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lovebugism · 8 months

Note

Bugggggg, my dear! I need to know what happens when Eddie climbs through that window with Gareth sisterrr!!!

thanks for being so patient while i wrote a part two! hope you like it!! — the one where eddie sneaks into his best friend's step-sister's bedroom, stealthy like a ninja tw for allusions to smut (2.7k, find part one here)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

Eddie shows up at your house at eleven, even though you told him to be there at midnight.

He couldn’t wait the extra hour to see you. It felt like it was eons away — a whole lot more than just sixty minutes. After dealing all day in ninety-degree heat, he was aching to rest his tired bones next to yours. His thoughts of you weren’t even sinful — which isn’t something he can say very often.

The way he yearned for you was innocent, palpable, and suffocating. Like honey or the summer sun. It was something sticky and sweet, nostalgic and boyish.

It’s why he parks three houses down, just like you asked him to, and why he scales the trellis of your bedroom window with all the finesse of a dog on roller skates.

You left your light on for him like you promised— a glowing yellow let he climbs towards. Your window is open, too. Eddie gets all twisted up in your lace curtains when he finally reaches the second story. His ankle gets caught in the pane. He catches himself before he tumbles to the ground entirely, his palms melting into your carpeted floor.

Half-stuck in your window, Eddie’s wide eyes flit around your bedroom. You’re nowhere to be found, but some upbeat pop song plays on the radio on the dresser beside a shut door — the bathroom, maybe.

“You are the dancing, young and sweet, only seventeen!” Your voice is muffled as you sing along to the words. You sound like sunshine in the middle of a cool summer night.

With the knowledge that he didn’t make a complete fool of himself in front of you or anybody else, he crawls the rest of the way in and stands in the middle of your pretty pink bedroom.

It’s as girly as you are, filled with everything grownups convince children they’re supposed to hate when they get older — teddy bears, dolls, and other heart-sharped trinkets. Everything’s frilly and pale pink, delicate like you.

The door clicks open. Eddie’s eyes widen when you and a warm steam comes spilling out. The smell of roses and vanilla twirls out just like you do. Clad only in a too big Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, and with wet hair dripping down your back, you sing into your hair brush.

“You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life—” You cut yourself off when you realize Eddie’s standing in the middle of your bedroom. You don’t scream, but you feel sort of like your heart has stopped as your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh, my god!”

“Sorry!” the boy apologizes through his laughter, palms spread out ahead of him in surrender. “I’m— I’m sorry. I should’ve… I should’ve knocked.”

You’re still a bit too frightened to laugh at his joke. You bring your palm from your mouth to your racing heart and exhale a sigh of relief. “You weren’t supposed to be here until midnight.”

Eddie beams when you rush to turn down your music, only because you aren’t looking at him to see it. Instead of telling you he couldn’t wait that long to see you, he jokes, “Oh, is it not twelve yet? My watch must be an hour fast.”

“Or maybe you just don’t know how to tell time, Eighty-Six,” you tease with a bright grin.

Eddie’s brows raise beneath his curly bangs. His own smile curls at his pink lips at your harsh joke. It comes from a too-pretty face for him to take offense to it.

He wraps you in his arms when you walk over to him. His palms spread along your hips as your arms wrap around his neck. He tries not to shiver when your fingers trace the wild curls at the base of his neck.

“Well, that’s not very nice of you, now is it, princess?” he asks in the same sarcastic tone.

“Or maybe you just really wanted to see me?” you follow up with an innocuous shrug and a hopeful glint in your eye.

Eddie scoffs. “That is very presumptuous of you, sweetheart.”

“It’s only presumptuous if I’m wrong— which I know I’m not, so…”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” he quips with narrowed eyes.

You meet his look with a grin. “‘Cause I can read you like a book, Eddie Munson.”

You rise on the tips of your toes, pressing yourself further into him with the intent to taste his lips. He stops you before you get the chance.

His chin jerks back, though it’s not exactly intentional. With your chest more intently pushed against his own, he can feel much more of you than he’s used to. Your stiff nipples are crushed between both of your bodies. His brain short-circuits accordingly.

