#thought about pulling a squids and sharing the first line of something that's coming

[catgrassplantdad]

thank you for the tag, @energievie @gardenerian @gallawitchxx @squidyyy23 !! 💜

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics/chapters posted on AO3 (if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics) and try to draw some conclusions.

It's a beautiful day, one of the first nice days of the year. - golden

Moving out of the apartment couldn't have happened a moment too soon, in Mickey's opinion. - ligature

He got himself into this. - make the yuletide gay, or whatever

He's on his side, comfy in their bed, lips parted, eyes closed. - lush

Mickey's brain comes back online some time later, and as it does so, his mission becomes clear. - fulfillment

It's become a problem. These new builds are nice, but they're cheap, right? - kinktober collection

Mickey's lucky, he thinks. - and i'm your warm receiver

In retrospect, Ian's not sure why he'd thought renting furniture for the apartment would have been a good idea. - cinematic

It's not like he doesn't remember what it's like. - watching

He wakes up, and he knows it's early. - peace comes dropping slow

conclusions: first of all, i know i cheated by sharing more than one line for one of these. but, like mel, a bitch is succinct. more than one of these open with four fucking words alksflhgl. i tend to start with really short declarative statements that hopefully make readers interested in what's going on, but i don't know how engaging it actually is. hm!

i'll tag @howlinchickhowl @ardent-fox @whatthebodygraspsnot @whatwouldmickeydo @crossmydna @thisdivorce @celestialmickey if you guys feel like playing! 🖤

[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!

[blueskrugs]

The Best Day | Sammy Blais

(it’s a @powerblais gif! and a very smiley sammy!) 

we’re back with another fluffy fic! this one’s a tiny bit different, but I had both this song and dad!sammy on my list for a while, so when I started planning this series, they seemed perfect together. anyway, someone might need to check on erin after this. no beta from Sarah on this one...because I just finished it like five minutes ago. 

tagging:  @marcostandella @stlbluesbrat @dembenchboys @poltoncarayko @robthomissed @letmeplaytheblues @troubatrain @ayohockeycheck @blackwidowrising @zinka8 @aria253264 @antoineroussel@starswin @glassdanse @ch-ristiane @majdoline   @braydenschenn @nazdaddy​ 

length: 2.3k words. this is a kid fic, but there’s no real talk of pregnancy or birth, just some scenes from growing up.

You’d always known Sammy would make a good dad one day. He’d grown up a lot in the years you’d known him, though you’d never forget the look of pure terror and awe in his eyes when he held your little girl for the first time.

“Mon petit ange,” he called her, my little angel, whispered for the first time just for her little ears to hear. 

Sammy loved you, you knew, but he loved Lily more than anything in the world.

I hear your laughter and look up smiling at you, I run and run Past the pumpkin patch and the tractor rides, look now the sky is gold

It had been Sammy’s idea to go to Eckert’s for apple and pumpkin picking, just before Halloween. You weren’t sure Lily quite understood the concept of carving pumpkins just yet, since she was only three, but Sammy had insisted “for the experience.”

You were pretty sure Sammy just wanted to go for himself, but you were hardly going to fight him on it.

So the three of you bundled up against the blustery St. Louis fall day and into the car– with only minimal fussing from Lily, because that was a thing now– on a day off in late October. It wasn’t really too cold, and it was sunny, just a hint of late summer still lingering in the air. 

Sammy was excited, singing loudly and off-key to every song that came on the radio. He’d turn to grin at you every time you groaned, big and happy, and you loved him so much. You turned up the radio.

Sammy beat you to the back of the car after he parked, sweeping Lily out of her car seat and up into his arms. She giggled excitedly, wrapping her arms around his neck as he dashed off with her. You just laughed fondly and followed after them.

It was a little late in the season for most of the apples, but you took the tractor ride into the orchard anyway. Sammy did most of the picking, quickly filling up the little basket you’d been given, though whenever Lily tugged on his jeans, he would scoop her up and hold her up to the trees so she could grab an apple, too.

She only dropped a few of them. Well, some of them. They still went into the basket, just a little bruised now. 

Next came the pumpkin patch, which you think Sammy was more excited about. Actually, you knew Sammy was more excited about the pumpkin patch, you thought, as you watched him run ahead of you and Lily. 

“Alright, we need three pumpkins,” Sammy said when you caught up to him.

“Three?”

Sammy made a face at you. “Me, you, and Lily,” he said, slowly, like you were missing something obvious. 

“Our daughter is not carving a pumpkin by herself,” you laughed. You’d really been planning on doing one with her while Sammy did whatever he wanted to do.

“Why not?”

“You are not giving our toddler a sharp object.”

“The knives that come in those carving kits aren’t that sharp,” Sammy reasoned.

“Oh my God,” you said. You weren’t winning this argument. 

The pumpkin patch was pretty picked over, as close to Halloween as it was, but there were still enough pumpkins that Sammy could be extremely particular about it. It was all “too small,” “too big,” “too bumpy,” “too smooth,” which. What. 

“Sammy,” you warned when Sammy hefted a giant pumpkin that probably weighed more than Lily. He whined at you, but put the pumpkin down again, so you were going to count it as a win.

Eventually, you settled on three– because Sammy had, in fact, won the argument that all three of you needed your own pumpkins– pumpkins that had passed Sammy’s test, along with a full basket of fresh apples. 

“Good day?” you asked.

Sammy slung an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. Lily was running ahead of you, but she looked back every few steps to smile at you and Sammy. 

“The best,” Sammy replied. 

But I know I had the best day with you today

Game days had always been your favorite, and they’d only gotten more fun since you’d had Lily. She got caught up in all the energy of home games at Enterprise, yelling and cheering with everyone else in the arena, even under those giant baby headphones she used to wear and she didn’t really know what was going on down on the ice. 

Today was no different, Lily clad in her tiny Blais jersey,  bouncing excitedly in her carseat, the special pregame playlist Sammy had made for her playing over the car’s speakers. She was still bouncing as she stood carefully next to you on the boards during warmups. She banged happily on the glass as players skated past. Vince shot you a grin as he went by before Sammy came crashing into him. 

“Daddy!” Lily yelled. 

Sammy smiled and waved before carefully balancing a puck on his stick and flipping it over the glass to you. Lily clutched that puck all night long. 

And I didn’t know if you knew, so I’m taking this chance to say

There was no greater place in St. Louis than Forest Park on a warm spring day. It was late in the season, and the Blues had a rare day completely off. You were all itching to get out of the house, so the Zoo it was. 

Well, after Sammy spent a few minutes complaining about the parking lot, that is. 

“Okay, where to first?” Sammy asked, clapping his hands together as you walked into the atrium. Lily was busy pointing up at the giant squid and sharks hanging from the ceiling. 

“Train!” she called.

You raised your eyebrows at Sammy. “Train it is, then.”

“Then the carousel?” Sammy asked, turning those big eyes Lily had gotten on you. They both knew you were powerless against them.

“Yes, oh my God, you’re as much of a child as our daughter sometimes,” you said. 

“Yeah, but you love me,” he said. “We can go see the seals and the penguins after, I promise,” he added, because he knew they were your favorites. 

You held Lily while Sammy bought tickets for the train, but she sat on Sammy’s lap in the cramped train car. She giggled and chattered the entire way around the Zoo, often waving at other zoo-goers you passed at the crossings. After a while, she poked Sammy enough times that he was waving, too. 

“Where to next?” Sammy asked as the three of you clambered off the train at the end of the line, but it was token, because he was already scooping up Lily again and heading towards the carousel. 

You got double puppy-dog eyed into joining the two of them on the carousel,  which is how you ended up on the back of a polar bear next to your daughter, who was astride a giraffe, with Sammy hovering behind her. His hand was on the back of the giraffe, as if he was worried Lily would fall. You took a picture of them like that, twin grins on their faces. 

After the carousel came the polar bears and the penguins– Lily laughed in delight when she got splashed by one of the penguins, though she wrinkled her nose at the smell– then towards the sea lions and seals. You tagged Sammy back towards you by his hood as you emerged back into the humid air. 

“This was a good idea,” you said. 

“Yeah?” Sammy said, but he was beaming at you. He pulled you close for a quick kiss, and you both laughed when Lily made a face at the two of you.

I come home crying, and you hold me tight and grab the keys And we drive and drive until we found a town far enough away

Growing up was hard. Middle school was even harder. You’d been there before, but it didn’t mean your heart broke any less when Lily came home from school one day and burst into tears when you asked her how her day had been.

You and Sammy shared a look over the kitchen island as she made her way to her bedroom.

“I’ll handle this,” Sammy said, snagging a bag of cookies out of the pantry and following Lily upstairs.

You couldn’t make out much of their conversation from where you were, not that you didn’t try. Sammy had left Lily’s bedroom door open behind him, but you had never quite mastered French, much less French that’s coming to you through tears and down a flight of stairs. 

Sammy came downstairs ten minutes later and winked at you as he put what was left of the cookies away, Lily trailing after him, calmer now. He mouthed, “I’ll tell you later,” at you over her head as you hugged her, except it was forgotten in the rush to get ready for that night’s game. (Not living with Vince anymore did not make Sammy any more punctual.)

It wasn’t until Saturday, when both Lily and Sammy were up bright and early on their day off, that you even remembered he’d never told you. 

“Where are you two off to?” you asked as you watched Sammy hunt for his keys. 

“An adventure!” Lily said.

“Oh boy,” you replied, but Sammy just shot you a grin and shoved a hat on his head.

An “adventure” turned out to be a breakfast date, then a hike out at Castlewood State Park, ending with a drive out to Kimmswick for an apple pie from Blue Owl, which you fully intended to eat at least half of yourself. 

“Good job,” you murmured to Sammy as you listened to Lily talk about their day after dinner.

“She failed a test and got in a fight with her best friend,” Sammy whispered back.

“Remember when those were the biggest things we had to worry about?”

Sammy just laughed softly, pressed a kiss to your temple, and went to get the pie for dessert. 

I have an excellent father, his strength is making me stronger

You were never more thankful that Lily had chosen not to play hockey than when you had to watch Sammy get injured. It was hard enough to watch the man you loved go down; you weren’t sure you could ever handle your baby girl getting injured.

The Blues were on the road when it happened. You didn’t even see it happen, just a late hit from a Minnesota player behind the play, but then Panger was pointing out that Sammy was still down on the ice, and the play was being blown dead. 

“Shit,” you said.

“Language,” Lily said absently, her eyes glued to the TV screen. 

“He’ll be fine,” you assured her, assured yourself.

Sammy was already sitting up on the ice, talking to the trainer, but you didn’t let out the breath you were holding until he was up and skating off the ice on his own. He didn’t return to the game, but he did text you that he was okay sometime before the end of the third. So there was that. 

They were flying home right after the game, and you and Lily were both asleep on the couch when Sammy came through the door around 2 AM. Lilly stirred when Sammy hit his bag against the doorway and cursed at it. His left arm was in a sling.

“Dad!”

“Why aren’t you in bed? You have school tomorrow,” Sammy said as Lily stretched and bounded over to carefully hug him. 

“Oh my God, Dad, I’m 16,” Lily said from under Sammy’s uninjured arm.

“He has a point, though,” you said. You hadn’t been able to say no when Lily had asked if she could stay up with you until Sammy came home, but he was home now. So: “Good night, love you,” you told her. 

Lily sighed and rolled her eyes, but went upstairs without complaint. You grabbed Sammy’s bag from where he’d dropped it and followed him upstairs yourself.

“How bad is it?” you asked once the bedroom door was closed behind you.

Sammy smiled tiredly at you. “Just dislocated. They’ll do some tests tomorrow to make sure there’s no damage, but they think it’ll be fine.”

“She worries about you, you know,” you said. You did, too, obviously, but Lily watched Sammy’s every move on the ice extra closely as she got older. Sammy wasn’t as young as he used to be, and you worried that his next injury would be his last every day. 

Sammy sighed. “I know.”

“She gets her stubbornness from you,” you said pointedly when Sammy winced trying to take off his shirt.

Sammy laughed quietly. “I know.”

And I love you for giving me your eyes, for staying back and watching me shine

Sammy was crying, and you were laughing at him.

It was Lily’s graduation day, and he’d been emotional about it all day. He’d barely made it through pictures that morning, but he’d been fine at the start of the ceremony, though you had a feeling that was going to change once they started calling names. 

“Keep it together, babe,” you teased, but you passed him a tissue from your purse.

“Shut up,” he hissed. “That’s our little girl!”

Your little girl wasn’t so little anymore, and she was walking across the stage to collect her diploma, confident and beautiful in her cap, gown and high heels. She’d grown up so much, but she would always be Sammy’s mini-me. Same brown hair, same eyes that could never quite decide if they were blue or green. Soft spoken but stubborn as hell.

“I’m so proud of you,” Sammy would whisper to her later, and you’d both hug her a little tighter.

[ninaahelvar]

Power Over Me

Summary: Nina is an annoying Grisha brat, Matthias wants to put her in her place. Let’s see how far that goes. 

AO3

A/N: I wrote this series as a sort of “what could have been” thing? I was originally going to release this as just one fic with multiple chapters, but you know what? i wanted to post something so it's now a series and these are individual fics You can think that each takes place in this ‘different version’ or just stand alone fics of moments that these two reek of sexual tension. Anyway. I do hope you enjoy.

ALSO; this is basically dedicated to @warrenslayla who implanted this idea in my head and i just...had to write it. 

The Drüsje that had ordered him about and now sat naked wrapped in furs on the bed was driving Matthias to the brink of insanity. He stripped down, wrapping one of the heavy furs around his waist and jumped in beside her. It would have been fine if she didn’t make him shift closer or how she wouldn’t stop wiggling around. She was maddening. 

Women in Fjerda were not like this - they didn’t order around their men, especially Drüskelle, and they certainly wouldn’t stripe nude in front of a man that wasn’t their husband. This grisha was everything that Drüskelle were taught to hate, the worst kind of witch that should be killed rather than used for survival. And yet, every moment with her felt like heaven and torture, her power providing him the blissful warmth that he craved in the cold.

But now, she lay next to him naked and infuriating, and it would be so much easier to ignore just how different she was from the women of Fjerda if she would just shut her mouth.

“You’re cold and clammy! It’s like lying next to a burly squid!” she chastised, and for Matthias, it was the last straw. Hoisting himself up on his knees and his lands braced either side of her head, he snarled down at her. She remained unmoved until he grasped her face. 

“Would you shut your ridiculous Drüsje mouth!” he snapped, his hand gripping up underneath her chin, scowling down at her. What he was met with was a spark of curiosity and intrigue - as though she were waiting for something more. Her body relaxed, even as it shivered  

“You’re welcome to stop me,” she teased and Matthias couldn’t stop the surge of anger that erupted from within him. It was mixed with something he couldn’t understand, and what he did next surprised him more than sticking with a Drüsje for survival - he kissed her. His hand was cupped underneath her jaw, keeping her still and positioned at the disadvantage. 

Yet, in the name of Djel, she propped her leg up, almost hooking up over his hip as her fingers gently curled around his wrists. Part of him froze, but at the sound of her slight moan against his mouth, he continued. Her nails bit into his skin, her body dragging his in with desperate and unforgiving tugs - but it seemed to be the way of things for them. This wasn’t going to be gentle; it was anger, passion, unresolved hatred that had mingled with something that tasted sour and sweet in one infuriating gulp. 

“I thought you wanted me to shut up, Drüskelle?” she smiled, and in a hard pull, had Matthias back down to kiss her again. She was demanding and didn’t care about how lewd she may be - in fact, it seemed as though she relished being as indecent as possible, tugging him in until their bodies were together in hot and rough motions. Matthias hadn’t truly ever pleasured himself - it wasn’t as though Drüskelle couldn’t do such a thing, he had just never felt such a surge of lust before. This was new territory, his cock sliding over her stomach as he sighed into her mouth. 

The grisha hoisted her legs higher, both straddling over the backs of his thighs and urging him forward. This was what insanity felt like - it had to be because his body felt like every inch was alive and dying all in one. As Matthias’ hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, his other hand gripped her thigh, the softness of her skin and the hearty give of her body was intoxicating - as though the more he sank his fingers into her, he’d continue to fall into her. All he wanted to do was dive straight into her, to feel all the warmth she was truly going to give him. He could feel the stirrings of it in the pit of his stomach, that their bodies now - just tumbling together in a heated kiss - was giving him a heat that no power could truly give. 

“Stop,” she demanded, and part of Matthias didn’t want - she’d just continue to talk and he’d have to deal with her foul mouth nature. She panted, her breast heaving as she struggled to regain her breath. Could she damn well make up her mind? “What’s your name?” she asked. 

“What?” 

“I’m not going to let you devour me without at least praising the man who takes my breath away,” she smirked, and even with his body filled with lust and longing for her, his actions finally caught up to him. It was too personal - it was like they were supposed to be lovers, but that was a life that could never be. 

“Why must you ruin such things?” he huffed, rolling onto his back, only to be met with the grisha on his lap, her grunt of frustration following as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. Her body was completely bare, full and plump, each curve a temptation he hadn’t realised was there until she sat upon him. He wanted to protest, but couldn’t help himself - Matthias wanted to stare for hours if he could. 

“Because, Drüskelle, you wouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t like me. Or at least want me to be quiet. So what shall you do? Tell me your name and have me quiet for a few hours, or I keep yapping away until you wish you had drowned?” she asked, her hips pushing back and he could feel his cock sliding underneath her, touching something warm and wet all in one. 

“Matthias...Helvar,” he gulped, unable to stop his hand as it reached for her waist. 

“Nina Zenik,” she whispered as her lips touched his, stealing any last trace of sanity that was left for him to grasp. Once more, he sunk his hands into her skin, tugging her closer and making sure he savoured the way every curve foamed to his. It was a wonderful sensation, to have a woman on top of him, to have this woman on top of him. She was beautiful and did things to him that he could barely fathom or understand, but he wanted to fall for every word, to be a fool for every line she spoke - even when he wanted to strangle her. 

Then, her hips started to move. Just as before, she glided along his length, her back arching as her hands pressed to his chest, rocking back and forth, her breath coming in hearty gulps with soft giggles erupting as he looked down at him. Then, she picked up her pace, as though she were racing him to something he wasn’t quite sure was a competition to begin with. His own breath was ragged when he felt a coil binding in tight in his belly. 

“Ah! What are you doing?” he hissed, almost wanting to still her hips to stop the torment. All Nina did in return was smile, her fingers dancing over the stubble on his chin. 

“This way, the only thing keeping you warm is my body. No powers. Just me, Matthias.” 

Matthias felt his heart pounding, and for the first time, he believed that Nina used no magic on his body; it was just her. 

