OC Ask Game ⁺˖⋆

↳ free to reblog + play!

What inspired you when creating them?

Their favourite place and memory there.

Do you have any crackships with them?

Cats or dogs?

What's their go-to drink?

Favourite sitcom and or horror film.

Do they have siblings?

Tell us a secret about their lore!

Their lucky, unlucky, and favourite number.

Which reincarnation of James Bond would they like the best?

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Pick a Minecraft block for them.

What was their childhood “thing”? (e.g. Pokémon, dinosaurs, princesses...)

Their favourite season of the show they're in (or favourite arc, if they're from some other form of media)

Pick a cereal that you'd put them in a bowl of.

What does their Pinterest look like?

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What does their phone case, home and lock screen look like?

Favourite sea animal.

Are they “lalalala” or “okokokok”?

A song you'd like to animate them to!

Name a character from a different fandom they'd get along with.

Give them a sweet fluffy moment to make up for all that trauma you gave them.

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Random fact!

[riewritten]

two weeks and the urge is still there! I AM HAVING SO MANY THOUGHTS

shall i make it a wholesome fluff? a feasty smut? mixture of both? slow burn? slice-of-life domestic crack of how silly of a dad i imagine erwin to be?

TAGS: DOMESTIC FLUFF, TALKS OF MARRIAGE & CHILDREN

How about a DILF!Erwin who only got a DILF tag because he adopted a child without involving himself into a long-term relationship?

And so... after getting into the relationship, you realized how great of a father he is. If both of you decides to come into agreement to be together for eternity, you'll have to have your own kids, too. You suddenly got jitters thinking about it.

"We're not required to do that."

"N-no, but it seems as if we have irreconcilable differences," you replied, perhaps inkling towards breaking up with him as you believe you would just hold him down.

"Not if one of us compromises."

"I don't think I could."

"I could," he answered, gently but resolutely. "Just not with the involvement of my child."

"Of course," you gave him an understanding smile, "that sweetest loveliest child."

He didn't see it as a mere sympathetic smile from you, though. It was the sweetest smile that he had seen and it flushed his mind with warmth—with overwhelming warmth that the glass containing all of his composure snapped into pieces. You love his child with all of your heart, just like he does even if it's not his own blood.

What were you doing to him, really? To rattle the emotions even he himself had never imagined to have, just how did you manage to let that out? Now he wants nothing but to engulf you with his warmth, wrap himself all over you, and the consideration that he doesn't deserve you—you who still have lots of opportunities ahead, who has been seeking a life not tied inside a measly home of three—dissipated into thin air. He might be undeserving and could even stall you down, but if you run to him this way, being the most precious being ever existed, then you have given yourself over. He'll take you in any way he can.

"See? Then we could work."

And he did—god—he did so very well. Eventually, when you got married and have your bundle of joy growing up further, you realized that you're finally ready.

"Off to school!" the little kid bounced out of the table, gave you the routine goodbye kiss, until both of you are the only ones left in the house.

You gulped, wondering how to go around it. When you turned to him you almost huffed a gasp. He was looking at you sternly with a hand propped to his chin. He sipped his coffee before starting, "Something has been bothering you. We're not going out until you tell me the gist of it."

Oh, fuck it.

You stood up, went on the dishes then said, "I want to have your child."

He spurted out the coffee. As he cleared his throat and wiped his polo shirt, he stared at you, aghast, trying to find a hint all over your face that would say you're just fucking around. That was, indeed, very unlikely of you.

You looked conflicted, though, so he walked towards you and grasped your hand away from the plates, "Repeat that."

Your eyes lurking around his face turned more and more unconfident until you just defeatedly looked down the ground. "Of course, if it's fine with you—"

"Repeat that," he cupped your cheek, lacking patience, and forced you to look at him in the eye.

He has been waiting for it for so long but he still wanted to make sure. The last thing he wants is for you to make such a decision only out of pressure.

"I want to have your child."

"Then why do you look so doubtful?"

"Do you think..." here it is, the million-dollar question, "I'll be a good mother?"

Oh, when Erwin thought you couldn't be more divine as he already deemed you so. He went for a kiss then. The sudden tip of intensity was his answer and you understood that much; you'll be a great mother for your child—no, you're the only one who's going to have his child.

"You already are," Erwin said in between kisses as he slid his hands under your shirt.

"Do you think I'd still be a capable wife after that?"

What kind of question is that? He almost laughed. Of course, he chose not to as he didn't know such insecurity lurks around your mind. If anything, he feels responsible for letting you feel like that.

"How do you want me to answer your question?" he smiled sweetly after ending the intimate kiss with a chaste peck. When you looked down again, he hummed in disagreement. He rather walked you towards the wall and pinned you once and for all. If you want a child, he'll do so in the soonest possible time—just like how willing he is to grant and serve you for the rest of his life, just like how earnest he is to shower his little family with the warmth of his love.

im having the urge to produce a 30k blabber out of this 😭

[lawlietscaramels]

Alcohol ╾ L

Goddamnit, I wrote angst. perhaps I'll elaborate some day.

Warnings: see title. alcohol as a coping mechanism. general angstiness.

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

L drinks.

People think he doesn't, for some reason; their mouths part in surprise when they walk in on the World's Greatest Detective with a glass of red wine.

But perhaps it is precisely because he is the World's Greatest Detective that he should be expected to drink.

They tried to take it away from him, his parents and society and the world had their expectations, and the orphanage hammered them into L when he was young, drilled through his brain and tried to extract the part that was him,

but L is so very human.

Fallible. Weak.

Broken.

Crime and blood and the darkest dredges of humanity flicker over those screens in front of his eyes every day.

“We're not meant to know so much about the world,” a psychologist told him once, “humans were designed to live in small communities, not global ones.”

L sees every part of the world. The worst parts.

Husbands kill wives. Children kill parents.

Lovers cheat and lie.

Everybody cheats. How else could you survive, in a game of life, a game so unbalanced and impossible to win?

Friends take money from friends. Young liars take money from those who worked for it their entire lives.

Money.

Love.

Both are ugly.

And how else do you blind sharp eyes, but through tinted liquor? Salvation is sought in the bottom of the glass.

It's never there.

But L drinks anyway.

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 ˏˋ⋆˖⁺˖⁀➷ 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌 + 𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜

©lawlietscaramels. Do not repost on other sites, claim as your own work, edit, rewrite or “fix,” feed to AI or otherwise use unethically.

[eatenthing]

[stories-by-rie]

there are false friends that make you go "eh okay" and there are false friends that haunt you every time you open your mouth to speak