Eddie covers it up with a mischievous smile. “No bra?”

“It’s your fault,” you pout, not swayed by his teasing.

“Is it?”

You nod, wide-eyed like you’re all innocent. “You got here too early. I was gonna put on makeup and a pretty dress for you and everything…”

Though Eddie’s heart swells at the thought, he shakes his head in response. The bridge of his nose scrunches as his hands rise from your waist. His palms are warm along your blushing cheeks.

“I like you better like this,” he confesses quietly.

“Really?” you ask with pinched brows.

He shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I love your glitter and skirts and your… everything, but… I don’t know. I think you look pretty like this, too.”

Your chest warms so suddenly, you think your heart might be melting.

No one’s ever said anything like that to you before — not that you weren’t pretty, but that you were still pretty even when you aren’t trying to be.

A heavy feeling swells behind your ribcage that makes you feel like crying.

“You don’t have to be so nice to me, you know?” you joke with a halfhearted laugh. “I’m already obsessed with you.”

His own chuckle spills from his pink mouth. “I’m being serious.”

“If you wanted a blowjob, you coulda just said—”

Your grin is wide and mischievous, full of candor, as your hands leave his neck and fall to the silver buckle of his leather belt. The giddy smile fades when his fingers curl around your wrists to stop you.

Eddie’s eyes fly open wide. His mouth falls softly agape, as though surprised by your forwardness, though he knows he should be used to it now. He stammers. “We don’t— I mean, we don’t have to—”

You step back like you’ve burned him. Your features flood in a similar horror. “Oh, sorry— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie assures with a soft laugh to quell your worry. He chases you when you part from him and takes your wringing hands in his larger ones. “I know most guys sneaking into a girl’s room usually want one thing, so… It’s kinda my fault, actually.”

“And you don’t… You don’t want that?” you question with a furrow to your brow.

“No, I do! Trust me. I do, I just…” he trails off with a sigh. His chin tilts to his chest as he peers at you from beneath his lashes. There’s a twinkle in the deep chocolate of his eye. “I’d rather it be more romantic than, you know— than this.”

His hand motions somewhere beside him. You figure he’s referring to the scuff marks his sneakers left on your lace curtains.

You smile sheepishly as his wide palms engulf your own. “I wanna take things slow with you and… treat you right and everything…”

“That is very old-fashioned of you, Eddie Munson,” you croon lowly as you lean back into him. Your hands entwine when your chests push together all over again. His long fingers slot between yours as the tip of your nose traces the bridge of his.

“Maybe…” he hums in a sigh, the breath of it fanning over your chin. It smells like cigarettes and spearmint gum. “But also, if I’m gonna fuck you, I don’t want us to have to be quiet, you know?”

His eyes narrow with a mischievous squint when you part from him. You meet his smirk with a beam.

“Like I said… Such a gentleman.”

You go in for a kiss, and this time he lets you.

It’s much deeper than the one you shared behind the 7/11, but still just as pure. It’s full of honey and sunshine — your floral perfume and his muskier cologne — your candied breath and his nicotine-coated one. It’s filled with the innocence leftover from your lingering girlhood and his boyhood, both of which you’ve yet to grow out of.

It makes his mouth taste that much sweeter. It makes his lips that much softer. It makes you want to kiss the breath from his lungs, and it makes him want to swallow you whole.

—————

A breeze billows through the open window you forgot to close the night before.

It smells like freshly cut grass and early morning dew and vaguely like teenage boy. It feels like silk as it rolls across your bed, though it’s cold enough to make you rouse.

You feel the weight of Eddie Munson on your ribcage before you open your eyes to see him.

Your gaze is slow to clear, heavy with honey. You find the wild-haired boy snoozing on your stomach — long lashes brushing the apples of his cheeks, face smushed into your t-shirt, pink mouth agape to exhale soft snores against your ribs. The sight of him like this makes you feel a bit like you’re dreaming.