“Nina,” he sighed, eyes closing as her hand gripped at the base of his length and guided him to the warmth that had been teasing his shaft for so long - it was as though his heart was leaping into his throat. He wanted to swear, wanted to yell and speak words of pleasure that could damn him forever. But she was breaking him - and he wasn’t even inside her yet. 

Then, Nina let herself rest back down on his cock, letting him sink inside her and - dear Djel - it was like he had been blessed beyond reason. Matthias almost gasped, head falling back and eyes shut tight, it was as though something had built far quicker than it was supposed to and his stomach clenched. Matthias’ hands gripped in harder to her hips, trying to get her to stop. She did, almost instantly. 

“Do you need me to stop?” 

Matthias nodded, eyes firmly shut, trying to regain his breath.

“Don’t want you wasting all the heat I’m giving you,” she smiled. 

Matthias wasn’t sure how to further their movements, the cold already starting to set his bones to shiver and ache. So, he did what he thought he could muster - he tapped at her thigh, two soft thrums across the ample flesh that rested on top of him. Nina smiled, her hands gracing up the sides of his torso before they rested on his shoulders. 

“Good, Drüskelle,” she praised and Matthias sighed, “tell me anyway you can if you need me to slow down,” she instructed.

“I don’t know how,” he said, voice breaking as he admitted his failings. 

“I can tell you’ll find a way,” she whispered, as though the wind were listening to all the secrets she was willing to share. Matthias found that he would fight anyone and anything, including all the elements, that dared intrude on his moment with Nina. How dare they touch at her, whisper her name, or invade her space when he wanted to be the only one to ever do it again. 

Nina rose up, her hands braced on his shoulders before she descended back down onto him. She was heavy, but it was a welcome weight, her rise and fall an intoxicating experience, one that no liquor could ever compare. 

His hips sunk down into the furs, slowly rising to meet Nina as she descended down onto him. Matthias couldn’t believe the sensation was real - it was like lightning shooting through him and every essential part of him had come alive. This grisha - this woman - made him come alive in a way he hadn’t known was possible. Sighing, he let his hands grace up from her thighs to her hips, feeling the rhythm she set upon him and followed suit, gaining confidence with every rise and fall that they gave over. 

At first, he was clumsy and made Nina squeak in surprise, her hands persistently digging and tugging at him as her hips jut up against his. With every few strides, she hit somewhere deep inside her with his shaft and her head would fall back. Every time he did it, he could feel how her body responded, how it seemed to cling to him for more than what she was already giving him. All the while, her breasts were tormenting him - the perfect bounce and prickling skin that rose as she fed into her desire was something he couldn’t ignore. 

Matthias shot up from the bed of furs and grasped her hips, making Nina’s breath hiccup. His mouth fell to her breast, nipping and biting at the risen peak that lay there teasing him. With his arm slung around her back, he helped their bodies find their pleasures together, bucking up and meeting every thrust that Nina had been performing like a temptress. Nina’s arms wrapped around him, her lips dragging and kissing at his temple. 

“Oh, Matthias,” she called, rocking back and forth in his lap, her hand in his hair as the other scraped up his back in a painful delight. “Please, just a little more,” she whined, her hips working hard to race to something. All the while, he could feel her body, how her core grasped him like a wicked vice that didn’t dare let him loose. All thoughts were gone as he drove himself as deep as he could, over and over again until he felt her body tense, her breathing hitched and a perfectly seductive cry left her lips, panting as she let herself feel every part of her pleasure. It pushed Matthias over the edge, and he grunted, feeling himself release every ounce of himself inside. Nina shivered once more, panting as her hands went to his cheeks, propping his face up to her and kissing him in a desperate moan. 

Her hips worked in slow circular movements, giving them a moment to relax and kiss until they were once again met with the frigid cold of the snow storm outside. Getting out of his lap, Nina found the furs she had been wrapped in and found her spot back in the cot. 

Nina tossed over, panting as she hauled the furs back over her sweat ridden body. Matthias couldn’t believe he had done such a thing - gone against every fibre of his being to lay with a grisha. It was wrong and amoral; everything he was taught to hate had been above him, he’d been inside her, finished inside her. How could he have done? In the moment, it felt right, it felt as though it was everything he should be doing, because it was a beautiful woman that made his heart race by doing nothing more than smiling. He wanted to tumble her in the sheets for the rest of the night, learning every inch of her as they kept each other warm. But he knew something like that could be the end of him - his heart was already half way lost to a grisha, how was he ever meant to recover. It was a fast track to losing himself and everything he thought he stood for. 

Matthias watched out of the corner of his eye as she turned to him. Her eyes were like the ocean shore after a raging storm - a mix of light blues and dirty silver frothing on the shores - and Matthias should know, he had survived in a storm just as strong with the woman beside him. 

“What are you staring at?” she asked, voice low, and almost scared for what his answer could be. Instead, all he did was pull her into him, pressing their heated bodies to one another to keep their warmth underneath the furs and radiate as much as possible. 

“To keep each other warm,” he muttered, but as she snuggled in deep into his chest and waiting arms, he could have sworn that Nina smiled against his skin. Or maybe it was because Matthias was smiling that he was certain of it. It felt like a night for smiling.

[theaviskullguy]

Ink and Petals

@dapple-dualies-propaganda here's the au

Tattoo artist! Rider x Florist! Goggles

hope you enjoy!

---------

When was it not busy at Squid ink?

It was one of the top Tattoo Parlors in Inkopolis. and it was also on a pretty busy street. So, it got a lot of customers. Also the fact that one of the artists was a famous turfer.

Rider hadn't formerly retired, but he had eased out of playing Turf Wars. He had found other interests outside of the sport: Theater, art, reviewing old movies online... He still did Turf from time to time, albeit the adult league. He was too old for the more popular teen division.

So, he found a job as a tattoo artist. And he rather loved it. Not only did most of his friends consult him for tattoo advice (from where the best places are to good designs), but he also knew some gossip. One of his regulars had beef with her neighbor because he has a pet raccoon who keeps stealing her trash and Rider could NOT wait to hear more about this story.

Another thing was, well, Rider had seen some shit. From people covered head to toe in tats, to people eagerly wanting their first tattoo, even to shyer folk who wanted one to defy controlling parents or to mark something important.

None of that prepared Rider for the news he got when tattooing one of the customers. More specifically, Gloves.

You see, Gloves had been coming in for the past few days. They had wanted a pretty complicated butterfly tat, so for the last 3 days Rider has been exchanging stories with the resident enby about... pretty much anything.

This is how this exchange happened;

"So you remember Goggles, right?" Gloves asked.

Rider rolled his eyes. "What, you think I'd forget the guy who kept pulling down my pants?"

"Oh ha ha. Anyways, apparently he works at that flower shop now."

"...He what?"

"You heard me!" They said. "I went there yesterday to get something for a project and there was Goggles! He misses you, 'ya know!"

Rider was just. quiet. He hadn't talked to his crush in a while, contact dwindled when Rider stopped doing Turf as much. Never once did he think Goggles would miss him, but that was probably the self hatred talking.

"...I'll think about it." Was all Rider said.

The conversation continued like nothing happen; Gloves saying multiple cursed things and Rider sharing interesting stories he heard on his job. Time flew by and soon, the tattoo was done; a butterfly with the bi colors on one wing and the nb colors on the other. Rider was quite proud of it, and Gloves seemed to like it. They waved, and left the store, humming to themselves.

Rider looked at the clock. His shift ended in just a few minutes. He knew he had no other appointments that day, so he took to watching old recorded matches in his phone.

Those were over a decade ago. Yet he still remembered everything. His favorite part was still learning he won a match by such a small margin. It was just... amazing.

He sighed. Rider missed those battles. But he has to say, he missed his crush a bit more.

He clocked out, saying goodbye to the other employee-Cherry (business relationships were easy to maintain when your coworkers were your siblings), and headed towards the flower shop for more reasons than one.

Army had a performance the next day. And yeah, Rider knew it was romantic, but platonically giving your best friend flowers was always nice. Plus, he wanted an excuse to see Goggles again.

He looked into the shop-the blue inkling was nowhere to be seen, but then again neither was the front desk. So, Rider shrugged and stepped in.

The floral scent was strong, but not overwhelming. Plenty of blossoms lined the stands, along with tags of what the flowers were and what they meant.

Rider looked around, trying to remember which flowers Army liked again, when he heard a familiar, youthful voice.

"Hi! Need any help?"

The inkling turned around. Goggles had definitely changed since Rider last saw him; his tentacles were longer and in an actual bun, for once. His blue eyes still had that clarity, and he still had that goofy smile. Though he didn't seem to recognize Rider.

"Uhh... I'll be fine. I'm just trying to remember what flower my friend likes the most." He said, hoping his accent didn't give him away; there weren't many in Inkopolis with an Australian accent.

But, Goggles didn't seem to notice or care. "Oh, okay!"

Rider internally breathed a sigh of relief. That would have been awkward if Goggles recognized him.

He looked around the shop, before spotting a bouquet of lilies. He knew Army liked lilies. If they weren't his favorite flower, it'd be close enough.

Rider took a few of the bigger ones, and a few white roses for variety, and took them to the counter.

Goggles smiled. "This a special occasion?"

"Not exactly. Just, my friend's doing a performance for a musical and I wanted to get him something for it." Rider explained.

"What musical?" Gogs asked, arranging the flowers with a sheer, white ribbon tying them together.

"Hadestown. He got Eurydice."

"Oh! I went to go see it last night! Army's amazing at that role. He's your friend, right?"

Rider internally panicked, but calmed down after remembering he wasn't Army's only friend. "Yeah. We've been friends for a while now."

"Well, tell him I said hi!" He handed the bouquet to Rider. "On me, alright? It's for a friend anyways!"

Rider nodded. "Thanks, mate."

"You're welcome!"

------

A few weeks went by. Rider occasionally stopped at the flower shop and got flowers for...well, no real reason. He'd use them to add color to his house, or give them to friends. He just wanted an excuse to see Goggles.

He'd talked to the blue inkling a bit more, too. He'd gotten into the business since, well, he really liked flowers, and he wanted a job where he could just...relax! He still did Turf, of course, but the Adult league was more serious than the teen one, and he just wanted to have fun instead of be expected to take a game seriously.

He still didn't recognize Rider. The yellow-green inkling was a bit hurt by this, to be honest.

Though, it was a bit startling when Goggles actually walked into Rider's work. And Rider was assigned to give Goggles his first tattoo: A blue jay on his shoulder, taking off from a branch.

This time, it was Goggles' turn to ask questions as Rider worked.

"Sooo.... you've been coming into my shop for a while and I still don't know your name!" The blue inkling stated. "I mean, you can probably recognize me though!"

Rider shrugged. "Well, who can forget Goggles of the Idiot Blue team?"

Goggles giggled. "You do know me! I still don't know you!!"

"...I can assure you, we've met before that day I got Army flowers." Rider said.

"Ooh! Can I try and guess who you are?"

"Ehh, why not."

"Okay! Umm..." Goggles thought for a moment. "Clams facemask?"

Rider shook his head. "Nope."

"Inkfall?"

"Wrong."

"Eging Jr?"

"Not even close there."

"Stealth Goggles?"

"Getting closer, I'll give you that."

"....Rider?" Goggles asked.

Rider chuckled. "Took you long enough, idiot."

Goggles smiled wide. "I finally found you! Hi Riri!"

"Hey, Gogs. It's been a while."

"Yeah! I'm a bit surprised I didn't recognize you, since we were pretty close!" Goggles stated.

Rider shrugged. "Well, I'm not the most memorable person anyways."

"Riderrrrr don't say that!" Goggles said. "You're still really popular!"

"To some people, maybe. Not everyone."

There was a tense silence, other than the hum of the tattoo needle as it made the drawing.

"....So." Goggles started again. "How's life?"

"It's...well, better than it was." Rider said. "Got my own place, for one. Though it gets a bit lonely.. You?"

"I'm still living in an apartment. I really want a roommate!" Goggles proclaimed. "Maybe we could move in together?"

"..I'll think about it, Gogs. Though it might be fun being your roommate."

"Really? Thanks Rider!" Goggled smiled.

The conversation grew more casual. Rider enjoyed it; turns out Goggles had his fair share of gossip. It was kinda cool.

And as the next few days passed, Rider looked forward to each of those sessions. His crush seemed to go from "this person would be fun to date i think" to "hOLY MOTHER OF THE GODS IM IN L O V E", and it didn't help that during those meetings, Goggles had to be shirtless.

The days turned into weeks and months. Goggles moved in with Rider, and the two became incredibly close friends.

And, it came to a head near valentines day. Goggles' shop was very busy, as expected. Luckily, Squid Ink wasn't as much.

So, on his day off, just before Valentines, Rider headed to the flower shop and got a bouquet of roses. Cliché to confess on Valentines day, Rider knew, but he's a pining gay cut him some slack.

And Rider came home right as Goggles was leaving for his shift. So, that left Rider with a good 3 hours to practice his confession.

"Alright, Rider. This has to be CASUAL. 'Hey, I've liked you for over a decade but just now had the confidence to confess!' No, too creepy sounding. 'Yo, Gogs. I really like you and maybe we could go out to dinner sometimes?' ...Too casual."

....Yeah, this went on for a while.

Rider groaned, collapsing his his bed. "I wish feelings were fucking easier...I should just call Army."

So, he grabbed his phone and selected the contact, Veronica Sawyer Kinnie

"C'mon, Army... pick up."

And not one ring later, "Rider, what is it?"

"...I need romantic help. Please." Rider asked.

"Look, just because I'm married to Aloha, doesn't mean I know how I ended up here."

"Yeah, I kinda know that." He stated. "Still. I really need some help."

Army sighed. "Who is it? It's totally that one person with the raccoon story-"

"Actually, no. It's, um.... It's Goggles."

The octoling on the other end of the line could be heard sighing. "Still a morosexual I see."

"OI! You're the one who married a fuckin himbo!"

".....Touché. Still, there's a difference."

Rider huffed. "Just... give me some advice. I wanna confess to him tomorrow but I've got no idea how. I'm giving him roses, but like, there's gotta be something more I could do, y'know?"

"Have you tried asking Prince?" Army suggested. "He is the one with the obsession with rom coms and romance novels."

"This is his exam period, Army. I'm not about to potentially interrupt a cram session by asking for romantic advice!"

"Fair enough. I'd say...well, just rip off the band aid. Like... 'Hey, Goggles, I really like you and was wondering if you'd like to be my boyfriend.'"

"...Thanks, Arm. I'll, uh, give it a try."

-------

Rider couldn't sleep that well. Mainly out of anticipation.

He was gonna confess to his crush of...over a decade, at least. He didn't fuckin know what was gonna happen!

Like, would Goggles reciprocate? Would he hate Rider after it? WHAT THE FUCK WOULD HAPPEN-

He sighed. He needed to get his mind off this shit.

Rider looked over to his bedside clock: 5AM. 5 hours before his shift. 5 hours to get his shit together and plan for confessing to the world's cutest but also dumbest man later that night.

C'mon, Rider. Think. Army said to rip it off like a band aid, but Goggles might find that a little sudden and out of the blue. He could write a letter and leave it for Goggles when he went to his shift (The flower shop was closed on Valentines day). That would be a safe option.

Rider sat up, and got out a piece of paper and pencil, writing a note.

"Hey, Goggles.

There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while. I really, really like you. As in, a crush.

I totally get it if you don't like me back, or think I'm weird, but hey, I was wondering if you'd wanna go out to dinner or something. Probably not tonight cause of Valentine's day but maybe tomorrow night or something.

-Rider"

Quickly, he folded it and wrote Goggles' name, putting a little heart sticker on it. It was corny, but hey, Rider had to use up those stickers somehow.

Rider attached it to the roses, and kept it on his desk.

And so, the morning went as normal. He had breakfast, got out of his pjs, put his hair up... the usual.

But as Rider left to go to work, he left the note and rose on the table, and left the house quickly.

During the day, he nearly forgotten all about it; He caught up with the gossip-Apparently the neighbor with the raccoon and the regular were now dating. So that was a nice little end to the story.

Squid Ink wasn't AS busy-probably because it was Valentines day, people were spending it with their lovers, not getting inked up (unless they made the appointment when single)

And it was near the end of Rider's shift when he heard his name mentioned. Probably someone making an appointment before he heard the familiar voice of Goggles going "Okay!!"

The blue inkling walked over to his station. "Hi Ridey!!"

"...Hey, Gogs. Getting another tat?" Rider asked, trying to keep his cool.

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!!!"

"A'ight anything specific in mind or-"

"Can I get just a simple quote one?"

Rider nodded. "Where do you want it?"

Goggles pulled down the collar of his shirt slightly. "Right here, please!"

"Okay. Just try to keep holding that down so I don't mess up.

-----

And so, tattoo conversations ensued.

The quote Goggles had wanted was a simple Pride one, that said "love is love". It was discreet, but a bit of it could be seen poking out if Goggles ever wore a v-neck.

"So, any plans for tonight?" Rider asked, trying to keep things subtle. Maybe Goggles hadn't read the note yet.

The blue inkling nodded. "Kinda! I had mental plans buuuuut nothing serious."

Rider raised an eyebrow. "Who with?"

"..I m-mean, I still have to ask him.." Goggles' face turned a shade of blue, and he averted his gaze.

"....Can I guess who he is?"

"If ya can!"

He smiled. "Does his name have an R in it?" Rider had a guess it was himself, but it wouldn't hurt to check.

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!"

"Got an accent?"

"Yep!!"

"Is he doing your tattoo?"

"....y-yeah?" Goggles sheepishly smiled. "I'm n-not that discreet, am I?"

Rider chuckled, but on the inside he was screeching. "Honestly? I had no clue myself."

"Really? I've been dropping the most obvious hints!"

"...Like what?" Rider asked, now a bit curious.

"Welllll I've been picking movies you like during movie night, I've made sure to get your drink on coffee runs, Oh! And I offered to cook dinner that one time!" Goggles stated.

"...Damn. I'm just oblivious then." The former dynamo user laughed, before turning off the needle. "There. It's all done." Rider held up a mirror for the blue boy.

Goggles' face lit up. "Whoa! It looks amazing!!! Thanks Riri!"

Rider smiled. "You're welcome. Now, uh, ...did you read my note?"

"..Y-yeah, I did. And, um...I like you too Rider!!" The blue man pressed a small, quick kiss to Rider's cheek.

Rider blushed. "S-so, you'll let me t-take you out?"

Goggles nodded. "Yeah!!!"

"I...thanks, Gogs."

"You're welcome Riri!!!"

----------

aAAAAA RUSHED END

but like. hope yall enjoy!