The two of you settled into bed some hours after midnight, equally fatigued after an intense bout of nonstop conversation. You’d been sharing a single pillow then, and trying very hard not to kiss him.

“Wake me up before sunrise, will you?” he’d told you as his eyes drifted closed.

Your brows pinched together. “For what?”

“So I can leave before everyone in your house knows I’m here,” the boy scoffed in a tired laugh. “Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, you know?”

You didn’t know what he meant by that. But rather than ask him, your brain shouted its own understanding at you — a blinking neon sign that was virtually unmissable.

He must not want to be seen with me, the voice tells you. Maybe this isn’t as serious as I was hoping it’d be. Maybe we just have the night together, and maybe I have to be grateful I got it at all.

As though he could read your mind, a half-asleep Eddie Munson patched together your breaking heart without trying. “Don’t want your parents to think I’m just trying to get in your pants or somethin’… Also I’m pretty Gareth would kill me if he knew I spent the night here.”

He exhales a weary chuckle, and you force yourself to do the same.

It was never about you, but rather about the lingering implication that looked rather daunting from afar.

The town freak sneaks into the bedroom of the local princess, and it’s certainly not to slay some sleeping dragon. It was a headline waiting to happen. No one would believe you if you told them Eddie was more interested in the stories behind each of your stuffies than he was in what your body looked like under your clothes.

You drifted off alongside him, expecting at least one of you to rouse before the sun came up. You quickly found that waking up from the best night’s sleep of your life was practically impossible. And with the way Eddie slumbers so soundly against your stomach, you figure he must be a lot of the same.

A smile quirks the corners of your lips as you look down at the sleeping boy. It’s too filled with exhaustion to be evident, but the sentiment is there and swirling like burning embers in your chest.

Eddie rises and falls with each of your even breaths. His heavier ones are sighed in time with yours. He’s heavy like a weighted blanket. You hardly notice the burden of him now, but you’d feel the lack of him if he were gone.

Ornery umber curls fall over his face, sticking to his cheek and his mouth. You reach down to sweep them away with a gentle hand, jerking back when Eddie huffs and shifts against you.

“Shit. Sorry,” you apologize in a whisper. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

The boy sighs deeply through his nose and smushes his face back into your stomach. Still half-asleep, he slurs, “’S okay. Keep doing that. It felt good.”

You exhale a breathy laugh and return your hand to his hair. Your fingers dance through the curls at the crown of his head as you massage his scalp. You feel the warmth of his sigh when it fans against you, and you smile.

“Sorry for not waking you up,” you confess in your second apology of the morning.

Eddie’s breath jerks suddenly. You think it must be his drowsy laughter. “‘M sorry for using you like a pillow all night.”

“I kinda liked that, actually,” you admit with a scrunched nose and distant smile.

The boy lifts his cheek from your stomach and replaces it with his chin. He grins at you — plush, pink, and heavy like syrup. His chocolate eyes are a lot of the same. They’re swollen with sleep but twinkling with early morning adoration nonetheless.

“And I’m glad you didn’t wake me up, so… I guess we’re even then, huh?”

He rises with a grunt. The mattress shifts under his weight as he leans his lankier body against yours. He props himself on the forearms he lays on either side of your head. His nose nudges against the tip of yours. You’re moments away from tilting your chin and pressing your mouth against his, morning breath and all, but a knock at your door throws a wrench in your plans.

“Mom wants to know if you want pancakes,” Gareth calls from the other side of the entrance.

“Yes, please!” you singsong in response.

You’d be an idiot to turn them down. Gareth’s mom makes the best breakfast this side of Indiana has ever seen. You figure you’ll have to find a way to smuggle some to Eddie before he leaves, so his lips will taste like your favorite food when you kiss him goodbye. Maybe that’ll hold you over until you can sneak him in again—

“What about you, Eddie?” Gareth calls again with a knowing inflection in his muffled voice.

It makes the both of you freeze.

Eddie hardens like a rock on top of you, and not in the way that you’re used to.

His eyes widen as he looks down at you, finding nothing but your own look of gaping horror. You shake your head at him — a silent plea to stay silent — even though you know that Gareth is somehow aware of his best friend’s company.

Eddie’s brain short circuits, and the words spill out before he can stop them. “Uh… Nope! I’m— I’m good.”

“Suit yourself…”

The boy’s footsteps recede down the hallway.

Eddie exhales an embarrassed groan as his head falls to your shoulder. He tucks himself into the nook of your neck with the intent to hide there. His soft, untamed curls tickle the skin of your chin and jaw.

Despite your own lingering mortification, your hands curl under his arms and sprawl along his shoulder blades — keeping him intently pressed against you. “How did he…?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie laughs against your skin before you can finish the question. His face finds yours again, and he shrugs. “I mean… I guess I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought when I climbed through your window.”

“Really?” you hum. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It was your curtains. They were trying to kill me, princess, I swear.”

“Well… At least, now we don’t have to worry about telling him,” you reason, even though your voice trembles.

Eddie’s grin wavers just the same. “Yeah, let’s hope he doesn’t punch me over pancakes and orange juice or something today.”

Your head tilts to your shoulder as you smile up at him. Your hands fall from his shoulders to cup his jaw. “I’d patch you up,” you promise quietly as you pull him down for a kiss.

Eddie gravitates toward you like he was made to do it. His mouth falls agape to accept your own before he realizes. You taste like flowers and early morning and the rest of his life.

A punch in the face would be worth it if he meant he got to taste you forever.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things imagine #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #bug's summer fic fest!

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thevirgincherry · 2 months

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RIGOR MORTIS !

ft. og4 leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. las plagas!reader, he kills you, technically snuff ig but wasn’t intended oops, gore, canon-typical violence, reader is infected and out of it so she can’t really consent, dub-con, non-con, p in v, choking/asphyxiation, strangulation

note. god im plagued by writers block and it’s killing me it’s like walking on shattered glass rn. umm please ignore any mistakes, not very fond on this but haven’t posted in a bit :3 um it’s quite short. rbs are always appreciated :3 instead of asking for a part 2 please just tell me something nice.. feedback is really appreciated <3 comms are open! info in my pinned :3

Leon seeks refuge in what looks to have once been a humble abode. Now only a shack wearing a shroud of all things dead and rotten remains. Foetid water has soaked him to the bone, it seeps into the thick leather of his combat boots, leaves his socks soggy. He really hates that. Leon can handle cerebrospinal fluid leaving a sticky film on the toe of his boots, the blood caked beneath his fingernails is something he considers normal, but wet socks are a total inconvenience, it’s a shortcut to trench foot.

The hollow skulls of small critters occupy the corners, the cobwebs have cobwebs, the air is stagnant and stinking. Not of rot, but of sickness. A gaping wound crawling with infection, bacteria settling in the crevices of his mind, squirming like fat, juicy maggots—

Crack!

It’s a man, he was a man, now he’s a boneless lump of flesh, his spinal cord snapped under the weight of Leon’s boot. His yellowed teeth glisten under the golden warmth of a single lantern. Leon’s defence is choreographed at this point, a swift kick to intercept an impending strike, then his boot makes mincemeat of their brains.

When he takes a step back to review his current affair, it’s not so bad, certainly not Raccoon City. Leon would take a million murderous Spanish grandparents over a single zombie. Zombies are plain nasty, not a single limb intact, oozing pustules that peel back to reveal purpling flesh infested by larvae. They’re fuckin’ ugly. Slow and bloated and ugly. A sight no human being should see.

On the wall, there’s a shattered, grimy mirror. Leon sees the ghost of a boy staring back at him. Unwashed hair hanging limp, cheekbones carved out, his skin alabaster like the blocky lettering stitched into his uniform. R.P.D. it reads, muddied by blood and guts and chunks of vomit. All the good shit. He hasn’t grown into his body yet, the steel of his gun is cool on his temple and he’s young and these are all important things to know. In his arms is something small and lightweight, a bloodied little girl, leading him to a pyrrhic victory.