[hallowxiu]

A Great Pear

pairing: beelzebub x gn!mc

word count: 1.4k

summary: After losing a bet to Belphie, you’re on dinner duty. While cooking in the kitchen, you run into Beel, and really, who better to try your pick up lines on?

part 4 of the mc isn’t good at pick up lines series

part one | part two | part three

A sigh escapes you as you walk down the empty hall. You were on cooking duty tonight after losing a bet to Belphie the previous day. The two of you decided to see who had the better pick up lines by turning it into a bet; the loser would take on cooking duty the next day. You knew you were getting ahead of yourself the moment he suggested making it a bet, but how were you to know that Belphie had several pick up lines up his sleeves? Still, moping over it now won’t change anything. You lost, although you’re not sure if it was fair and square, and as a person of your word, you’ll be taking on Belphie’s cooking duties for the night.

With your sleeves rolled up, you stride into the large kitchen. You have no ideas for what to whip up tonight, so it seems like you’ll just be winging it today. Your feet pad lightly against the floor as you make your way over to the fridge, pulling the doors open and scanning the shelves for anything good to cook up. “Well, that’s unnerving.” There are jars of eyes in the fridge, as well as some other ingredients that aren’t sure of, and you begrudgingly make a decision. You grab a jar of small eyes, a deep purple glass bottle from the top of the shelf, and lastly a much smaller bottle than the first, one that’s the color of a dark forest green. “Beetle eyes and cab juice it is.” Did you want to eat this? No, but you knew it was a favorite amongst the brothers. Did you know what a cab was? Other than the vehicle, absolutely not. Maybe it was for the best that you didn’t know, though. You’re also not aware of what the green bottle contains, but you’ve seen Satan and Lucifer use it a lot when cooking, so it’s safe to assume (probably) that whatever it is will blend well with what you plan on making. If not, you’ll feign ignorance on how it turned out the way it did.

“What are you up to? I thought Belphie was on cooking duty tonight.” You hear your name called from behind and you turn around to see Beel lingering in the entrance of the kitchen.

“Yeah, well, I lost a bet, so here I am in his place.” You answer while laying out the ingredients across the counter. “Are you in the mood for beetle eyes tonight?” You figure it’s best to get the approval of Beel out of all the brothers. Not that he’s hard to please, but you don’t exactly want to waste your time by cooking a meal that won’t fully interest the demon.

“I’m always in the mood for beetle eyes.” He smiles at the thought and rubs his stomach in anticipation. “Cab juice?” He inquires when seeing the large bottle in your hands.

“I can hardly imagine cooking beetle eyes with anything other than cab juice.” He smiles again from your response. He watches you with keen interest when you place the bottle of cab juice down. You glance over at the green one, turning it over to see if there was any label. “Squid essence.” You read out slowly when finding a very worn looking label. What the hell was squid essence? Ink? Then why wouldn’t it just be labeled as squid ink?

“That’s squid essence.” Beel repeats what you said, though he elaborates on it further for you as if he can read your mind, “it’s the soul of the squid. It’s the most delicious part, but I wouldn’t use too much of it if I were you. It’s expensive and hard to get in the Devildom; Lucifer will be upset if you end up using all of it.” He pauses after he explains, watching as you fill a rather large pot with water. You turn the sink off and then set it down, turning on the electric stove top for the water to boil. “I’ve never seen someone use squid essence in beetles eyes with cab juice. I can’t help but wonder how that’ll come out. It sounds good; you might just create a masterpiece.” Yeah, okay, you think to yourself. If by dumping a ton of random shit into a pot and calling it a night results with a masterpiece, then so be it.

“Are you hungry?” The question falls from your lips when you twirl around to look at Beel. He’s hungrily eyeing the jar of eyes and, instinctively, you pull the jar closer to yourself. “I think I saw some fruit in the fridge. Why don’t you help yourself to some of that while you wait for dinner?” You find yourself suggesting. Before you can even finish the question, Beel’s darting toward the fridge. He pulls out a couple of pears and places them into a wooden bowl while you keep your eyes on the unboiled water. You smile to yourself when you catch him taking a bite out of the pear.

Beel immediately notices the grin spreading on your lips, and the redhead raises an eyebrow at you. “What are you thinking of? I’ll share if you want one.” You shake your head in response when he holds out a pear for you.

“I’m just thinking.” You respond with a smile. You pop the lid off the jar of eyes when the water finally comes to a boil.

“Thinking? What are you thinking about?” Beel asks as you pour the contents of the jar into the pot.

“I just can’t help but think,” you open the bottle of cab juice, the pungent smell of black liquid making you take a step back, “that we make a great pear.” Your voice cracks from the smell of the juice and the emphasis on the word pear is almost lost, but when you glance back you can see the wide smile on Beel’s face. Ah, so it wasn’t lost on him; that’s good to know, you think in relief.

“That was a good one.” There’s a lightness to his voice when he says your name. “Tell me another one.”

“About pears?” You ask dumbly.

“Do you have more about pears?”

“Uh,” it takes you a moment to think as you carefully add the cab juice in with the beetle eyes, “about pears? I don’t think so.”

“Then I will find another fruit.” Beel says with determination in his voice. You can hear him as he places the empty bowl on the counter (when did he eat all the pears?) and opens the fridge again, digging around for what you’re assuming is a different fruit. “It’s not a fruit, but,” Beel closes the fridge when he finds what he’s looking for, “what about this?” You angle your head so that you can look at him without taking your full attention off the pot in front of you. You snort to yourself when looking at the cucumber in his hand.

“I thought you were going to grab a fruit.”

“There weren’t any more.” There’s a frown on his lips as he speaks.

“Ah, fine, fine. Give me a moment, will you?” He nods his head sharply at your request. You dig around for something to stir the soup with, a lightbulb popping over your head as you grab a wooden spoon. “Are you a vegetable? Because you’d be a cute-cumber.” He smiles happily as he takes a bite out of the vegetable, a faint red dusting his cheeks.

“I like that one too. Another one.” Okay, you weren’t made of food pick up lines. You can only remember so many. “Only one more.” You’re starting to believe that Beel might actually be able to read your mind. He watches silently when you bend over, pulling out a cheese grater from the lower cabinet.

“This may be cheesy, but I think you’re grate.” He giggles at this, actually giggles and you can feel your heart do a flip in your chest. That was so cute, you cry inwardly to yourself.

“Thank you. I’m content for now.” For now? You’re not sure what that means, but you think you have a good hunch that he might be coming back for more pick up lines in the near future.

“I’m glad, because dinner is ready.” You hum as you add just a few drops of the squid essence. You really hope you didn’t just fuck up the recipe.

As it turns out, yes, squid essence does go well with beetle eyes and cab juice. Good on you.

[fantasticstoryteller]

New Amsterdam Chapter 100

Wade’s arm draped around Peter’s body as the smaller man curled up against his side while Aunt May talked. Aunt May sat in her chair, calmly stirring some sugar into a cup of hot tea, and said softly, “Phil and I have met before.”

“How?” asked Peter, clearly fascinated.

{I love how we can feel that question. Petey-Pie! You can rest your little head on our pecs forever!}

“When I first graduated nursing school,” Aunt May said slowly, “I joined a group called Help All.”

Wade winced. He’d heard far too much about that group. How they used the good natures of the young adults they tricked into working for them to drum up funds for expeditions that were little more than human trafficking research groups. Francis had gotten some of his subjects from them.

Aunt May nodded at Wade. “You know,” she said.

Peter looked up at him. Wade swallowed; he didn’t want to tell his boyfriend that his aunt had, however inadvertently, worked for a human trafficking group. “It was—uh, bad. They used legitimate people as a front for human trafficking,” he said curtly.

[Yes. Let’s spare him the gory details.]

“They pulled naive and stupid college kids who wanted to make the world a better place to act as the front of their operation as they scoped people out. The lucky ones were sold. The unlucky ones were chopped into spare parts to have their bodies sold on the black market.”

{Does she want to give him nightmares?}

“Don’t look at me like that Wade,” Aunt May advised. “I do not hide the darkness of the world from my family.”

“Hiding and not telling everything are different,” Wade argued.

She snorted and Peter gently burrowed into Wade’s side, sighing softly as Wade’s arm came around him. “What happened?” Peter asked. “How did you find out?”

Aunt May took another sip of her tea before she put the cup down on the table. “Oddly enough,” she said, “it was SHIELD. Well, technically, it was Phil, but he was working for SHIELD. They had asked our group to come to a region in another country, which I will not name except to say that it no longer exists. See, there were some serious natural disasters in the country, and there were a bunch of orphans. Smart little cusses that they were, the orphans banded together and hid on, and under the streets instead of allowing themselves to be hauled up in orphanages—where their very own government was prostituting them out.” She shook her head. “It was disgusting.”

Sounded eerily similar to what was happening with the street children of New Amsterdam, except that New Amsterdam’s children weren’t orphans, for the most part.

“SHIELD helped?” Peter asked.

{Aw! He sounds confused!}

[But why does he sound confused? All of that “SHIELDing humanity for the good of all” crap should mean that he trusts them.]

{But—his aunt clearly doesn’t trust them. Maybe she taught him better?}

Aunt May sighed. “Yes,” she said wearily. “See, they were the ones that took us to the country. They provided food, shelter, medical tools, Everything we needed to help these orphaned children get healthy. Strong.” The woman gave a low, bitter laugh. “They played us like the fools we were. Led the authorities right to them. And then? When we asked SHIELD for help? They sent us home. No explanations, no help, just deposited us on US soil with a note to remember we’d signed non-disclosure agreements.”

Wade could almost feel it when something clicked in Peter’s brain. “Is that how you met Uncle Ben?” he asked.

Aunt May’s lips quirked in a smile. “Not quite. See, one of the kids I’d gotten attached to had been taken for—bad purposes.” Her lips pressed in a thin line. “I won’t go over the details; they still piss me off and I don’t have room to vent until the you-know-what that commissioned that squid over there comes to collect it. So they took the kid.”

“And you went hunting,” prompted Peter, voice full of awe.

“Hunting?” asked Wade, startled.

Aunt May grinned. “Oh, yes,” she said firmly. “I went hunting. I hunted down the illegal side of Help All, did everything in my power to take them down—legally, I might add—while I tracked down that one kid. I’d gotten him traced to a barge in New Amsterdam when I met Ben—he was working his own case trying to figure out where all the children his team was rescuing from unsavory situations were coming from.”

“And you teamed up?” asked Wade as he snuggled down with Peter, who yawned.

Her lips twitched again and her eyes sparkled. “Hardly,” she said. “He thought that I was a loose cannon. I thought he had a stick up his ass.”

Peter buried his face into Wade’s side and Wade could feel the smaller man shaking in laughter. He stared, fascinated. Aunt May—the woman who had raised Spiderman—had been a vigilante? Maybe it was in Peter’s DNA.

{Maybe he’ll share that DNA with us.}

[That was a terrible joke.]

“What happened?” asked Wade.

“I wasn’t as careful as I thought I was. I got caught, Ben managed to rescue both me and the children, and promptly yelled at me about procedure and the importance of backup at which point I shoved him over the side of the barge. Luckily, he could swim.” May grinned. “Now, Peter, you have something to do.”

Wade could feel Peter grimace before he pulled away. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Good boy,” said Aunt May with clear pride as he shoved away from the couch and left the room. “Now, Wade,” said the woman turning that piercing gaze onto the mercenary. “You’ve figured it out.”

No need to ask what. The only thing that he could have figured out, the only thing that would have given her that look, was that Peter was Spiderman. Clearly, she knew as well.

“Man didn’t know the first thing about my boy, and then told me not to worry.”

Tony didn’t know that Peter and Spiderman were the same person, and he’d dared to tell Aunt May, who clearly knew, that Peter was going to be fine when he was in a life threatening situation.

[No wonder she hates him.]

{Why does she hate Norman then? I mean, I know why we hate him, and why Petey does, but why does she?}

“I have,” Wade admitted.

Her lips twitched. “Do you see the joke now?” she asked.

He’d kidnapped Spiderman to keep him safe. Wade’s own lips twitched. “I do,” he admitted.

“Good.” Aunt May grabbed her tea and took another drink. “Look after my boy,” she ordered.

“As best as I can,” Wade promised.

[princeanxious]

Part One; “A Wounded Snake Lies Still”

A continuation fic in the au i built from this art piece I did and this post that I’d written that inspired this whole idea. I don’t know how many parts there will be, but the plan is for it to be hurt/comfort? It’s just that the comfort comes in small increments, but I promise the ending will be happy!

Fandom: Thomas Sanders Sides

Ships: mentions of past healthy Anxceit, start of story begins w/ analogical, end goal is analoceit! Side royality, Remus is lowkey Aro.

Minor Trigger Warnings: in no particular order.. brief mentions of painful memory loss, brief food mention, Remus and Deceit as sympathetic characters in general, accidental revealing of a secret-Remus feeling awful about it and Deceit being completely forgiving on it. Deceit being sorta selfish but also being very selfless without realize it. Deceit lying when he speaks/ backwards talk.

Serious Trigger Warnings: (slight spoilers) Deceit ignores his own distress in favor of keeping up a nonchalant act around the others, and doesn’t process his inner emotions in a healthy way. Deceit repressing years of his own resurfacing emotional trauma that originally came from his separation from Virgil, Deceit also briefly relives said trauma in the fic and pretends nothing is wrong even though something Really Is. Patton has minor empath abilities in this au and accidentally gets hit with a ride of very negative emotions that Deceit is already internally feeling when he touches Deceit.

(Let me know if I need to tag something else!)

Summary: Virgil’s missing memories have always been a touchy subject. After Remus and Deceit gain their acceptance of from the Light Sides and Thomas, Deceit still seems to have a few secrets to hide. If you asked him, he’d tell you it was for the best that he kept them. Partially concealing the truth was a slippery slope, indeed. But, could you really blame him? When Virgil was dating Logan and finally seemed happy again? To him, All the repression of his own trauma was worth Virgil’s happiness. Their years of love were lost with Virgil’s memories of the past, and there was no way in hell Deceit was about to jeopardize Virgil’s current stability now, not when the only person at fault for losing was Deceit himself.(or, was it? He’s never sure anymore. Trauma is a fickle beast.) Well, one slip up from Remus is all it takes before Deceit finds himself faced with that exact dilema fast approaching, and he finds he is less than prepared to face the music..

[[MORE]]

“Ugh, gross. In front of my deodorant?? Could you guys like. Not?? Be romance-y in the living room?? You two remind me of when Dee and Virgie were dating.” Remus grumbled offhandedly, too tired to deal with his twin’s particularly loud and loving attention directed towards Thomas’s literal representation of the heart this late into the afternoon.

They’d been loudly and shamelessly flirting back and forth from across the room while everyone set up for movie night, Roman in the living room with the others and Patton in the kitchen with Deceit making snacks. It was only seconds later that the duke realized his slip up as everything and everyone around clattered to a halt, the other sides turning stare at him in confusion.

Three years. It had taken Deceit three long, painstaking years and counting to distance himself from the years of memories he’d spent in bliss, to separate his mind from the heartbreak of losing his only love. Three years to come to terms with the fact that his only love now held no memories of the time they spent together, to accept that his love now deeply loved another.

Three years to come to terms with the fact that Virgil would never know what it was like to watch helplessly as his love writhed in pain. To watch as The Line ripped the memories from his love’s very being, forcing Virgil into a clean slate. Three years to come to terms that Virgil would never remember.

Three years of patience and heartbreak and anguish and lies, telling himself that it’d be okay, telling himself that he would move on and heal eventually. Three years of painstakingly separating himself from the narrative he and Virgil used to share, and ensuring that Virgil never had any inkling to what had been of his past. It was the only secret Deceit ever asked Remus to keep.

Rest assured, he’d tried to respark Virgil’s memories many times in the first few months after Virgil crossed over The Line from Dark side to Light, having ultimately crossed for good. It’d only led to fight after fight, driving a wedge further and further between them with each escalated argument. With a bleeding heart, he’d eventually given in, and stopped any further attempts. After all, each attempt only seemed to fuel Virgil with irritation. It had been clear then, that whatever they’d had, was never going to be again.

Three years it’d been. He thought he’d nearly healed, really. Most days he found he could exist and interact with the others and not be reminded of the past, and be comforted that he himself would not be a reminder to the past. Repression had always been his strong suit, though, conciously or not.

The Line had diminished as of late, after Thomas had really begun accepting Deceit and Remus. They could cross The Line for long amounts of time now, and mostly be fine. Occasionally they suffered from a bout of fatigue when disagreements with the others briefly turned sour, feeling The Line tugging back at them insistently. It never lasted for long, but there was always that underlying worry that The Line would finally snap them back into the dark for good if one of them made a final wrong move. The Light Sides didn’t know about The Line, not even Virgil remembered stumbling away from it after all that had happened. And well, if it were up to Deceit? They would never find out about it. Too many questions, too many messy answers.

Three years later, Deceit finds his heart splintering once more, an ache sinking into his chest that he knows Patton feels as they stand nearby one another. Memories flood in harshly, a deep painful longing resurging from the depths of his mind as it always did when faced with his reoccurring trauma sinking its claws into his psyche.

It’s only been seconds, but the silence is starting to feel heavy. Instead of moving on from the previous comment, Remus glances to Deceit, eyes pleading and devastated by having made his mistake, breaking the only promise to Dee he’d ever been seriously asked to keep. And Deceit knows he must do what he does best to save face, there is still time to redirect the carnage.

“Remus, please don’t refrain from spreading lies, that’s certainly not my job, after all.” He teases lightly, keeping his tone precisely on the edge of amused confusion, though his eyes hold an understanding none of the others know to read for. “Next you won’t be telling me that your favorite animal is a squid, not an octopus. Not your worst try at shock humor, yes?”

Remus catches on after a millisecond, drawing out a full cackle. “Sorry, not sorry! You should’ve seen the looks on your faces though! Priceless!! Who knew a shitty joke falling so flat would shock everyone so good!”

Their reactions held the desired effect. Quickly, everyone around the room seemed to relax, Roman even firing back his own playful quip to further lighten the mood. In the end, it was just a bump in conversation, something Remus caused every once in a while as everyone adjusted and Remus learned. Not a single step amiss that wasn’t already expectedly out of line.

Still, he’d have to talk to Remus in private later. Remus was just as sensitive to rejection as Roman was, and paired with his inherently intrusive thoughts, it would come to no surprise if Remus already thought Deceit now hated him. He didn’t, it’d been an accident, and Remus’s first ever slip up in three years since making the promise. Even if Dee had been mad about the slip up, he wouldn’t have had any right to be. He’d be sure Remus was the first person he sought to soothe when they got a free moment alone, it wasn’t right to let those kinds of thoughts fester.

Remus first, Virgil next, as it wasn’t quite crisis averted. He could feel Virgil’s eyes on his back from the living room. He denied his bleeding heart the closure of meeting Virgil’s gaze, of sharing his expression. He was too vulnerable, even now the anxious side could read his tells far too well, often without even realizing why. There was no doubt Virgil would try and talk to him later about it, and no matter how good the terms they were on with each other now were, Deceit knew the conversation would be a rough one. Virgil knows he has missing memories, and only recently had he accepted Remus and Deceit’s vague answers when he’d asked lightly about his past. It was at least him acknowledging they had the answers to the past he doesn’t remember.