The floorboards groan under the weight of a pair of feet that don’t belong to him, the threat isn’t imminent. You don’t charge at him, no, it’s shambling he can only describe as zombie-like, dragging your bare feet like it hurts to lift them off the ground. Like you’re waterlogged and ready to pop.

You were pretty, he’s sure, a real looker. You’re pretty now, just not in your entirety. Strings of reddish muscle keep the fatty flesh of your right tit hanging on for dear life. Like an Amazonian woman. There’s no rot, no sign of decay, simply an act of self-mutilation.

Now, some might call him a pervert, but Leon’s a self-proclaimed iconoclast. And you, swaying from side to side in your torn linen nightdress, the skeletal pendant of Los Iluminados around your neck like a disfigured cross, draped in a veil of white that’s close enough to holy - it’s worth ruining. Santa Maria di Plagas or whatever.

He realises a few shattered bones have you walking funny, circles you easily and heads into the room you exited. The bed sheets are rumpled in unrest, he sits, there’s a hairline fracture between the two of you. The lantern light bares all, the white of your dress becomes gossamer-thin, he makes out your shape beneath the blood-soaked cloth that moulds to the shape of your torso, the smooth dip of your waist, a soft sinkage where the fabric clings to your belly button.

Leon has seen far worse. Can you blame a guy for getting hard at the sight of a real girl? In his line of work, he’s neck deep in pounds of flesh that spew pus and gore from each virus-clogged abscess. The layer of dirt on your skin does not deter him, that tit hanging by a tissuey thread, swinging back and forth like your necklace is child’s play to him. ‘Cause Leon’s a real man. The princely type.

(He’s anything but. One girl’s knight in shining armour is a monster under the bed for another. It’s not like you can complain, you’re quite the monster yourself.)

Hang in there Ashley. He’ll be there soon, but he’s got to do this. This is completely and utterly necessary. Hunnigan doesn’t need to know why he’ll be unreachable for a good thirty minutes or so. Less probably. ‘Cause your body is hot, clammy with fever, and that means your pussy is even hotter.

Something… Something… Plagas… Something… Lord Saddler…

Your mumbling is constant. Leon will have to do something about that. You gnash your teeth at him when you approach, held back only by the sluggishness that comes with, like, brainwashing cultish parasites.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no entiendo.” Leon loops a worn piece of rope around your neck. Ain’t that handy? Found it hung on your assumed-to-be father’s tool belt. Used for leading curly little lambs to the sacrificial altar. He strokes the underside of your chin, and you bare your teeth like a wild dog, albeit slowly. A late reaction. No fair, it’s like someone’s knocked you around already, who got here before him?

Getting his dick out at a time like this in a place like this, it’s not smart. Sneaky bugs could use his urethra as a water slide. A menacing minibeast might latch onto his balls pincher-first. However, needs are needs, and nothing gets in the way of Leon’s dick, not even a kidnapped First Daughter could stop the force of nature that is his boner.

With ease, he pushes you onto the ground. Not the bed. If you behave like an animal then he’ll have to fuck you like one. Plus, Leon’s not quite sure he trusts those sheets, at least the rusty nails on the floorboards are visible to the naked eye. Tetanus won’t be a nasty surprise, just a momentary lapse in judgement.

Your body contorts when he pulls the rope, back taking on a feline shape, spine bending inwards and your hips up. Puppetry is easier than it looks. The hem of your dress lifts to reveal your leaking chasm of a pussy. Better than nothing. Not like he’s eating it either way.

One hand on the rope, the other on his belt buckle, he lowers his jeans enough to pop his dick out. “Stay still, honey.” He instructs, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, or to a person who doesn’t understand a lick of English.

Leon chokes you with the rope. “I’ll only be a minute, sweetheart,” he coos, a tender kiss that he regrets merely seconds later placed on your shoulder.

He grips the base of his cock, the fat tip is red and leaky, precum bubbling like your foaming mouth. Leon’s too hard. His dick is totally upright, the soft curve pointing towards the ceiling, a thumb comes to press down on the tip, using it to guide himself into your pussy.

“Oh, there you go, honey, yeah, there you go.” His hold on the rope loosens, still firm enough to keep you in place, but now at least there’s oxygen flowing to your parasite-addled brain. “You feel that?”

Leon’s dick stretches you to the point of no return. He’s broken you in. Better off him than any of those grotesque old men. You’re a virgin surely, so it’s very considerate of him to fuck you before you die. No one should die a virgin, that’s cruel, it’s inhumane.

You thrash wildly, grunting each time his hips smack into the fat of your ass, he can’t tell if you’re enjoying it— You better be fuckin’ enjoying it. Know how risky this shit is? Fuck, what if you had a mutated cunt or something. Jagged teeth waiting to clamp down on a big fat dick and tear it straight off. He really needs to start thinking with his brain and not his cock. The thing just doesn’t shut up.

When he cums, the rope is tight around the column of your neck— It would be your hair, but he fears it might fall straight from your scalp in nasty, matted clamps. Your body rears like a wild Mustang, he gathers the rope and it wraps around his fingers until your back is flush to his chest and you grasp for something, anything— Eyes rolled so far back he can see the milky whites, and then he gives one last tug to make sure you’re stuck in that state. Mid-orgasm. Eyes in the back of your skull, back arched, pussy dripping with his load. Cute. He wishes rigor mortis set in right now so that you don’t fall slack into a heap of red and white when he lets go.

Leon leaves by barrelling out of a window like a true gentleman, the microscopic shards splinter your skin. He takes that pendant with him, tucks it in his back pocket, could be useful at some point in time.

It’s only when the blood in his veins runs black and viscous does Leon notice something is severely wrong. His blood flow slows to a halt, clots forming in every important artery. Mucousy black sludge leaks from his nose. An intense pain cuts through his senses with deadly precision, a surge of discomfort that has him kneeling over, hands on his knees in a clumsy attempt to steady himself.

His hands clasp around Ada’s neck— The rope. He pulls it tighter and tighter to get closer and closer. Her voice is distorted by the fog that clouds his brain, it creates a hazy barrier, mutes the world around him. A knife lodges in the meaty flesh of his thigh, he topples backwards when her knee makes contact with his groin.

“That bitch gave me crabs.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He brushes her off. “I said, uh, Lord Saddler almighty.” Leon’s heard that enough times to repeat it back to her rather fluently. Nice save.

“Right,” Ada says, unconvinced.

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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lifeinpoetry · 2 years

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Dear God. Dear Bones. Dear Mother. Please, forgive me. I want to call in dead. Last week, there was a child in a yellow dress reading a poem. For minutes on end, I could not be indifferent to anything. Not the grass, dying yellow. Not the bombs, twisting limbs. Not the cages. Not the—

— Noor Hindi, from “Self-Interrogation,” DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

#quote #noor hindi #poetry #dear god. dear bones. dear yellow.#out of my collection #Self-Interrogation

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smokefalls · 1 month

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I want to believe language matters, that words create meaning, that a person can breathe a thing into existence. But what happens when the repetition of the words beckons at the opposite?

Noor Hindi, "A Chaos of Semantics" from DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

#Noor Hindi #DEAR GOD DEAR BONES DEAR YELLOW #quote #poetry #queerlit #2024 reads

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tunisian · 6 months

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noor hindi, “a home” from dear god. dear bones. dear yellow.

#noor hindi #dear god dear bones dear yellow #palestinian writers #palestine

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metamorphesque · 2 years

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musings on sunflowers

Sunflowers, Vincent van Gogh / DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW, Noor Hindi

˗ˏˋ☕ˎˊ˗

#sunflowers #vincent van gogh #art #art parallels #paintings #poetry #literature #poems #noor hindi #quotes #web weavings #van gogh #van gogh yellow

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thedgeoftheuniverse · 16 days

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THE DETRIMENTS OF HUMANITY.

CHAPTER ONE — NOW.

Four years after The Rumbling, Levi is still mourning the past.