If he wasn’t careful, each and every brick in the wall that Deceit had carefully worked to build up in the past three years could crumble right before his eyes, leaving him stripped emotionally defenseless, his trauma bared for all to see. And who knew what the others would do if they knew so much? What would they think of him then? Deceit inwardly shivered at the thought. It would not come to that.

Slipping into the nonchalant act was an easy card to play, it being his strong suit and most comforting form of security, a version of his own little lie of omission to soothe the bumpy situation over.

What he didn’t account for, was Patton gently reaching to touch his arm when everyone else had settled and their attentions returned to their tasks at hand. Deceit fought against his immediate urge to pull away, knowing the moral side just preferred connection through touch when addressing another, and instead looked up to meet Patton with a questioning gaze.

Whatever Patton was about to say died on his lips as he suddenly seemed to reflect an absolutely heartbroken expression, tears welling up in his eyes. Pain and sorrow and surprise seemed to seep into the other’s expression, warring for dominance amongst the primary confusion. It was only then that Deceit realized that Patton was still touching him, his bare arm with an equally bare hand, to be exact. The memory that Patton bore minor empath abilities that were tied into his existence as the representation of Thomas’s morality and feelings sunk in two seconds too late.

Direct skin to skin contact, something Deceit sought often to avoid in general nowadays anyway, was a direct way for Patton to tune into another's current feelings through said abilities, often by accident. There were limits that Patton could control, of course, and Patton only ever seemed to struggle coping with that ability when faced with an overwhelming swell of emotions from the other side. And, well.. Deceit’s mind certainly hadn’t taken well to being reminded of his repressed past, seeping through his protective mental walls with all sorts of roiling negative emotions.

From self-loathing, to dread. From anger, to guilt. From longing, to grief, then to depression, and finally apathy. It just couldn’t be helped that Deceit, a master of disguise and deception, had had three whole years to perfect the act that hid it from the outside and controlled it all from within.

Carefully, Deceit pulled Patton’s hand from his arm, and gently tucked it against the moral side’s chest. Still, he keeps his gloved hand there, letting Patton grasp it with both hands to ground himself after such an emotional ride.

“Deep breaths, dear Patton. Whatever isn’t the matter?” He asks gently, still playing into his act but his eyes plead a different story. ‘Not now,’ they say, ‘I will tell you, but not here,’ they beg. Patton nods slowly, and Deceit carefully wipes away Patton tears. In a move he knows he might regret later if it raises questions, he slips his hat off to gently plop onto the moral side’s head, and gently presses against the others clothed shoulder with his own in a show of comforting affection. It has the desired effect of distracting Patton and lightening his mood, Patton’s lingering upset masked by a watery smile only they can share. Deceit silently mourns the loss of his safety blanket, but accepts that a few minutes of feeling vulnerable while comforting Patton is a good trade to escape having his distress found out. He couldn’t have the other sides cornering him into explaining why Patton had suddenly begun crying without reason. It certainly wasn’t the fact that he felt guilty for Patton having experienced second hand an echo of his painfully raw emotions, no, not at all.

Thankfully their little scene goes unnoticed by the rest of the preoccupied sides, who are far too busy bickering over the movies they want to watch. Well, unnoticed by all but the one who sits to the side. Said side keeps an unconcerned but intrigued eye on the two in the kitchen, glancing over every time he adjusts his glasses to avoid suspicion. Logan says nothing, but knows he has questions for his dearest Virgil when movie night is over. He can only hope that the answers Virgil gives will not raise more questions.

(..Unfortunately, they do raise more questions than answers.. However, they now know exactly who has the answers they seek. It’s only a matter of getting those answers that is a task far harder than they’d ever expected it to be.)

To be continued..

[yandere-wishes]

Aquaphobia //Yandere Leviathen x reader//

Oh, have I never mentioned that I am MORTIFIED of water and literally any sea creatures...no? It must have slipped my mind.

For this story, I'm making a few assumptions. 1) Levi can turn into some sort of sea monster-like thing I'm assuming it looks like a cross between a Megladon/Giant squid/ Sea serpent. 2) He can communicate with sea creatures. 3) The giant horrifying aquarium that basically makes up his back wall is in reality linked to either an ocean or somewhere that houses a bunch of dangerous sea beings. 4) In addition to sea animal communication Levi posses Aquakinesis

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For as long as you can remember water has always haunted you.

The large bodies of H2O particles have never failed to shake you to your very core. 

In every single nightmare you ever recall, you are drowning in one of those shallow blue celestial bodies. The colorless liquid invading your mouth, clawing its way to where your lungs rested, joyously filling and choking them. 

Sea roamers of all kinds flocked to your drowning corps, millions of eyes drinking in your defenseless form, from the beady black shark eyes to the yellow cyclops eye of a giant squid. A fraction of a second later and those beastes were sinking their fangs into your tender flesh, large tentacles wrapping themselves around an arm or leg and tugging it until it detached from the rest of your corps. 

But in the end, you always woke up, always resumed your day as if nothing had come to pass the night before, back then you knew that it was only a nightmare....however this time you weren't so sure. 

Out of all seven brothers you'd always dreaded Leviathan the most. You had nothing against his "otaku" like ways or his unkempt appearance. No, it was simply what he was that made you keep your distance. 

Yet the third born seemed to have other plans for you. Leviathan hates "normies", the average demons and humans that overpopulate the earth, mocking those like him who have hobbies and likings that are "abnormal" in their eyes, forcing them to live shameful lives of isolation. Due to the superiority of normies in all three realms Levi had never once come across someone as abnormal as himself...that was until the new exchange student had arrived. At first, they had seemed to be just like anyone else, a normal human with absolutely nothing extravagant about them. But as time progressed Levi became aware of just how similar the two of them were. She would spend hours talking to Mammon about the newest anime or the latest level of the video game she was playing. Her tone was always so excited and pure, eyes gleaming and radiating happiness. But Mammon never understood, he simply scuffed and made some degrading comment about her being a nerd or worst then Levi. 

Maybe it was then and there that Levi had decided you were the one. That if anybody angel, demon or human would ever understand him, ever be this alike to him, it would be you, it had to be.

You didn't want to go to his room. You'd avoided it like the plague after Mammon had described the bathtub bed and giant aquarium that drew its water from one of the Devildom's massive oceans. The avatar of greed had even vividly described how the ceiling tiles could pull away, reveling yet another large aquarium for a roof. 

It sounded worst than any haunted house, a place you would never dare venture into. But this time you didn't have a choice, try as you may you couldn't get out of this. 

Earlier that day you'd awaken to something cold and yet trailing down your visage. The mere texture of the substance had jolted you from your slumber, the fear of the colorless liquid had bounded itself deep into your body's habits and subconscious. Eyes dilate, body frozen, tears at the brink of falling. A moist want reached out and cupped your chin, turning your neck too briskly that you were sure you heard a few bones "pop". A squeal escaped your lips only to be met with an instantaneous "shh, be quiet".  Your (eye color) orbs landed on the third born, his eyes housed a sort of sick glee it matched the sadistic twisted smirk he dawned on his face. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through your veins, maybe it was the fact that you'd just awoken and your brain was still partly asleep. Either way, you could have sworn that Leviathan's teeth had somehow changed. They where long and jagged, bending at roots were they sprouted from his gums, to top off the horror thin lines of thick juicy crimson highlighted the tips and betweens of his shark life teeth. 

By now you had begun to sob, tears flowing non stop from your puffy red eyes. Your body was frozen you dared not move, vocal cords had given up and your tongue laid dead at the bottom of your mouth.

"Hello, princess sleep well?" Despite it seeming so innocent there was a sort of mocking laced into the question.

You noticed something in his other hand. A large familiar blue-colored plushy with a gasmask was suffocating in this grasp. That was a rare collectible you'd somehow managed to win from a Crain game back in the human world. You never slept a night without, feeling safe whenever you held it in your embrace. When you'd arrived in the Devildom you'd practically begged Lucifer to retrieve it for you. It had taken all so many tears and tantrums, in addition, to agree to take over his chores for the course of two months. The day the firstborn had carelessly tossed it to you, had probably been the second happiest day of your life. 

Levi let out a cruel giggle as he brought your prized possession closer to your face. His long nails dug into the fabric of its forehead as he dangled it before your eyes. "It's kinda cute, what show is it from?" This time round he sounded genuin, no inanity to be heard. Yet you didn't speak still petrified and stiff. 

One heartbeat

two heartbeats

three heartbeats--

"Fine! What you won't talk to me cause you think you're better than me?!" You shook your head slowly, the gesture barely being noticeable. Yet he picked up on it. He let out another string of offensive giggles "You're scared, right? Afraid the big bad sea monster will eat you?". Oh, God how desperately you wished you could run. Find Mammon or Lucifer and cling to them. To find any means to get away from this monster. 

His fingers fell from your face, he turned without saying another word and made his way to the door. As he opened it, he called behind his shoulder. " If you want it back, come to my room at midnight and come alone" He then slammed the door abandoning you to your thoughts and terrors. 

In short, that was why you were standing in front of the door that would lead you to your personal hell. You had no desire to step foot into his room and yet it was the sole means to retrieving your stuffed monster. Hesitantly you lifter your hand to knock, your finger had not touched the wood when the door creaked open and something slithered around your arm and dragged you into Leviathan's room. 

"I-I'm h-here know p-please give it back--"

Your back collided with the cold tiled floor. You let out a scream of pain before Levi's hand was shoved over your mouth. 

"Be quiet would ya?" His orange and purple orbs gazed into your wide mortified eyes. He let out a sigh and his gaze softened. "(Y/N)...I-I've never felt this way about anyone before...well maybe Ruri-chan and Sugar Frenzy's lead singer for a short period of time, oh and this one...nevermind! Look I-I feel like your something different okay. I g-guess that I have a little crush on you. Noting big alright! But-but what do you say (Y/N) will yo be mine? We'd make a great couple! We like the exact samethings, share practically the same opinions. We are meant to be one!" Slowly he lifted his hand from your mouth, an excited smile playing at his lips, his eyes sparkled with joy and exhilaration. Maybe if you'd have time to think this trough you would have felt bad about what you next words where. 

The second his hand was removed from your mouth you shouted.

"NO! No no no no no! Never! I can't I just can't your a freaking sea monster you--"

No sooner had the words left your mouth that you felt your head accelerate forward and then get smashed on the wet hard floor. The notion repeated again and again. You where sure you were bleeding, some sort of concussion must have formed, your sight was blurry and spots were dancing everywhere. 

"You stupid normi! You tricked me! I thought you were like me! That would actually love someone like me! You made me freaking fall in love with you, you bitch!" 

He twisted your head to the side and pushed your face into the floor. "You're scared of water aren't you? Your sacred of what lives in the water too right? Is that why you don't love me (y/n)? Cause I'm some sort of water freak? Well? Damit answer me!"

"Yes" you choked out "y-yes L-Leviathan, I'm scared of you!" He let out a furious sigh, his tail wrapped around your neck and hosted you up pressing you into the glass of the aquarium. An odd noise filled to room, something alike to buzzing yet..somehow very different. "You know what's funny (y/n)? I may be some sort of freak, but I'm also the only thing keeping you safe from the horrors behind the class." 

Something was swimming closer and closer, it's figure getting bigger and bigger. The teeth and large snout and hulking dorsal fins soon became evident what was coming toward you. You screamed, the noise echoed and bounced from one wall to the next. Your throat started to bleed and go raw, your mind blank with the loud ringing of alarms or was that your heart trying to break your ribcage and runaway?

As the monstrous shark swam only a few centimeters away from the glass, you could feel the sensitivity and life drain from your corpse, blackness taking over. You tried to remain awake to grip on to conscious, darkness was not friendly for it only showed the monsters face, the image burned permanently into your brain. 

As you slipped away into a stygian dream world, Levi brought your limp body to his chest cradling you gently and sweetly kissing your forehead. He waved a hand dismissively at his "pet" and watched for a second as it swam away. He lifted you up and brought you over to his bed. Placing you carefully inside. He placed your stuffy next to you and stood up admiring the aesthetic of your sleeping form. You were so gorgeous when you weren't scared or defensive. 

"You're mine (y/n), finally! I'm never going to let anyone else come near.. you never!"

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 1: restrained

i’m doing whumptober this year! slowly, but i’m going to try to do them all.

summary: dick wishes he were in an actual cage, or hanging from shackles in some dank basement. anything would be better than this.

warnings: some swearing, mentions of suicide. ostensibly set in comics-canon, but uh... set in a nebulous time-line that doesn’t really spoil anything other than the fact that damian is robin.

restrained

There are worse places to get stuck than the Wayne manor’s living room, Dick muses. At least he’s comfortable, people can come and visit him, and there’s limitless entertainment on the TV to distract him. He’s not in some dank basement hanging his entire weight from his arms, and he’s certainly not tied to a cold torture table or to a chair in the centre of a room that’s slowly flooding and he has to slips his knots before he drowns and is that a squid that’s trying to wrap itself around his face, what the fuck—

Okay, so Dick has had more than his share of weird and terrible experiences being tied up. Compared to them, this is a fucking holiday. 

“This is getting silly, Grayson,” Damian says, leaning against the entrance to the living room, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Has it only just, Dami,” Dick mutters. He’s lounging on the sofa, one arm over his eyes. He hasn’t moved from this position for at least a couple of hours. He isn’t sure if ‘moving’ is going to be on the agenda for the near future. He just can’t see the point. 

“Have you tried leaving again today? Maybe the—spell,” Dick imagines Damian’s mouth twisting, the tip of his nose pointing towards the ceiling, “has worn off by now.”

Dick grunts. The truth is, he hasn’t tried in a few days at least. The first few days he couldn’t stop throwing himself against the invisible barrier between this (goddamn fucking) living room and the rest of the world, even if it meant that each time it felt like he was being cut open and electrocuted. It was only a combination of Bruce and Jason bodily holding him back and his own body giving up on him, unable to process that much pain for that long, that made him stop. 

The family’s called in favours with Zatanna, Constantine, Doctor Fate, pretty much anyone who has even passing experience with magic and can figure out what’s going on and why it seemed like only Dick was trapped there. And until they can find a solution, Dick, well… 

I’ve had worse, he reminds himself again.

“That’s not an answer,” Damian says.

Dick bites back on an angry retort and turns so that he’s facing the backrest of the sofa. He means well, Dick thinks, but if he has to look at Damian’s half-concerned, half-contemptuous expression again he’s going to say something he will regret. Again. 

After a long moment, he hears Damian click his tongue against his teeth. “It’s a good thing you’re not in enemy territory, Grayson,” he says, before walking away, “where your utter lack of self-preservation might’ve ended up endangering someone else.”

And that’s the crux of the whole thing, isn’t it? If he’s in enemy hands he at least has a purpose, a readily identifiable objective, something to overcome. Here, he feels like a goldfish in a bowl, able to smell, hear and see freedom but never able to get there. Each little concession to his situation—from the portable toilet that Alfred’s dragged in there, to installing whatever gym equipment that can fit in the space, to the growing collection of books, blu-rays and multiple new streaming subscriptions—feels like a defeat to an invisible enemy he hasn’t even begun to fight.

(that he doesn’t know how to fight—)

He pulls his blanket over his shoulders, closes his eyes, and surprises himself by falling asleep almost immediately. 

-

Dick’s woken by the sound of alarms. He’s up on his feet and running towards the source of the sound before he can even put together a conscious thought; it sounds like somebody’s trying to gain unauthorised access into the Batcave, which can only mean--

He stops short when it feels like he’s run into a wall of electricity. His mind tips sideways, sparks filling his vision, nerves misfiring and his body convulsing in their wake. He falls to the floor, twitching, the impact digging bruises into his skin. He curls into a ball, his muscles taut and pulling impossibly tauter, drool seeping from a mouth that he can’t seem to close and screams locked inside a chest that he can’t seem to move.

The moment stretches for an eternity until it isn’t, and he heaves a shuddering breath. His vision clears enough to see Damian--in full Robin costume--crouched in front of him, pale and frowning. Jason’s standing behind him, shirtless and panting.

“Dick,” Damian says. His voice is small, and scared.

Dick should be trying to reassure him. He should be teasing him about using Dick instead of Grayson or Richard or any number of semi-fond insults. He should be trying to figure out which is way up, honestly, given the way the room is still spinning. Instead he says, “... the intruder?”

“My fault,” Jason says. “Tripped an alarm by mistake. But, Dick, you…”

Dick starts to push himself up on shaky arms. “I’m okay,” he says, even though his voice feels like it’s scraping through the gravel in his throat. “I must’ve gotten farther than I realised.”

Jason and Damian exchange looks.

“That’s the thing, Dick,” Jason says, after a long, silent moment. “You didn’t.”

That’s when Dick notices that he’s barely two feet away from the couch. 

“Oh,” he says.

-

Now that the circle’s started closing in around him, it doesn’t stop. Everyday, Dick discovers that the space that he can exist without pain that feels like his body is being flayed open with a machete is getting smaller and smaller. There’s a point where he can’t move from the couch, even to use the portable toilet--unless he wants to live inside it.

This is the point where he stops eating.

Family and friends come and go, reassuring, pleading, sometimes yelling at him to not give up. Dick wants to be grateful that he isn’t alone in this, but seeing the way they move in and out of the… cage that he’s in with no effort at all brings him to the verge of heart-pounding, dizzying panic. A large part of him is still unable to reconcile the wide open spaces he sees around him with his inability to… be in those spaces. An actual cage would probably be easier to deal with. 

(For a fraction of a moment, Dick considers asking Bruce to build him one. He can’t imagine that desire being treated as anything other than a joke, but he is well past the point of joking now.)

“We’re close to finding the solution,” Tim tells him fiercely. “I know it. That’s why the spell’s accelerating.”

Dick’s supposed to be the hopeful one, and yet it’s always Tim who’s reaching for even the slightest sliver of light and it’s always Dick who’s too afraid to believe him. The words I’ll die before that happens come unbidden to his mouth, but he doesn’t say them; for one, they would devastate Tim, who already looks a moment away from shattering, and two, would he really die? Or would he just be in this horrific pain for all of eternity? 

(would he be allowed to--)

Bruce spends an entire day sitting with him, talking about everything except Dick’s current predicament. He talks about old and new cases, about Damian’s newest addition to his bat-menagerie, about upgrading the Batmobile and the time Alfred tried to teach him to make Bechamel sauce and he ended up burning a perfectly good pan because for some reason when it came to cooking, he lost all sense of time and proportion. 

Dick appreciates the effort, and tries to participate, but at this point he thinks it would be a mercy to be left alone.

-

Dick can’t move. Even the slightest slump in his posture means his muscles seize up in agony, forcing him to find a position that hurts the least and… stay that way. He can’t speak. He can barely breathe.

Damian’s taken to cuddling next to him, bereft of his last shred of self-consciousness. He doesn’t look at Dick, but tucks his head under Dick’s chin, arms wrapped around his chest. The steady stream of visitors has trickled down to just his family, who move around him, silent, slow and haggard. They’re close to giving up, he realises. They’re so close to letting him--letting him--

No. Now that the moment’s here, Dick finds he’s not even remotely ready. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die!

He tries to speak, but the slightest movement of his jaw shoots white hot pain down his neck and spine, and all he can manage is a whimper.

Bruce crouches in front of him until his face is level with Dick’s. “It’s okay, Dick,” he says. “This will be over soon.”

Dick blinks, tears slipping down his face to soak into Damian’s hair.

[twinkleallnight]

Marshmallow

(Part-8) Fight or flight

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Liam x MC, Drake x ??

For previous chapters: catch up here

A/N: This fic is my submission for this week’s #WackyDrabbles. The prompt is: ‘Oh? Just once?’ and will appear in bold.

A/N 2: Thank u @ritachacha for helping out and connecting me to @queen-of-effing-everything who gave me a basic idea of the noble houses and further gave a lead and I met @lizzybeth1986 . Lizzy, your essays are amazing. You have helped me with your vast knowledge and It was an enlightening discussion. This chapter wouldn't have been without your inputs.

Music inspo: Connan Gray

Tags: @ao719 @aloneautumn @charlotteg234 @choiceskatie @cordonia-gothqueen @cordonianroyalty @daisydancer12385 @drakewalker04 @gardeningourmet @gkittylove99 @glaimtruelovealways @hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @iam-the-kind-and-thoughtful @idontknowwhysblog @islandcrow @jovialyouthmusic @jaxsmutsuo @kingliam2019 @lovablegranny @mrswalkers-blog @mom2000aggie @no-one-u-know @ntoraplayschoices @ritachacha @speedyoperarascalparty @shanzay44 @texaskitten30 @loudbluebirdlover @queenrileyrose @sanchita012 @theroyalheirshadowhunter @wackydrabbles @yourmajesty09

The next few days are spent busy, at the stables. After couple of days, Liam walks in, as I am tending to Brawny in the separate temporary shed, that I got made for the infected horses. I signal him to wait. I change out of my protective clothes and scrub before meeting him outside.

“Welcome back home! So, how did Lythikos treat you?” I know I am beating around the bush, when I am asking it. But I don’t want to hit him straight with the awkward question. I know he is equally in an uneasy position.

“Yes, all well.” He gives me an agonizing stare. “I had a talk with her.” He brings up the inevitable topic. “I think she did it out of desperation and jealousy.”

“It is alright Liam. She is not blind and not a child anymore. She can see where you are inclined.” I let out a sigh, “It’s difficult to read a woman’s mind. I feel sad for the manner in which we are parting ways. Part of growing up, I guess!”

Liam gives out a sigh too and then changes the subject, “Everything under control here?”

“Yes. I reached in time. There were two more horses showing similar signs. Got all three horses isolated. And vaccinated remaining ones.”

“You are good at your job. Even father seems to have blind faith in you, when it comes to vet skills.” He chuckles.

“Thank you.” I smirk thinking of king Constantine. It’s his inherent nature to always doubt and question everyone. “I have to report and update it to him later today. Let’s see what he has to say.”

Liam gives me a friendly pat, and we head to the palace for a quiet lunch together. I get a call from Max soon after we finish our meals. “It’s an emergency. I am sending you the address. Meet me in half an hour.” He sounds serious.

I drive down to the coffee shop, which he mentioned in his text. When I walk in, I find him sitting in the corner booth, his feet tapping on the floor nervously, and his blue eyes scanning the scene around, in a hope to find solution to the problem he is carrying in his mind.

“What’s wrong?” I ask settling down across the table.

“I don’t know. Bertrand doesn’t seem to be interested in giving me the whole story. He thinks I’m still his baby brother.” He rolls his eyes. “All I know is, that the crew we hired for our yacht for the Royal Regatta scheduled tomorrow, has ditched us.”

“It’s just a symbolic boat race and not an actual one with a pressure to win.” I try to lay down the facts.

“But you know Bertrand. He won’t leave any stone unturned to win it. Also, it’s king’s favourite event. He wants that Riley should bag the prize, so that she gets a chance to interact with the king. It is kind of gaining brownie points.

“Hmm." I ponder. "How many members do we need? Let’s count. You and I will be there.”

“You will do that for me?” he says, his eyes widening with a shine.

“I will. If you promise not to crack your stupid jokes during the event.” I warn him. “Who else can be roped in?”

“I don’t want to include anyone else. I don’t know what is wrong with House Beaumont and it’s difficult to explain to outsiders. So, I think just three of us. I hope we will be able to pull through. Will you be okay with that?”

“Yeah, I see no problem there. What about Bertrand?”

“ He is in a bad mood. Angry, sad, frustrated, all at the same time. He should be fine by tomorrow to give us a helping hand.”

We finish discussing all the minor details for the boat race in next hour and then walk out of the coffee shop.

The following day, at the Royal Regatta, I stand on the deck taking in the salty air.

Riley comes and stands beside me. “What are you looking at?”

“I just realised the actual count of suitors for the first time, by the number of boats, of course. I hardly know any of them. For me they are only the names I hear from the conversation with Liam. I should know at least this much, right?”

“Yes, you are his best friend and best friend should know it all.” She says it with a wink.

“Am I missing something?”

“Just that, may be, I am falling head over heels for your friend.” She grins.

“And you are revealing this to me and not him?”

“I don’t want to burden him more. He has too much to handle already. I know, being a crown prince, he cannot open up about his feelings for one particular suitor in the midst of the social season. So, I don’t want to tell him, just yet, lest he gets anxious and tries to spend more time with me. That would put him in a tricky situation.”

I sweep her in a big bear hug. “Oh, Brooks! I am so happy to know that.” I part away and look into her brown eyes, tears of happiness glinting in them. “He is so lucky to have you. That’s all he needed. Someone who understands him, his struggles, his responsibilities.”

I hug her back and whisper in her ears, “Let me give out a secret. He may also be sharing the same feelings.”

“I know.” She says gleefully looking up at me.

“Okay now let me help you enhance your knowledge about my competitors.” She rolls her eyes. “Let’s start from the right.” She points out to the boat lined up in extreme right to us.

The sight is full of colourful sails. Each of these boats have a flag representing their house. The one Riley pointed to, has a black flag with a silver owl on it.

Riley starts “That should be from the duchy of Castelsarreillan represented by Kiara Theron, the future Duchess.” Riley continues.

“Yes, the owl represents their house. Their family has intelligence and art running in their blood. Duke Theron is a very wise man and the Duchess is an artist.” I add on.

“So, you have met him?”

“Once.”

“Oh? just once?” Riley gives me a playful smile.

“Yeah.”

“Kiara is very smart, logical person and a linguist.” Riley elaborates. “Next to her should be her best friend’s boat.”

I observe purple flag with golden waves and a narwhal painted on it. “Portavira.” I blurt out.

“ I guess, it’s the only duchy with a sea port. Penelope Ebrim represents the house. Easy way to identify her is, you will find her talking about her poodles every now n then. You may like her.” She teases me. “She is an animal lover and she is sweet and kind.” She flashes that smile again.

I cut her, “Wait. Are you trying to set me up, Brooks?”

She lets out a laughter. “No, I better not. I can see where your interests lie.” She raises a knowing eyebrow at me, making me blush behind my tough skin.

“Let’s quiz you with the one with green flag.” Riley gestures at the next boat where a green flag with a pine tree on it, flutters.

“Madeliene, right?”

“Yes, the ambitious countess of Fydelia.” Riley fans out her hand. “You must be knowing all about her from Leo’s social season.” She pauses and then claps for the boat next to us. “ And that’s my dear friend Hana as our left side neighbour.”

A pink flag with purple orchids, furnishes Hana's boat. Just then, as on cue, Hana appears on the deck. “Hey there guys!” She waves out. “Time to greet the king at the harbour.”

“Lets go!” Riley jumps up excitedly.

“You proceed. I am better here, away from the crowd. I will wait for you to come back, and then we do our favourite thing together. Race!”

“As it suits you.”

“Just one question. How do you know so much in detail about all the houses in such a little time? A few months back, you didn’t even know where on earth Cordonia is,!”

Riley smiles wide, “Bertrand is my teacher, remember?” she says gazing up at the House Beaumont flag on our boat that shines with its silver sheen, a squid in the centre and the motto embroidered in blue, 'Depths to remember'.

“We didn’t talk about your friend’s, House Nevrakis, but I am sure you don’t need introduction there.” Riley speaks looking at the only boat to our left side.

I shake my head and make myself busy, untangling the wires of my earphones that I plan to put on, till Riley returns and the race begins. She shrugs her shoulder, “Bye! See you in a jiffy!”

“Bye!” I wave out to her and turn to the sea.

Before I could plug in some music, the fluttering of the Nevrakis flag catches my attention. The crimson flag has a flaming sword of steel on it. The motto shines in gold,

‘If you can breathe, you can stand.

If you can stand, you can fight.’

Just then a seagull flies high over the boat, crooning a song for the lonely sea.

I plug in my earphones and the song fills my ears and my mind,

‘Something’s gotten into you

You don’t really look at me the way you used to

And I’m hoping it ain’t true

Every single rumour that I’ve heard of you say……..

It’s time to move,

Fight or flight….

Fight or flight.’

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  Magical Loopholes

Chapter 54:  Waiting For...

There was a problem.

He knew there was a problem deep down in his soul. The second David had gone to sleep, Regina had moved around Henry and, almost mother-like, positioned her former enemy's body on the cot as if it would bring him more comfort. She rolled him onto his back, picked his feet up off the floor, and folded his hands over his belly.

And then they'd waited.

And waited.

And waited.

With Henry, it had been quick. He'd been asleep and awake again in less than an hour, but with David, the time ticked on and on and on. Thirty minutes…one hour…then two. Henry stood dutifully by his grandfather's bedside, watching him for any change, any sign that he was stirring. Regina kept watch beside her son. He worked his wheel, did a few odd jobs, tinkered as he waited and watched the clock, pretending as though he wasn't nervous when that was all he felt.

"Come on…come back," Henry begged at two hours and fifteen minutes. "Should he be in there so long?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Regina for the briefest of seconds before turning back to David.

"I'm sure it's fine. I imagine they're just catching up," Regina assured him behind his back.

But then she turned to glance at him, her own eyes questioning and filled with worry and panic. Should this be taking so long? she practically begged of him.

He shook his head as dread crept over her face, and she began to accept what he'd already put together. As the afternoon faded far too slowly into the evening, he began to think once again about calling Belle that night. He avoided it, again because she didn't have the phone in his pocket and because he still simply didn't want to worry her. Though things were looking bleak, they weren't over yet. That night when the world went dark, he'd observed her lights on in the library, at least knew that she'd gotten home from lunch okay and was fine for now. If anyone or anything with magic, namely Cora, went over to that library, he'd know it. That was what got him through the night. That, and spinning.

He spent the night in his shop with Regina and Henry, at least for the most part. He'd tinkered a bit but mostly spent some time at his wheel as they'd waited, though, with every passing second, he felt less and less hopeful that anything would happen. At some point, Henry dragged a chair over to the cot, slowly curled up in it, and eventually fell asleep. Certain that Henry was asleep, he and Regina began their own conversation as he began to consider alternative plans. He didn't let her know that was what the conversation was about, not with Henry so close, even if he was positive the boy was asleep. But if he was going to come up with something, he needed information. He needed the facts that Dove had not provided.

"Word on the street was that David was looking for Fairy Dust last week."

Regina nodded. "They found it too. On the night of the full moon, down in the mines, dozens of crystals, fairy dust in its raw form."

"What would a former Prince want with such a thing?"

Regina sighed as she shifted in her own seat. "Jefferson's hat…we used it to banish the wraith to our world, and that was when Mary Margaret and Emma went through the portal. David tried to jump through it as it was closing, and he destroyed it. He was hoping that with enough Fairy Dust, they'd be able to repair it so Emma and Mary Margaret could get back through."

That was unlikely. Fairy dust hadn't crafted that hat for Jefferson. His grandfather had, a Portal Maker, one of the last in their world. And yes, Jefferson could always travel between worlds going and coming at leisure, but he always needed the hat with him. Apparently, David hadn't allowed them to take it with them. Still, the thought of using the hat to get to their realm and bring them back…it was worth a shot, even if it was grasping at straws.

"Where is the hat now?"

"Gone," she answered. "Spencer, he…he caused the trouble with Ruby as a distraction. It was all a ploy to steal the hat from David and take his family away from him. He burned it in front of David."

He held in his disappointment, doing his best to focus on his spinning and keeping their conversation casual, but he couldn't help but want to kill the man for wasting such precious magic all out of revenge. Somethings never changed. People too.

Finally, in the earliest hours of the morning, Regina too began to succumb to the boredom of waiting and began to look tired herself. She wasn't the Dark One like he was, merely a human. And while he could spend the night here, awake, and watching David, much like Henry, she couldn't. Or if she tried, she'd be worse for wear because of it. It was well past midnight when he tapped on her shoulder and told her to take Henry and go home to sleep. They could come back in the morning.

She didn't argue. And neither did Henry when Regina roused him just enough to sleepily walk out of the shop. He locked the door, continued his spinning, knowing, truly in the deepest part of his heart, that he was no longer waiting for David to wake. He was waiting for Cora.

David wasn't waking. There could be many reasons for it. It could mean he'd never found his way to the Red Room, or Mary Margaret hadn't met him there, or the theory about kissing in the Netherworld hadn't worked. Hell, for all he knew, Mary Margaret had met him there but had been torn away from the world as Aurora was! She could be dead for all they knew, captured and killed by Cora…or worse, her heart could have been taken. He didn't have a favorite theory, only drew one conclusion he didn't care for.

Without a clear line of communication, there was no telling if they'd received the message, which meant that they had to assume the worst. The worst, in this case, meant that Emma and Mary Margaret were dead. And Cora was coming. And she could arrive any moment. If this didn't work, they'd need to come up with another plan, and they'd need to come up with it fast, which meant that he needed to come up with a plan.

He thought about what he knew, about all the information that he'd acquired since they'd first interrupted his lunch with Belle. There was a way here from their land. Why there hadn't been one before was a mystery he didn't need to dwell on, though he'd be willing to bet it was because he'd brought magic to this world. All that mattered now was that there was a way here, and Mary Margaret, Emma, and Cora all knew it. They were all racing to get to the same portal. He didn't see Cora being willing to share, and frankly, he couldn't see Mary Margaret being willing to share with Cora either now that she was older and wiser to Regina's mother. But, to be honest, he doubted that would be the problem. Cora was older than both Mary Margaret and Emma. She was far more cunning than either of them and had more fight in her than appeared. Besides, she had magic. If it was a race to the portal and they didn't have squid ink on their side, he very much so doubted it would Emma and Mary Margaret coming through the portal.

There was a portal…if they couldn't stop them from forming it and coming through on that side…maybe they could stop them on this side.

It was worth a shot.

He had an idea about that, one born from thinking too long into the night and letting his mind wander. At some point, he'd thought about Jefferson's hat and how fraudulent magicians in this world enjoyed pulling rabbits out of such things. It was an idiotic concept until his mind had drifted to another "hat-shaped" object in Storybrooke, one that magic had been pulled out of, one that held the promise of returning lost things. Portals couldn't just open anywhere. They drew their power from sources of great power, which was why it would take a great amount of power to block them. They wouldn't be able to summon a barrier, to block it off completely, but perhaps a net.

If he used a great amount of power, both Light and Dark, he might be able to create some sort of trap, something that would kill anyone who tried to come through it. He had Fairy Dust in the mines that was unused, he had a Fairy wand to channel it, he had his Dark Magic, and he had Regina, a woman of neither Light nor Dark Magic. If she could give him a kernel of her power, open up a channel between them for him to use what he had…it might just work.

But to what goal?

Belle wasn't going to like this. He knew it the moment he'd had the plan in his head. She was going to hate it. And he was trying so, so hard to be on his best behavior for her. This would ruin all of that. But what was the alternative to not doing it? He'd only just saved her from her father, if Cora came here, if Emma and Mary Margaret led her here, Belle wouldn't stand a chance against Cora not unless Cora decided she didn't care. And he very much so doubted that would be the case. He was trying hard to be the best person he could be for Belle. But if Cora killed her, the best person he could be would never be enough to bring her back.

If he set this trap, it could work. He'd lose Emma and Mary Margaret if he was wrong. But if he was right…

What choice did he have?

[mostweakhamlets]

Cake Heals All Wounds

This fic was published on patreon on August 14th as part of the four exclusive stories that you can read for $2 a month! This one is sort of a Great British Bake Off AU

--

Aziraphale sighed in relief as soon as he was out of the tent and in the open, grassy field. While the sun was hot and beamed down directly on his head, it was better than the suffocating heat that had been trapped inside with the contestants and crew and the two of them.

“Fuck the producers for scheduling the longest bakes in the middle of a heatwave.”

Crowley lifted his hair off the back of his neck. His cheeks were splotched with red and sweat soaked his hairline. The poor thing looked miserable in his all-black outfit that had become his signature style.

Aziraphale tutted. “You can’t expect them to predict the weather when they schedule the series months ahead of time.”

They had managed to escape before makeup cornered them to dab up their perspiration and re-apply powders and concealers. Aziraphale was tired of having tissues shoved into his collar and towels pressed to his forehead. He just wanted a moment of peace without a camera on him.

“It happens every year,” Crowley said. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. It’s either their longest bakes or something with chocolate. It’s psychological torture at this point.”

Aziraphale did feel terrible for the bakers who were on the verge of breakdowns induced by both stress and the heat. Crowley was right, though. It wasn’t anything new. Filming was coming to an end, and the tension was increasing every minute along with the temperature.

Crowley had his conspiracy theories that the producers intentionally made every other episode miserable for the bakers for entertainment. Aziraphale doubted that they were that evil. But he knew what ratings looked like, and he knew how people took to social media when dramatic episodes aired. It was good for the producers, but it couldn’t have been intentional. At least not totally. Not every time.

“Oh God, they found us,” Crowley mumbled.

Two women, who were always well-meaning, approached them. The dabbing of tissues and the assaulting with brushes began.

Aziraphale was ready to be in the studio for voiceovers. He didn’t have to be in the heat with every scent of bread and cake clinging onto him by the end of the day (which he didn’t necessarily hate, but it did grow old). He could be in his own comfortable clothing rather than the dapper get-up that the audience expected to see him in, and he wouldn’t need layers of powder on his face for him to scrape off later.