[ TAGS: post war levi, depression, swearing, levi deals with chronic pain, heartbreak, what do you it when you breakup without ever dating in the first place? ]

The sun rose above Marley with hues of orange, yellow, and a smattering of dusty pink—a stark contrast to what was a black and moonless sky, the colors blanketed the city below and slowly began to cast a warm embrace on the landscape. Through the crack of an east-facing window, a blinding beam of light shone and disturbed the already restless sleep Levi was in. Despite everything, it was a welcome change; for six days straight, it rained and poured and rained just a little more. The sky raged and cracked with little consideration for him or the condition of his ragged body.

The pain was worse on those days.

Not to imply that there was truly ever a good day, but some were—objectively—worse than others. On the third day of the deluge, the pain split him in half and left him bleeding out in his bed, with tears threatening the corners of his eyes. His legs and what limited mobility he still grasped onto betrayed him, as did the pounding of his head and aching of his spine. He laid there for nearly six hours before allowing Falco (who had begun to grow faster than the day could turn to night) to assist him into his wheelchair. God, did he ever detest it, but he gave up fighting it a year or so ago. He despised the feeling of helplessness that arose from needing the assistance of a sixteen-year-old boy and a wooden chair to make it to the kitchen, but such is the hand with which he was dealt. His knee seemed determined to buckle under his own weight, and his cane provided little to no support in the matter.

Not all days were so intense.

Most days were fine.

Bearable. Tolerable.

Most days, he could scrape himself together and get out of bed, go to work—the tea shop owner, a sweet older lady by the name of Marsha, purchased a comfortable chair for him to keep at the front counter and never complained when he had to call off at the last minute—and entertain Gabi and Falco on the nights they spent at his home. Most days, the pain amounted to that of a half-healed broken bone (he says he’s had worse when Gabi chastises him. She knows she can't argue because she was there for the worst of it), and his cane was a sufficient aid once he accepted that the subsequential limp was a permanent fixture in his gait; it was subtle, but it was there. Most days, Levi could care for himself. Most days, his vision was clear, and the headache only reached his temples. His legs trembled only slightly as he combed through his hair, and he was only plagued by memories of the past in his sleep.

(You were always there. This doesn’t make sense anymore.)

On the night of the third day, Levi (forever as stubborn as a mule) collapsed on the floor, a mere three feet from his bed.

Falco entered the room in a flurry. “Levi! Are you okay?”

He batted his hand away. “I'm fine, brat.” Determined to refuse the help. Most days, Falco could handle Levi’s prickliness in stride. On that third day, he felt dejected but nevertheless aided a wholly agitated and combative Levi into bed. In spite of everything, he could not bring himself to be angered, because what is left of a man once stripped of all he once held dear? of his sense of purpose? What is left of a soldier after the fight is won? Falco didn't know much, but he knew the answer resided somewhere behind the eyes that Levi so desperately tried to hide. Perhaps that clouded, milky iris was the answer—nothing. Perhaps, once deprived of the very essence of his being (he would always be a soldier at heart but no longer in practice), misplaced aggression was all that remained.

In the early hours of the fourth day, Levi awoke with a searing pain in his knee. He did not have to move his legs or pull up his pant leg to know there was an ugly, angry bruise beneath the surface of the scar. Much like that previous morning, the pain ripped through his body and rendered him speechless. The pills on his bedside table did little to dull his agony, and they tasted like utter shit when swallowed dry. Too stubborn, as always, to ask for help, there was nothing to do but bask in the glow (read: cold sweats) of his misery until the pills eased his suffering just enough to make his way to his wheelchair.

“Humanity’s strongest,” he chastised himself. “What a fucking joke.”

In comparison, the seventh day was pure heaven; in a literal and metaphorical sense, the seas of clouds parted and lightened the pressure in the air.