“They’re getting ready to decide who’s going home, we think,” one of the women said, removing tissues from his collar.

Crowley chugged the water bottle he was handed as his makeup artist tried dabbing a powder puff into his cheeks. “I hate that part.”

“Well, I have to say it this week,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley smiled at him. “Yeah. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You could try taking your turn.”

“But they love it when it’s you.” ‘They’ was the audience. “You get all choked-up.”

“Just take your turn next week, and we’ll call it even.”

“Next week is the semi-finals.”

It was the last time someone would be sent home and the most emotional week of the series. Whoever didn’t make it would be devastated after making it so far and getting nothing. And Aziraphale and Crowley would be heartbroken having to be the bearer of bad news and see a familiar face leave. It was their annual tradition to go out after filming and buy a couple of bottles of wine and whiskey and sit up all night while binging on their alcohol and take out.

“I’m aware.”

Crowley scoffed. “I was thinking something along the lines of dinner.”

“You can take me to dinner, too.”

“Unbelievable.”

Crowley slid his sunglasses off to allow his eyes and nose to be touched up. Aziraphale watched as the off-hazel, nearly-yellow looked off in the distance. His eyes gained him a bit of celebrity. They were a “distinct feature” as talent agencies and IMDb declared. Crowley had grown sick of them and never saw anything quite special about them in the first place.

Aziraphale was obsessed with them.

“Alright, let’s get back inside before we get yelled at.”

Crowley walked back into the tent. Aziraphale followed.

—

“What do you mean you have another gig?”

“I mean that I have another gig, angel.”

Aziraphale wished the conversation was happening in public. That way, Crowley could see how huffy he looked. He could furrow his brow and purse his lips. But as it was, he could only try to convey his near-tantrum over the phone.

“What is it?”

“I can’t really say yet. All I can tell you is that I’m not going to be at the studio at the same time as you. Is it really that big of a deal?”

“Yes! We’re always there together.”

“It’ll just have to be different this time. Listen, angel, I have to go. I have a rehearsal soon.”

“Rehearsal for your new gig?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to you later. Are we still on for lunch Friday?”

Aziraphale thought about canceling the plans just to be a bastard. “Of course.”

—

“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake. Dyed black with squid ink, the cake will be layered with homemade strawberry jam. It’ll be shaped as a demon-summoning circle with powder sugar symbols and fondant candles.”

Aziraphale wished he could record the lines before knowing the results. Anathema would have been the winner that week if that cake had turned out as she had envisioned it. The jam, which she had attempted to make in the tent, had been far too runny and seeped into the cake. Aziraphale had stood by as the hosts cut into it and revealed the soggy mess.

It was the first time Anathema had cried on camera, and it was all Aziraphale could think about.

“Can we try that again, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale nodded. If Crowley were there, nothing would feel amiss and Aziraphale wouldn’t be flubbing his lines.

“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”

He wouldn’t be thinking about Anathema’s face crumpled as soon as the hosts looked up at her with disappointed raised eyebrows and comments about how “Really, we expected better from you.” It was the worst Anathema could be confronted with—disappointment. Aziraphale had picked up on that by helping her plate biscuits and giving her mid-bake pep talks. She didn’t care if her presentation went wrong or if flavors didn’t work well. She only cared if she had expectations set on her, and as it looked as she was going to win the entire series (and as nearly the entire country hopes for it), she felt the pressure.

“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”

If Crowley were there, he could point out how Anathema had quickly dried her tears and how Newt had run over to hug her as soon the cameras cut. He could take Aziraphale’s mind off the ordeals they had to go through.

“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”

—

“Try this one.”

Aziraphale turned around and a bite of cake was being shoved in his face. He took Crowley’s hand and held it away so he could have a little dignity while taking it in his mouth. Once he realized how their fingers were touching and for so long, though, he pulled away with burning cheeks. It was obscene.

When the cameras finally went off for the last time that year, Aziraphale and Crowley were free to finally eat the cake they had watched being made for hours. And they were always determined to eat their fill of each of the three cakes presented before they were divvied up among the crowd of past-contestants and family.

Aziraphale hummed. It was rich and sweet and moist and satisfied his growling stomach. “Is that Newton’s?”

Crowley nodded and stabbed at the mangled piece on his plate. The cakes were supposed to remain pretty after being cut into, but Crowley somehow had the ability to make a mess out of anything he ate.

It was endearing if a bit annoying when Aziraphale wanted to take his time savoring every bite. Aziraphale could never be too annoyed with anything Crowley ever did. At the end of every day, he thought of Crowley and smiled.

His chest was tight, and his mouth was dry. He regretted not grabbing a glass of champagne.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, “of taking a holiday in a few weeks.”

Crowley shoved more cake into his mouth. The dear would end up sick if he didn’t pace himself. Again, it was endearing yet annoying.

“Where’you goin’?” Crowley asked around the cake.

“That’s the thing.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together and smiled. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me, and if you would, I’d like you to have some say.”

Crowley froze. He swallowed his cake. He looked away.

“Uh… sure. I don’t have much on. Just a little filming over the next month.”

“Oh, of course. Your new gig.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t disappointed. He got what he wanted. A holiday with his friend whom he fancied that could potentially lead to more. But he wasn’t happy, either.

“Yeah.”

Crowley was becoming more popular, Aziraphale had to admit. While Aziraphale had made his fair share of guest appearances since the show gained its devoted, international following, Crowley was becoming an actual celebrity—noticed in shops, gaining masses of new followers on social media, earning nominations for bougie awards. Aziraphale was happy for him. But he also knew that with the newfound popularity, there was less time to spend together.

There would always be new gigs and interviews and publicity. There would be business dinners and coffees and contract meetings. There would be conflicting schedules and canceled lunches and postponed traditions.

“I’ll check my schedule, and we can plan something around it.”

“Around your new schedule. Right.”

And there was always the fear of Crowley leaving the show for good. What would Azirpahale do then? They were a duo at this point. Would Aziraphale be asked to leave the show? Would he leave on his own accord if his partner—filming partner, totally professional—wasn’t around anymore?

And if they weren’t filming together anymore, then would they grow apart?

“We can figure it out,” Crowley said. “And then we can decide where we’re going.”

“Alright.”

Crowley smiled. “Why do you look sad?”

“I don’t! I’m quite happy. There’s no reason to be sad.”

Crowley clearly didn’t believe him. He cut into Anathema’s winning cake and handed a somewhat sloppy piece to Aziraphale.

Cake healed all wounds.    

[dusky-dancing]

The Prince and the Pirate - CH 4

For SoKai Week - Day 4

Story Summary: Sora finds himself far away from the walls of the Radiant Garden he's known his whole life, kidnapped by a rowdy group of pirates whose captain is as alluring as she is mysterious. What he thought was a simple hostage negotiation turns into an adventure that Sora couldn't have anticipated. He doesn't know which is worse, not knowing what's up ahead, or liking it that way.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Adventure, Pirate AU

Length: ~ 1500 words

——————————————————–

Links for story navigation:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

——————————————————–

Sora was used to having his sleep interrupted by sudden turbulence, but something about the jolt that woke him that night felt different, more forceful. The cold water suddenly dripping on his face made going back to sleep right away more difficult.

Another blow, followed by shouts from the deck above, sent him onto his feet. He hadn't been the only one either, as the rest of the crew members shared his expression of worry and confusion.

On the deck, the first thing that greeted him was the heavy rain. Within seconds, all of his clothes became soaked straight through, but another sight soon took his full attention: a giant tentacle splayed across the deck, alive and thrashing wildly.

"Captain, what's happening?" Biggs shouted.

"I don't know, monsters have never attacked my ship!" Her voice came through, bringing him some strange sense of relief. He tore his eyes from their intruder to find her clinging to the shrouds on the other side of the deck, dodging and stabbing at another tentacle. "Don't just stand there," she shouted, "grab a sword and free your ship!"

Sora didn't have to be told twice. Weeks ago, he'd thought he'd be fighting to free himself, not help the ones who'd kidnapped him, but now he didn't have a choice. Summoning his Keyblade for the second time on the ship, he finally put his skills to use against the nearest appendage. It was large, covered in slime, and filled with muscle, but not impossible to fight. It nearly took all of his agility to dodge its swipes, but with enough hits it eventually retreated.

Sora breathed a sigh of relief, until two more took its place.

As he prevented another from damaging the ship further, he was both curious and terrified to see the creature they belonged to.

Soon, his back hit another's, and a giant feather dangled in his face. He blew it away and turned to find Kairi back to back with him.

"Putting that gift of yours to use, I see," she shouted over the rain.

"Feels good to actually use it. Are the kids-?"

"They're safe as long as we're afloat."

The dread weighing on Sora's heart lifted slightly, though staying afloat against a creature like this seemed difficult. "You know what this thing is?"

"I've never seen something this big before!" From her heavy breathing, she'd been fighting just as hard as he had.

With the ship free of two more tentacles, they had a brief window, but as he turned to her, she held nothing but a fierce determination in her eyes.

"Hold on!" she shouted, and he quickly grabbed for the nearest rail, this time knowing what to anticipate.

Her movements now resembled less like a graceful wave and more like a cracking whip. She drew her arms up and thrust them forward, driving the ship out of the monster's grasp. Several crates flew off the deck from the force, and the ship rocked heavily to level with the waves once more.

They were freed for the time being. Jessie, Biggs and Wedge used the opportunity to prepare the cannons, while Tidus, Wakka, and Selphie all worked to fix the masts and sails.

Sora and Kairi could see the monster moving underneath the waves towards them, but instead of grappling the ship once more, it rammed the side of the hull, sending everyone on the deck to the floor. Sora lurched over the edge, thankful he'd still been gripping the railing. Whatever this thing was, it was huge, and it was determined to kill them.

As Sora found his footing once more, a massive form overshadowed the already dark night on the deck. He glanced back, only to come face to face with a monstrous squid rising out of the sea. Its large head lobbed forward, and though he couldn't tell one part of its body from another, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was fixated on him.

"It's...the Kraken," Kairi muttered beside him.

Sora froze, and a deep primal fear overtook him. Sure, he'd fought people and smaller monsters on occasion in his sheltered upbringing, but never something this large. And certainly never from such a vulnerable position.

His eyes grew wide, focussed on nothing but the large beak that gaped hungrily between its appendages. A sudden force struck him from the side and pulled him flat onto the deck. When he blinked back to his senses, Kairi was hovering over him. It wasn't until a large tentacle struck where he last stood that he realized she'd saved his life amidst his stupor.

"-out of it, Sora!" He registered that she was shouting at him and tapping his face. "Gather your courage and fight!"

"Right," he shook his head and was back on his feet in an instant. Resummoning his Keyblade, he fought off his assailant and regarded Kairi once more. "You said you never get attacked. I...I think it's after me."

Sora hadn't the slightest idea why the Kraken would be after him, but Kairi didn't seem surprised at all by his suggestion. A light switched on behind her eyes, but she said nothing.

Sora may not know how he was involved in all of this, but Kairi did. And she wasn't telling him.

There was no time for questions and answers, as the Kraken withdrew and circled the ship again.

"It's going to ram the ship again!" Selphie shouted.

"The hull can't take another hit!" Wakka said. "We won't survive this thing."

Kairi's eyes fell, and Sora felt the dejection in her heart. Everyone they'd just rescued, not to mention the rest of the crew, were all at risk. Maybe the ship wouldn't survive another hit, but Sora could take the fight off of the ship. If the Kraken was truly after him, then maybe he could lead it away from everyone else.

Sora took a deep breath and climbed onto the railing, gripping a main line for support.

"What are you doing?!" Kairi shouted, stepping toward him. All eyes turned to him.

"You were right, Kairi, I needed something heroic to fight for. If that thing really is after me, then maybe I can lead it away while you all escape."

"You could die!" Selphie shouted.

Sora glanced down to Kairi and nodded. Frustration and sorrow filled her eyes, but she stayed silent.

"If this is the only truly heroic thing I do in my life, then I'll be satisfied."

Kairi stepped closer, but before she could reach out to stop him, he plunged into the ocean.

The cries and shouts that followed were quickly muffled underneath the thrashing waves. In the distance, a large mass barrelled towards the ship. He didn't have much time. Using his Keyblade, he propelled himself deeper just as the mass passed underneath him. He crashed into the monster with enough momentum to push it off of its course. It let out a fierce cry.

Sora took the opportunity to close in and slice at its appendages. If inexperience threatened him above surface, the drag of water weakened him beneath it as well.

A tentacle quickly wrapped around him and thrashed him around in the water. He could last a long time in the water, but he couldn't stay under forever. Suddenly it stopped, and the massive form faced him in the water. Its head reeled back, to reveal a massive beak that opened before him.

Sora panicked. He released his Keyblade in his free hand before summoning it in his restrained one. The magic sliced right through the flesh, severing the tendril where it held him.

The Kraken cried out in pain again. Sora avoided its limbs on his return to the surface, but his legs were beginning to sting.

He breached the surface and gasped for air. In the dark of night, he couldn't find the ship anywhere in sight. Relief flooded him, along with the heavy dread that he was stuck, alone, in the middle of the ocean with a raging sea monster.

A sudden familiar force pulled him under the surface again. That time, multiple tendrils restrained his entire body. He fought against the constriction with his Keyblade, but even his weapon wasn't strong enough to break through that many. As the Kraken's mouth opened for him once again, Sora pulled and resisted as much as he could. Even if he was above the surface, the pressure around his torso wouldn't have given his lungs enough space to breathe.

Being eaten by a giant sea monster hadn't been how Sora pictured his end. Compared to this, he would've chosen to be kidnapped by pirates in a heartbeat. But atleast he'd gotten to save people in the process.

Atleast he'd gotten to meet someone like Kairi.

Suddenly, the water surrounding him swelled, resisting the pull beneath the surface. There was a flash of red before a pointed sword pierced the Kraken's head.

Immediately, the force restraining him loosened, and Sora would've been able to breathe again if he weren't underwater. He clamoured for the surface, but found his senses dulling as the relief of air seemed to grow further and further away. His arms and legs moved haggardly, if at all. He opened his mouth, but only the remaining air in his lungs escaped as his vision tunnelled.

The last sight his eyes caught in the center of his vision was Kairi's silhouette gracefully dancing her way through the water in his direction.

——————————————————–

A/N: Happy Day 4 of SoKai Week! The action is really ramping up now. This fight scene was one of the first ones I wrote for this fic, because of course Sora would recklessly sacrifice himself for other people no matter what universe he's in. I'm excited to share tomorrow's piece with you all!

[iffeelscouldkill]

say what we wanna do, make it all come true (chapter 2)

A/N: In my original notes for this fic I had written that Chapter 3 might be rolled into Chapter 2 depending on length because I thought that Chapter 2 was going to be super short. *laughs wildly in 7.1k-long chapter* But this is my favourite chapter of the fic, so it's nice that we get to spend extra time with it!

No particular content warnings for this; everything’s pretty chill. Enjoy! <3

Link to Chapter One | Read on AO3

“That, dear listeners, was ‘Landers Never Stand Down’, the hit single – or should that be anthem? – by beloved indie band Rumor, from their debut album, ‘Ghost Squid’. If you’re just joining us, I’m Piper Tanaka, and this is Radio Indie, Folk and Techno. With us in the studio are Rumor frontwoman Sana Tripathi-”

“Hello again.”

“-and bassist Arkady Patel. We’ve just been hearing the stunning true story of how the band added a new member to its line-up, drummer Violet Liu, after she was discovered trying to obtain confidential files in order to blow the whistle on her employer, the notorious IGR Corp, and its development of an unethical surveillance device.”

“Isn’t that, really, the only logical way to join a band?” Kestrel quipped.

“It sure worked out well for the Rumor crew!” said Piper. “On a more musical note, though – and yes, that pun was intended – that was a great track we just heard. I’m curious about the name you picked for your debut album; is there a story there?”

Sana glanced at Arkady, amused. “Call it an in joke,” she said. “We were originally going to go with ‘In the Deep’, since there’s kind of a loose space theme to the first album, and then… after rehearsal one day, we were just riffing on what kind of creatures might live out in the depths of outer space-” They had also been pretty drunk at the time, but she didn’t need to mention that live on air. “-and Arkady suggested that maybe there’d be giant squid, like in the depths of the ocean.”

“Space squid!” Piper enthused. “Now there’s a concept I can get behind.”

“Right, but Violet, who is our resident science expert – she has a Masters in Molecular Biology–”

“Fancy. Love a woman of science.”

“-pointed out that a squid could never propel itself in a vacuum. Unless it was, you know, a ghost squid.”

“How much had you guys been drinking?” Kestrel asked shrewdly. Arkady coughed.

“It was a dumb joke, but we thought it would make a pretty unique name for a first album,” she finished.

“You were right there!” said Piper brightly. “Then, of course, there’s your upcoming second album, which we’ve heard will be titled ‘More Than a Rumor’.”

“That’s right,” Sana confirmed. “We’ve been working on some really cool material for this one, and we’re excited to bring it to you all.”

“We’ve been hearing some interesting talk about what exactly that material might be,” said Piper. “The discussion boards online are buzzing about one track, ‘The Saga of the House of Zravshen’, which is said to be a thirteen-minute-long “epic space opera ballad” written by Brian Jeeter.”

Arkady made a derisive noise. “It’ll be a thirteen-minute-long something, all right.”

“Arkady, maybe you could tell us about ‘Nanoswarm’,” said Kestrel slyly. “I’ve heard that you and Violet Liu collaborated closely on that track.”

“I – we didn’t – what I mean is, uh, it really wasn’t a formal – collaboration–”

Arkady’s transformation from self-assured to completely flustered was delightful to behold, even though Sana felt like she should maybe step in and save her best friend from herself.

“It was more of a, uh, sort of a side project – we just worked on it and it sounded pretty cool, so it, uh – went onto the album.”

“What I think is really great about ‘More Than a Rumor’,” Sana intervened smoothly, and Arkady let out a breath, sitting back in her chair, “is that there are various tracks where different band members get a chance to shine. Building on ‘Ghost Squid’, which was the introduction to the band as a whole, we really delve into different members’ specialisms in our second album, which has made the material really varied as a result. But at the same time, we’ve worked hard to give it a cohesive flow…”

---

Not everything about adding a new member to the band had been as seamless as that first set. They’d improvised together well over the course of a performance, sure, but there was a different quality to rehearsals now that there were five of them instead of four; they were still figuring out how to navigate each other, adapting routines and in-jokes to accommodate a new person.

A lot of their original material sounded different now with the addition of a keytar and a new drummer; Liu was more technically capable than Jeeter had been, and she also wasn’t content with just falling into a role that had been laid down for her. She had ideas, things she wanted to change, and they weren’t bad ideas, but they still bugged Arkady anyway. She was just attached to a lot of their old songs, that was all.

And okay, maybe she’d pushed back on a few suggestions during rehearsals in a way that had Sana raising an amused eyebrow at her and Krejjh pretending to duck and cover. To her credit, Liu didn’t just roll over and give up on her ideas at the first sign of resistance, sticking to her guns in a way that Arkady respected even if it was also annoying. Things never deteriorated too far, mainly because Sana was quick to play peacemaker, but there always seemed to be some kind of friction between the two of them. It was like an itch under Arkady’s skin whenever she was around Liu, quick to flare up.

Then there was the time that Liu had made an offhanded comment that, “Everyone here went to an underground concert or two in college, right?” in the context of discussing the kinds of set-ups that they’d performed with in the past. Arkady had said nothing, but could feel her teeth grinding as she played an overly loud riff on her bass. It was an innocuous enough comment on its own, but the easy presumptions behind it – the idea that everyone had had access to the same educational opportunities that Liu had had – were what pissed Arkady off.

But contradicting her would have meant talking about something that was personal to Arkady, something that cut way too close to the bone, and she didn’t want to do that. Liu hadn’t earned that from her. Instead, Jeeter made a joke about having been way too immersed in books to find time for concerts, and Sana tactfully steered the conversation out of dangerous waters.

After the rehearsal, she’d pulled Arkady aside. “If you want me to talk to her about—”

Arkady shook her head. “It’s not a big deal. Really,” she added at Sana’s unconvinced look. “It was a stupid assumption, but I can let it go. I’d rather just… let it go.”

They were in a band together, but that didn’t mean they had to be best friends. Arkady could maintain a civil working relationship. It didn’t matter what she’d… thought when she first met Liu, or what Liu might have been about to say to her in the bar. All of that was in the past, so there was no point dwelling on it. All Arkady needed to do was work with Liu within the context of the band; she could do that.

Until one afternoon when Arkady arrived early for rehearsal without really meaning to, and found that the only other person in the warehouse was Liu, who was setting up her drumkit. Before Arkady could turn around and pretend she’d never been there, Liu looked up and spotted her.

“Oh… hey. I was just planning to run through a few drum lines before the rehearsal… try some stuff out,” she said.

“Right,” Arkady said, casting about for an excuse that would get her out of the warehouse until the others arrived. “Uh, I’m gonna go get some coffee from the-”

“Arkady, listen, can we, uh… Can we clear the air between us?” Liu asked, the last few words coming out all in a rush.

Arkady froze. “Clear… what air?” she asked, hoping to god that Liu would say something innocuous about why she thought the drum line on Fear for the Storm needed work.

No such luck. “Look, I get that you’re not… thrilled with having me in the band,” Liu said, quietly, though her voice still carried in the echoey space. “I’ve been in a lot of workplace environments where I’m not welcome, so I… know how to spot the signs. And maybe I’m being hypersensitive, or looking for things to worry about, but something still feels off between us, so whatever it is, can we just talk about it and deal with it? Please?”

Arkady’s chest clenched at Liu’s mention of not being welcome in ‘workplace environments’. Damn it, she didn’t want to make Liu feel the same way she’d felt in whatever white dudebro-filled tech companies she’d worked for. But she also didn’t want to go into the reasons why she wasn’t always a ray of sunshine when they interacted. There was no way that that conversation was going to make anything better.

“I don’t have a problem with you being in the band. Really,” she said instead. “If it comes off that way, it’s just because… Sana and I worked on a lot of those early songs together, and I’m… attached to how they sound. That’s all.”

“So… this is really just a musical disagreement?” said Liu, sounding unconvinced. “Because it feels like there’s… something else. I know you’re not the biggest fan of my former employer – and I mean, me neither – but I figure if it bothered you that much, you wouldn’t have come to help me when Seiders was threatening me-”

“I wasn’t going to just let you die,” Arkady said, nettled. “And no, I’m not in the habit of judging people for where they work. I’ve worked my fair share of jobs for shitty employers just to get by.” She shrugged. Then, almost without meaning to, she added, “Of course, I didn’t have the choice that you probably had…”

Liu frowned, but more like she was confused than like she was annoyed by Arkady’s comment. “What do you mean?”

Arkady sighed. “Not everyone went to college, Liu,” she said. “I’m a high school dropout. So no, I didn’t go to any underground concerts. Or any kind of gigs in college.”

Liu’s eyes widened as her comment from earlier came back to her. “Oh my god,” she groaned, putting her hand to her head. “I am so sorry, Arkady – I should know better than to make assumptions like that. I was just – I’d been talking to Brian about his studies and how he met Krejjh doing fieldwork, and I guess I assumed you guys had all met in college-”

Arkady barked out a laugh, too startled to even really be annoyed. “What, you thought that I could’ve been studying alongside Jeeter? You know he went to Brightwell, right? That elite college that’s supposed to be harder than Harvard to get into?”

Liu shrugged like the idea was actually plausible and not something that sounded like part of a bizarre alternate reality. “Yeah, I don’t see why not.” Then, quickly, as if she was afraid that this might have offended Arkady even more, she added, “But like I said – I really shouldn’t have assumed, and I’m sorry – I know better than that. I was only able to go to the college I did because I won a scholarship.”

Keen to move away from the topic of Arkady possibly having gone to Brightwell – because really, what – Arkady said, “You went to uh, that all-girls college, right? Harmony?” She vaguely remembered overhearing a conversation between Liu and Jeeter where Liu had talked about there being a Latin motto. “It sounded… interesting.”

Liu pulled a face. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.” She went on almost shyly, like she was confessing to a deeply-held secret, “I would have liked to study something more artistic – music, maybe – or at least do more extra-curriculars, but… I got that scholarship, and I was under a lot of pressure from my parents to do something ‘worthwhile’. Plus, I really wanted to show the kids who said I only got that scholarship because I was ‘a minority’.” There was an anger and a bitterness and a tiredness underlying those last two words that Arkady knew far too well.

“They what,” she spat out. God, was she glad she’d never been to college. Then again, she’d worked at places where she’d come up against the exact same attitude.

“Yeah,” Liu said wearily, fiddling with the drumsticks she was holding. “It wasn’t all bad, though. Being away at college was the first time I was really able to be myself – play the drums, be out. I got this haircut in my freshman year that was just – wild, it was awful.” She laughed, though Arkady barely heard her, her heartbeat suddenly pounding in her ears at the word ‘out’. God, Patel, get a grip. “My parents never liked the drums, they thought they were too – un-feminine,” she pulled a face again. “I play the flute, too, but I’m bad at it.”

“We should add that into the line-up,” said Arkady, to distract herself from thinking about Violet’s – Liu’s – flushed cheeks and her smile as she talked about her old haircut. “Sana can write a flute part.”

“Oh god, no,” Liu said, laughing again. “I don’t even have my flute any more, I sold it in grad school.”

“So… if you went to grad school… you can’t have hated it that much, right?” Arkady asked. “Uh – the biology, not the – flute playing.”

“Oh, no, I love biology,” Liu enthused. “It’s the study of living things – what’s not to love? Grad school itself, though, was…” She pulled a face. “I came close to quitting, a few times.”

“What happened?” Arkady asked. They were pretty far off their original subject by now, and Arkady was willing to admit to herself (and only herself) that maybe she was enjoying the conversation. It was all in the name of building better inter-band relationships, of course. Sana would be thrilled that they were bonding like this.

Liu sighed. “Let’s just say there were a few people on my course who were determined to let me know I didn’t belong. We had a lab work module where we were supposed to carry out an experiment as a group, and… I got put in charge of our group of six. My teammates would do things like pretend not to understand my instructions, or move things I needed to shelves I couldn’t reach… make comments they knew I could overhear… Growing up with an anxiety disorder, everyone’s always telling you not to worry – you learn to doubt your own thoughts. And my advisor just dismissed my concerns as ‘over-sensitivity’, so…” Arkady’s eyes narrowed further with every word that Liu spoke. “It was too late for me to transfer to another module. In the end I wound up carrying the whole project basically by myself.”

Liu gave Arkady a weak smile. “So, y’know, you didn’t miss out on much. I interned for a pharmaceutical company for a couple of years after college, did some work as a research assistant. When I got the job offer from IGR Corp, I felt like I’d finally made it – and look how that turned out.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault that IGR Corp turned out to be a special brand of greedy, soul-sucking and unethical,” said Arkady bluntly – even though she’d previously thought that maybe Liu could have had less awful taste in employers. “That’s on them. Look… I know a thing or two about soul-sucking workplaces myself.”

Arkady hadn’t intended this to turn into Personal Story Hour, but at the same time she felt like she should at least offer something after Liu had opened up about her time in college. She hadn’t needed to justify herself; she could just have apologised and left it at that. Instead, she’d shared something that Arkady suspected she didn’t talk about to a lot of people.

“The last job I worked before Sana and I started Rumor was for Telemachus Enterprises,” Arkady said, and Liu’s eyes widened in recognition.

“The global consulting firm? That’s very… well…”

“Capitalist? Soullessly corporate?” Arkady finished for her.

“I was going to say stable,” Liu said diplomatically.

“Sure, as long as you also like ladder-climbing, backstabbing and toxic work environments,” said Arkady. “I was an assistant, doing all the crap work like photocopying, fetching coffee, making calls, scheduling appointments and dealing with angry clients. It was the kind of job you get to get a ‘foothold’ in the world of business, and all of the other assistants were recent college grads who were way younger than me. I hated it.”

Liu nodded, listening intently, not offering any kind of commentary or judgement.

“Playing the bass was kind of the only thing that kept me sane, so… I used to go down to these shitty clubs at night and play, sometimes straight from work because the overtime was ridiculous. I’d join up with a couple of other musicians and do jam sessions, or sometimes play solo stuff. I’d sing, sometimes, too,” she added, a little self-consciously, even though she sang backing vocals on most of Rumor’s songs, and everyone in the band had heard her sing.

“I moved around a lot, never performed at the same place two nights in a row, so that no-one got to know me too well. I used to use different stage names – my favourite was Duchess Calpurnia Higginsworth-Cobb.”

Liu burst out laughing. “You didn’t really tell people that was your name?”

“Drunk people will believe anything,” Arkady told her. “I’m still known as ‘Duchess’ in a few places. It was a precaution, in case anything got back to my work, but in the end… the person who recognised me was someone I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Sana.”

Liu’s eyes widened. “You guys go back that far?”

“Kind of,” Arkady said. “It’s a long story–” delving into the tale of The Landing and her and Sana’s shared history definitely felt like it would be going a step too far – “but uh, I used to do work at a tattoo parlour that Sana came to a few times. I didn’t think she’d really noticed me at the time, but she remembered me well enough that when I played at a club near her workplace, she recognised me. She managed to catch a few more of my performances, figure out where I’d be, and one night she showed up with her guitar, and… we played together.”

Arkady smiled a little, remembering that night, the spark she’d felt as soon as they started to play. The drummer had been awful, some white asshole named Ricky who thought he was God’s gift to music – and wasn’t – but they’d sounded like magic anyway.

“Somehow she managed to figure out where I worked, showed up one day, invited me to get lunch, and after she found out how much I hated it there, she told me I should quit so that we could start a band,” Arkady said.

“And you did?” Liu asked, sounding half impressed, half scandalised.

“I really hated that job,” Arkady said. “Besides, the Capt- Sana can be really persuasive. We joke about her motivational speeches, but she’s…” Arkady hated to admit this, because it sounded so goddamn cheesy, but there wasn’t another word to describe it. “…inspirational.”

Liu smiled. “Yeah, I can tell. She seems like that kind of person.”

“We wrote a lot of our early songs together during that time,” Arkady said. “‘Landers Never Stand Down’, ‘Fear for the Storm’… they kind of – ugh, this is going to sound so corny, but they were about our hope for something better. So… that’s why I’m weird about changing them.”

Liu’s expression softened. “I completely get it. Look, I know that all of this has been pretty sudden – me joining the band, us trying to put together an album – and I’d understand if you wanted me to… back off a little. I was throwing out ideas for things that I thought would sound good with our new line-up, but I should have appreciated that these aren’t just songs to you and Sana.”

“No, it’s – you’re – okay,” Arkady said awkwardly. “You’re fine. They’re… they’re uh, really…” God, Arkady, just spit it out. People pay each other compliments all the time – it doesn’t have to mean anything. (Even if you might want it to mean something). “They’re really good. Ideas, I mean. And the others seem to like them! So… don’t stop on my account.”

Arkady’s urge to just leave the building after finally stumbling through that awkward admission was pretty strong, but she managed to resist. Which turned out to be worth it to see the small, pleased smile unfolding on Liu’s face. It was a different kind of smile to the one that she wore when the Captain paid her a compliment, though Arkady couldn’t have said exactly how. It just felt… personal to her.

“Well, in that case,” said Liu. “I had this idea I really wanted to try out on ‘Landers’, and… I’d love to get your thoughts? On how it sounds?”

Which was how, when Sana showed up for the start of the rehearsal fifteen minutes later, Arkady and Violet came to be mid-debate about the merits of speeding up the tempo of the drum line in the first half of the second verse, Arkady singing Sana’s part of the vocals to illustrate her point.

“Am I late?” Sana joked, throwing Arkady an amused glance. “Sorry, I didn’t realise practice was starting early.”

“The cool kids show up to practice a half hour early to go over new drum lines,” Arkady deadpanned, and Liu laughed. Sana smiled as she brought out her guitar.

“What you were playing just then sounded really good – can you go over it again?”

The conversation with Liu didn’t magically fix everything between them, but the tension eased up significantly after that, and it became easier for Arkady and Liu to come to a compromise whenever they disagreed. The album started to come together much more quickly, and when Red Gregor stopped by (which he did a lot more than he strictly needed to as the head of their record label, and Arkady suspected he was mostly there to see Sana), he was full of praise for the new arrangements.

It also somehow became a habit for Arkady to start showing up early to rehearsal. She told herself it was because the line in the coffee shop was easier to deal with at that time, and it was true that at some point she’d bought enough coffee for both her and Violet to have Violet’s regular order memorised; but it also had something to do with the fact that more often than not, Violet would arrive while she was setting up, or vice versa, and they’d run through the parts that had been bugging them, each lending the other an honest and unjudgemental ear. Sometimes they’d play around with something new, or improvise, trying on new techniques and styles for size.

Arkady honestly hadn’t had this much fun experimenting with music since those first early, heady days with Sana, when they started to lay down exactly what kind of performers they wanted to be. It was different with Violet – they had a different relationship, a different vibe – but there was still something about their sessions that felt similar, like they were breaking new ground.

One day, Arkady had been messing around with a bass line that she couldn’t get out of her head – she’d been thinking of adding it to ‘The Carmen Gambit’, one of the band’s originals that Jeeter had helped write, but it didn’t really fit. She liked how it sounded on its own, though. Liu had been listening, head tilted to one side, which Arkady didn’t really think anything of until quietly, underneath the bass line, Violet started to add a drum part.

Arkady was startled, mostly by how well the two fit together; after a slight fumble, she carried on playing, improvising and adding a couple of variations to the bass line when she ran out of material. Liu smoothly changed up the rhythm of the drum line to match just a second later, and Arkady realised that they had something that almost sounded like… a real piece of music. Something organic, something that flowed and moved and changed with-

Crap. Arkady came to a stop at the end of a section as she realised she didn’t have any idea what to play next. “Uh…” She threw an apologetic glance in Violet’s direction. “I haven’t really figured out what comes after that.”

Violet nodded, not seeming put out by this. “What about…” She hummed the end section of the melody that Arkady had been playing, and then another phrase that almost mirrored it. “Actually, that part could come before the-”

“Right, right-” Arkady understood Violet’s meaning, and quickly picked up the tune on her bass.

The song (well, technically it was an instrumental) they were writing didn’t have a name for the first few days. Arkady and Violet would pick up where they left off each time they came to rehearsal, and would throw around ideas for additions and changes, discussing the overall sound and vibe, but it didn’t feel like there was a need to put a name to it.

Then in the middle of one of these discussions, Violet started scribbling something in a notebook, and Arkady realised she was writing down their song. She peered curiously at the letters and notes, and Violet grimaced self-consciously.

“I’m not sure if I’ve got all of the bass chords right,” she admitted, tilting the notebook so Arkady could see it better. “Feel free to correct any bits that are wrong, I was mostly trying to get the drum part down for my own benefit. My memory’s not as good as yours is.”

Arkady hesitated. She was tempted to lie and say the notation was fine; Violet would accept it, and it probably wouldn’t come up again. There was a time when she would have done it without a second’s thought. But Violet already knew that Arkady had dropped out of high school; knew bits and pieces of her background, if not the whole story; and Arkady had to admit that she’d been enjoying being herself more around Violet. She didn’t want to backtrack on that.

“I never really learned to read sheet music,” she admitted. “I can recognise a few chords, but… I mostly learned how to play from YouTube videos, so it always seemed easier to just watch someone else play the chords, and learn which ones went with which songs, and… for performances I always had to memorise stuff anyway, so, um.” Arkady was rambling, and Violet was staring at her, which was possibly not good. “There didn’t seem much point in having it written down.”

“So… you never had a bass teacher?” Violet said slowly. “All of your playing, your singing – it’s all self-taught?”

“Uh,” Arkady cringed. “Yes?”

“Wow,” Violet said, and Arkady suddenly realised that she was dumbfounded because she was impressed, not because she’d just realised she was playing with an amateur. “That’s… really impressive.”

Arkady fidgeted, uncomfortable with the pure admiration in Violet’s gaze. “It’s not really – I mean sure, I put in a lot of hours, but so does every musician,” she hedged. “It wasn’t anything special, I just – couldn’t afford to pay for classes.”

She braced herself for an awkward silence to follow, but instead Violet nodded. “No, you’re right, everyone has to put in the work if they want to improve,” she agreed. “But I imagine that it would be harder to motivate yourself when it’s just you and the instrument.”

Arkady shrugged her shoulder slightly. “It wasn’t so bad. It helped that I enjoyed it, I guess.” After the disaster that was her high school education, it had been a relief to find something she’d felt like she was good at – and wasn’t being assessed on.

Violet smiled, and mercifully changed the topic by looking down at the notation she’d scribbled and saying lightly, “Well, now that it’s been written down, it feels like we should give it a name.”

Arkady thought about it. “Anything that’s shorter than whatever the hell it is Jeeter and Krejjh are working on,” she said, because Jeeter had been waxing lyrical about the ‘epic space opera ballad’ that he’d been composing with his fiancé. Apparently it was about a race of fictional aliens, and some of the lyrics were in a made-up alien language that Jeeter had invented. Arkady had no idea why Jeeter had such a dedicated following among their fans for the weird shit that he came up with, but there you were.