Levi awoke the same as he had every morning for the last year—alone, in a quaint home in Marley (graciously bestowed upon him by the efforts of his previous comrades and begrudgingly accepted by him) on his back beneath a patchwork quilt. He much preferred sleeping on his side; however, his knee and spine refused him even that comfort. There was a routine here. He would first sit up, using his left hand to prop himself up in his bed (some mornings he would attempt his right, but the missing digits made it harder to retain stability), and experimentally wiggle his toes and shuffle his legs. He discovered early on that sudden movements after an extended period of inactivity would cause his joints and muscles to stiffen and end in searing pain on his injured side; without proper precautions and preparation, he’d be bedridden with pain. So, ever so slowly, he stretched his legs, rotated the joints, and gently curled into himself in an effort to prevent such misery. This was typically a five- to ten-minute ordeal, depending on his pain level that morning.

(You used to be so patient.)

The seventh day was a six, if he was forced to choose a number.

After spending roughly eight minutes preparing himself to leave bed, Levi, with a black metal cane in his left hand, made his way to the kitchen, where he ate a single apple. There was a routine here as well. Eating always felt like a chore, even before the state he found himself in; so rarely did he have time to indulge, and the food offered by the Scout Regiment was tolerable at best. An apple, or banana, or—on the rare occasion—a handful of strawberries were Levi's breakfast. He never spent much time enjoying them, rather opting to eat as quickly and efficiently as possible so that he could savor his morning tea, which was also a routine. He boiled eight ounces of water in a silver metal kettle on his stove to precisely one hundred and eighty-five degrees—never higher, never lower—and steeped one and a half teaspoons of his chosen loose leaf tea for five minutes. He always added the extra half teaspoon, seeing as he preferred his tea on the stronger side.

(You preferred black tea, slightly cooler than his, with half a sugar and a splash of milk.)

The routine was the only thing keeping him sane.

It still wasn’t enough.

He still thought about you every day. He still thought about your laugh and how he longed to hear it again. He thought about your smile and how rarely he saw it in his final days with you. He thought about the way your hair smelled when you were freshly showered. He thought about the last day he saw you—what he would have done differently, what he would have said had he known it would be the last time he ever spoke to you. Would it have changed things? If he hadn’t said such horrible things to you, would you have stayed?

He thought about the letter. The one he never had the strength to move off of his night table. Every letter and every ink smudge were etched into his brain.

(Levi,

I’m sorry to say this in a letter, but I won’t have the strength to do it any other way. I can’t risk changing my mind.

I love you. I have loved you since we were in the Scouts. Before any of this��before we knew about any of this shit, and we were just trying to kill the Titans and hope to God we weren’t going to be their next meal. You’re everything to me. You’re my best friend. You were the only person I trusted to walk into Hell with. It’s crazy to think about how things used to be. We were so different. I still remember the day you joined the Scouts. Hell, you didn’t even bother with a salute. I remember thinking Erwin was insane for bringing you in, there was no way that his gamble on you and your friends was going to pay off. I’ve never been more wrong. I’m still thankful for that. You have been my closest companion for nearly twenty years. I owe you my life more times than I can ever count. That’s why I have to leave.

You haven’t been the same since the war. For the last four years, I’ve watched you wither away into practically nothing. I can’t do it anymore. I’ve tried for so long to help you, and you fought me every step of the way. I can’t watch it anymore, Levi. I can’t keep watching you kill yourself. I don’t even recognize you anymore, you don’t even speak to me like yourself, it’s been like living with a ghost. I don’t know who you are, and I can’t keep looking for you anymore. I held on for so long because I loved you. I still do, even after all of this shit—I’m going to have to live with that for the rest of my life. I hope you understand that this is why I cannot stay here any longer. I can’t watch you die. Not again.

So, for now, this will have to be goodbye. When you find yourself again, please come back to me. I’ll be around. I miss you.)

And there, on the morning of the seventh day, Levi wept in the kitchen. He wept for so long that his tea went cold and his eyes burned through every tear he shed. The seventh day marked exactly a year since your departure, and Levi was no closer to himself than the day you left. You disappeared without a trace. He never once saw your face in public, never heard your voice, or caught a scent of your shampoo. Not even as much as your name.

He was so angry, so consumed with the past, and he felt as though he was not entirely human anymore.

And so Levi wept. And he mourned. And he grieved the life he could have had.

And then it was time for work.

MASTERLIST.

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