Violet grinned, tapping her pen against the space above the lines and notations. “So, one word, then. It’s got a pretty futuristic sound… What about ‘Cyberpunk’?”

Arkady couldn’t help grimacing a little bit. “Yeah, too clichéd,” Violet agreed. “Maybe something themed around space… ‘Supernova’?”

They tossed around a few other ideas, but none of them quite seemed to fit the mood of the song. Violet frowned down at the music she’d written, and Arkady was about to suggest they come back to it later when she said, “This might sound like a weird association for a piece of music, but I was reading a paper the other day on nanotechnology, you know, technology used at the atomic and molecular level?”

“Sounds kind of dry for bedtime reading, but I’m with you,” Arkady said.

Violet laughed, blushing a little. “Yeah, a friend from my Masters sent it to me; I still like to keep up with new developments in the field, and there are fascinating implications for biology. But I’m thinking, what if none of the space names fit because they’re too big, too grand? What if instead we went really small, like… ‘Nanobot’?”

“Nanobot…” Arkady turned the name over in her mind, thinking about the quick, intricate rhythms of the song they were creating together. It was a surprisingly good fit, but something about it felt off. Something about the ‘bot’ part was too… lonely. “What about ‘Nanoswarm’?”

Violet’s eyes widened slightly and a smile spread across her face. “Nanoswarm,” she said, and wrote the song title in blocky capitals above their music. “I like it.”

Both Red Gregor and Campbell came to rehearsal that night, which Arkady took as a sign that they were there to discuss something Important. Their album, ‘Ghost Squid’, was selling more copies than any of them had expected, and had actually got them some interview requests from indie music blogs and magazines. This seemed to be partly down to Red Gregor, who apparently had enough of a reputation as a business investor that his decision to start up a record label had attracted a lot of interest, and consequently a lot of interest in the first band he’d signed to it. But they’d also had some great reviews, including from Radio, Indie, Folk and Techno (also known as RIFT), the go-to station for all things indie music, who had covered it on their ‘Rave Review Hour’.

There’d also been a noticeably bigger audience at most of their gigs. They’d had a modest but dedicated following before Violet had joined the band, and were regulars at a couple of underground venues where they pulled decent crowds, plus one bar where Arkady had managed not to piss off the owner (the other four were… long stories); a bunch of people also streamed their music from various parts of the world. But since Ghost Squid came out, they’d started playing at (and filling) much bigger venues across a much wider area. It was fun, but also a little surreal.

“What’s the good word, Campbell?” Krejjh asked, leaning on their keyboard. “Are you here to tell us how much the people love us?”

Campbell’s lips twitched in amusement. “They love you a whole lot,” he said. “More every day.”

Krejjh fist-pumped, and Arkady asked, “So, what are you guys here for? Is this about ‘Ghost Squid 2: Electric Boogaloo’?”

They’d had a discussion with Red Gregor about beginning work on a second album; this one would take longer, since they’d had plenty of existing songs to draw on for ‘Ghost Squid’, and hadn’t needed to put together any new material. But, as Gregor had pointed out, it was better to start thinking about that sooner rather than later, and they’d been working on a few new songs anyway. So far, the second album was still nameless, but they’d taken to calling it by a range of joke nicknames.

Red Gregor grinned. “Sort of, in the sense that it’ll be good promo,” he said. Spreading his hands out to either side like a showman introducing his next act, he said grandly, “I’ve landed you a gig at the CUI Stadium.”

Jeeter’s mouth dropped open, Krejjh flailed and exclaimed, “Holy moley!”, and Violet repeated, “Stadium?!” in an almost horrified tone. Even Sana seemed surprised by the news.

“You actually got it?” she asked Red Gregor, who nodded.

Arkady’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, what’s the catch?” she asked. “They don’t let just anyone play the CUI Stadium.”

“No catch,” Campbell promised them. “Red has some contacts who tipped him off that the CUI is looking for some new, lesser-known talent to put on its billing. Once upon a time, the CUI had a reputation for scouting the best undiscovered bands and giving them a bigger stage – literally – and they feel they’ve been losing their touch.”

Put like that, it did make a kind of sense. “Cool, so who are we supporting?” Jeeter asked. “Oooh, maybe it’s Hremreh.”

Hremreh was a weird electronic band that Jeeter and Krejjh were completely obsessed with. Arkady rolled her eyes. “I hope the CUI has more taste than that.”

“Excuse you, Hremreh is an underrated gem of a band,” Krejjh retorted.

“The Destroyer?” Violet suggested jokingly. “They’re local.”

Arkady knew from having spent time with Violet that The Destroyer was one of her favourite bands from college, whose gigs she’d religiously attended during her freshman year. Everyone else looked interested but bemused, and Violet hurriedly added, “Uh, that was a bit of a niche joke. I used to go to their gigs a lot in college.”

“All great guesses,” Red Gregor said, “but you’re all missing one important piece of information. You’ll be the headline act.”

“What?” said Arkady.

“Heck yeah!” Krejjh exclaimed, and high-fived Jeeter.

“So, someone will be supporting us?” Violet said a little faintly.

“Red, exactly how many strings did you pull?” Sana asked, sounding halfway between amused and disapproving. Red Gregor held up his hands.

“I just talked to my contacts, I promise,” he said. “It gave me a chance to put your name forward, but that was all I needed to do. You guys have a great sound; they’re excited to have you on.”

Everything dissolved into a flurry of noise and celebration. Jeeter played a celebratory tune on his keytar that Arkady was fairly sure was from some video game, Krejjh whooped and slid their hands up the keys of their keyboard, and Campbell picked up Sana and spun her around, both of them and Red Gregor laughing. Violet caught Arkady’s eye, grinned, and did a little roll on one of her cymbals. Arkady huffed and rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the smile that was trying to emerge.

“So, when is the gig?” Sana asked, flushed and catching her breath, after Campbell had put her down.

“A month from today,” Red told them. Sana straightened up.

“Wow, okay, we need to get rehearsing! Everyone—”

They quickly got into position, picking up instruments and drumsticks and plugging in amplifiers. Sana beamed around at the assembled band members.

“I just want to say how proud I am of all of you for what we’ve accomplished so far, and everything that lies ahead of us. I-”

“Not to head you off at the pass,” Arkady interrupted, sensing a long Sana Monologue was coming, “but didn’t you say we needed to get rehearsing? Maybe save the speech for after?”

Most people would have taken offence at being interrupted, but Sana, being Sana, smiled at Arkady. “Thank you for the reminder, Arkady. I am proud of you all, but I’ll tell you exactly how proud once we’re done.”

Rehearsal went well, everyone energetic and buoyed up from the good news. As they were packing down afterwards, under the noise of Sana, Krejjh, Jeeter, Campbell and Gregor eagerly discussing where they could go out for drinks to celebrate, Violet said to Arkady,

“I forgot to tell you earlier, but I heard back from the journalist. Emily Craddock.”

Arkady fumbled the wire that she was looping around itself. “Yeah? What did she say?”

“She said that she thinks we have enough for a story. Even with the missing data,” Violet said.

She looked happy, but something in Arkady’s chest still clenched. It had been nearly four weeks since the fateful gig at IGR Corp, and so far, everything had been quiet. The band had been on high alert at all of their performances at first, not spending any more time than was necessary setting up or lingering on the stage, but there’d been no attempts at sabotage, no suspicious ‘fans’ trying to approach them after a set. (There had been a few real fans whom Arkady had cross-examined a bit too aggressively when they tried to get close to the band, but people seemed to actually find it funny and no-one got offended).

They figured that IGR Corp must not know about the files that Violet had managed to copy across; Seiders had been unconscious, after all, and it was possible that they hadn’t realised that Violet had made off with anything, or had downplayed the severity of the incident to the higher-ups. Arkady had, in spite of her misgivings, broken the encryption on the files for Violet, but she’d been secretly hoping that the data wouldn’t turn out to be useful, or that there wouldn’t be enough of it to do anything with.

She’d hoped that even after Violet told her that she’d found a tech journalist who was interested in taking a look at the files and potentially investigate the story. Of course Arkady was a fan of doing whatever they could to stick it to the corporates; she just wished there was a way to do it that wouldn’t involve Violet painting a huge target on her back.

“That’s… good,” Arkady managed, and even she could hear how unconvincing it sounded. Violet looked at her questioningly. “It’s just…” She tried to find a way to word things that wasn’t, ‘I’m afraid that you won’t be safe’. “Once the information is out there, IGR Corp is going to know who leaked it. What happens if they come after you?”

“By that point, they should have bigger things to worry about, if the evidence that Emily Craddock has found is as damning as she says it is,” Violet pointed out. “She’s been looking into that engineer that Seiders mentioned, Alvy Connors. It’s not really clear whether something… happened to him, or whether he just made a run for it, but he definitely disappeared. And it wasn’t that long after he started work on Project ADVANCE.”

As they talked, the other band members had been clearing equipment away and loading it into the van, until Violet and Arkady were the only ones left in the warehouse.

“I know there’s risk involved,” Violet said. “But I can’t just forget everything I’ve learned. And this is bigger than me – I have to do it for Alvy, too, and his family and friends, and everyone else who could be affected by Project ADVANCE. What IGR Corp is doing-”

“I know, I know,” Arkady said. “Don’t get me wrong, I think they deserve to have the cover blown right off their shitty, awful surveillance plan.”

“I’m going to talk to the Captain before I do anything,” Violet assured her. “I know this could affect the band, too. I just wanted to tell you first.”

Why? Arkady wanted to ask, but that would have taken the conversation down a road that Arkady was not prepared to go down. Either Violet would say something like, ‘Because we’re friends’, or ‘Because you’re my bandmate’, and Arkady would feel like a moron for having hoped for anything different. Or she wouldn’t, and that would be worse, because Arkady had no idea how to respond to Violet saying… Well, it didn’t matter, because it would never happen, anyway.

“Sana will tell you to go for it,” she said. “If it’s what you think is right, she’ll be behind you all the way.”

“And… you?” Violet asked quietly.

“I…”

Why was it so hard for Arkady to just say that she approved? Violet was a grown woman who could make her own decisions; she didn’t need Arkady second-guessing her. Violet didn’t even need Arkady to agree with what she was doing – she could just go and do it anyway. But the fact that she’d asked Arkady meant that she cared what Arkady thought… and that made Arkady want to be honest with her.

And honesty was terrifying.

The moment stretched out; Arkady composed and drafted half a dozen different versions of what she wanted to say in her head. ‘I just need you to be careful’ – ugh, that sounded like something Sana would say. Also, of course Violet was going to be careful; that didn’t mean there was no risk involved. ‘I trust you to make the right choice’ – vague, and it also made Arkady feel weird. ‘If they hurt you, they’ll wish they’d never been born’ – alarming, and probably too honest.

Arkady took a breath in, gathering her nerve – and then both of them jumped as the van horn beeped loudly from outside.

“Paging bandmates Liu and Patel!” Krejjh shouted. “Bandmates Liu and Patel to the Rumormobile, please!”

Violet laughed a little, as Arkady huffed, inwardly cursing her own goddamn indecision. She’d spent so long trying to figure out what to say that she’d lost the chance to say anything.

“I guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Violet said, slanting a small smile in Arkady’s direction.

“I trust you,” Arkady found herself saying, almost without meaning to. Violet looked puzzled, and Arkady scrambled to clarify. “Uh, that is – if you think this is the right thing to do. Then, you should… do it. Just…”

She still couldn’t say it, but Violet’s smile widened, her eyes softening like she knew what Arkady was trying (and failing) to tell her. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - Ch4

This time the chapter art had me digging out the pencils.  Sorry Gordy - you’re looking a bit old and tired rather than the youthful Olympian I envisaged.

Also, more thanks to @willow-salix​ who helped me try and improve both wonky writing and wonky chins.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three

Chapter Four

The call connected but brought not the cheery tones of a brother but the now overly-familiar sound of yet another voicemail request to leave a message after the tone.  The last few days had been a litany of missed calls and crossed text messages.  Whenever he had a break between training and physio appointments the family seemed to be watching another event with phones off.  Whenever he returned from a gym or pool session there would be another blinking icon waiting for him.  Another failed attempt at contact.

It was great seeing the messages wishing him good luck followed by messages offering congratulations as he cleared his heat but it would have been nice to speak to his family in person.  Everyone else on the squad seemed to be able to schedule video calls with loved ones.  You would have thought that with such a large family he would have struck lucky at some point.  

Gordon scrolled through the call history.  Alan.  Scott.  Virgil.  Even John, the least sociable of his siblings and apparently with an allergy to small-talk, had made two attempts to reach him over the last few days.  And there, right at the bottom, one single attempt from his father to make contact shortly after his initial heat.  He wondered how the call would have gone.  Would he have received congratulations for making it to the final or would he have had to justify his second place finish?  It was too late to speculate now.  His coach was rapping impatiently on the door; it was time to head to the pool for the race of his life.  

The changing area was filled with the incomprehensible babble of a multitude of languages.  Old rivals sat alongside new upstarts.  Gordon plugged in his earphones in an attempt to drown out the sound and get into the zone.  He had been competing for long enough to know what worked for him; even his coach knew better than to try and intrude at this point.  The familiar playlist hammered into his head as he leant back against the cool tiles.  Eyes closed.  Breathing regulated by the sound of the beat.  He waited to be called through for his race.

The playlist wasn’t working.  He wasn’t normally prone to nerves but this was the big one, the race everyone had been talking about.  From the early whispers as a kid on the junior circuit through to actual squad selection the word ‘Olympics’ had never been far away.  This was the dream.  This would be his defining moment.  It was as if none of his other achievements mattered.  This was what he had been training for all these years.  Everything else was just a warm up.  

He checked his phone one last time.  Nothing new.  Of course there wasn’t, everyone would be up on the balcony already but it gave his hands something to do.  Every muscle felt jittery.  The announcement that it was time to go pool side had him bouncing up as though the starting gun itself had gone off.

xoxoxox

Alan practically hung over the balcony rail, straining to see the far end of the pool where the competitors would be making their entrance near the starting blocks.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pulled him back and stopped him leaning out too far.  

“Steady there.  He’ll be out soon enough.  Don’t want you going into the water.”

Alan huffed at Scott but complied, sitting heavily back in his seat, eyes roving to the big screen that was showing a shot of the top end of the pool.  It was difficult to be patient when his brother would soon be competing in an Olympic final.  For most of the spectators it was just another race in the session but for the Tracys it was personal.  

It wasn’t just Alan that fidgeted with impatience though, there was an air of barely repressed excitement running through the family group, the atmosphere in the venue just served to increase the tension.  This was a big medals day in the pool and Team USA had already added a gold and two bronze to their total haul.  The swimming squad was representing their country well and showing that USA was a sporting force to be reckoned with.

A cheer rippled through the venue as the athletes entered.  A kaleidoscope of tracksuits parodying the flags and emblems of their nations appeared at the top end of the pool.  The yellow and green of Australia shone out amongst the variants of red, white and blue worn by the representatives of USA, Russia and France.  Eights athletes filed in to take their place on the seat behind their block.  Eight bodies jiggled legs and stretched out arms and shoulders.  Take a drink.  Adjust goggles.  An array of displacement activities and rituals as each competitor did what was needed to mentally prepare themselves for the task ahead.

At a signal from the officials eight figures stood and disrobed, exposing honed muscles and expanded shoulders.  Gordon, placed in lane six after his narrow inclusion in the final, bounced on the balls of his feet.  Slightly shorter than the average swimmer in the line up he was dwarfed by the Norwegian in lane five, his neighbour in the pool towered a good eight inches above the young American.  

There was no holding Alan back now and even his more self-controlled family were leaning forward against the railing to get a better view than that already offered by their front row seats.  Eyes were fixed on the distant figure fifty meters away at the far end of the pool.  

Giving a start of realisation and guilt that he had almost forgotten Alan dug into his backpack, pulling out the banner he had cajoled Virgil into painting.  He shoved the two ends into the hands of Scott and John who proceeded to tie it to the balcony so it could be seen hanging down from the guard rail.  It was impossible to read the expressions of the swimmers from this distance but Alan swore he could see Gordon turn and smile in their direction.  Whether this was true or not the others couldn’t tell but their squid certainly seemed to gain an air of calm after the banner was unfurled.

A further signal from the officials had the competitors stepping up on to their blocks.  Silence descended over the crowd.  

Poised.  

Taut.  

Ready.

The starting gun had eight figures launching into the water with enviable grace and speed.  

Stroke.  Glide.  Breathe.  Repeat.  Each competitor found their rhythm and gave the performance of their life.  

Ordinarily the pack would form a V shape.  An arrowhead through the water as those that had won their heats were graced with the more desirable centre lanes.  

Today was no ordinary day.

Today was the day Gordon Tracy dredged into reserves he barely knew he had.  Start strong, stay strong, end strong.  There was no let up in his pace and determination.  Focus and rhythm aligned.  The arrowhead was broken.  Soon the commentary was focussed on lane six and the seventeen year old competing in his first Olympics.  

Cheers erupted from the Tracy section as the swimmers reached the final board and triggered the timing pads.  From their seats aligned with the end of the pool they were in the perfect position to see Gordon hit home in first place.

For the swimmers in the water the rankings were less clear cut.  Without the benefit of a grandstand view eight sets of eyes were focussed on the board awaiting the final results.  Moments stretched into eternity as they waited for the official times.

1 USA GORDON TRACY 1:44.20 WR

There, on the first line of the board was the confirmation of not only his success but an achievement surpassing all hopes.  A world record.

The family watched as down in the water Gordon shook hands over the lane dividers with the swimmers to left and right.  He was a sportsman to the core and he congratulated those who had provided stiff competition.  Only then did he turn and wave to the balcony, acknowledging the family that had supported him through years of training then followed him to the opposite end of the Earth to witness his crowning glory.  The cameras tracked between the Tracy in the pool and the Tracys in the stand, capturing their moment of shared joy for eternity.

xoxoxox

The fluttering feeling in his stomach was off-putting to say the least and probably wasn’t helped by the two celery crunch bars and a glucose tablet he had inhaled after getting out the water, he knew they were needed after his intense energy usage though.  The last time he’d tried to skip the obligatory post-race refuel he had nearly taken a header off the podium as his blood sugars crashed.  He wondered if throwing up on an official was more embarrassing than fainting on them.  

The call to head out to the podium soon put a stop to the nerves as he was ushered back pool-side between the other two medallists.  This time there was no escaping the fact that all eyes were on him but there was no performance required; the joy spread across his face was pure and true.  This was the culmination of years of early morning training sessions.  Gym, yoga, vitamins, nutrition schedules.  Every missed party.  Every rejected invitation to go bowling.  The sacrifices he had made had come together to create one perfect moment.  

The medal, the anthem, the flowers; everything played out as he had imagined.  The flash of a thousand camera bulbs only partly responsible for the tears in his eyes.

His dream. 

Complete.