#i must write this fic
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“What if I want to fold the laundry?”
Merlin had incredulously asked Arthur one warm afternoon, when they were lounging in Arthur’s chambers, catching him up on the details of a new peace treaty, and Merlin had absentmindedly started to fold up the laundry as they spoke.
They had only been married for a little over a year, and Merlin court sorcerer for even longer than that. His memories of his servanthood are nothing but a faint memory he looks back on with mirth, and a twinge of longsuffering.
But not for Arthur. Those days are rife with embarrassment. Every time a memory casually floats past his mind - of dumping buckets on Merlin’s head or throwing something at him - a shudder of shame courses through him, and he pauses what he’s doing to bury his face in his hands, muffling a groan. All those years of treating his beautiful, angelic, powerful lover as nothing more than a servant. It’s more than he can stomach. Sure, he didn’t know the truth about him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he wishes he did.
It’s why he never thinks about it, and why when Merlin starts to fold up the laundry, panic surges through Arthur, and he leaps from the desk, rushing to snatch the laundry from his husband’s hands. “You don’t need to do that-!” he splutters, handing it off to a passing George.
Merlin is caught off guard, his now empty hands lingering in the air. “What if I want to fold the laundry?” he protested.
“It’s not your job.”
“But-” He wants to. Merlin doesn’t look back on those days with shame and embarrassment. Arthur may have been a clotpole at the time, but he knew it was only because he didn’t know. It was a part of his life, and doesn’t regret a thing. And he never minded the work. It took his mind off things, gave him something to do when destiny was getting too heavy. More than that, he liked taking care of Arthur, making sure he was safe and dressed. He had done it for so long that it just seemed natural; like a love language. An “I love you” woven into every tying of shirt laces. So he can’t understand why Arthur won’t let him do it now. “Surely even a court sorcerer can do some chores every now and then?” he protested lightly.
“No.”
Merlin’s brows furrowed, but he dropped the subject. No use arguing over it. He made a mental note to ask him about it one of these days, but not today.
#merthur#married merthur#also the love on the previous one was unreal#absolutely unreal#i must write this fic#happy au#arthur pendragon#merlin emrys#court sorcerer merlin#this is my 7000th post!!
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*when he finally floats out of the fucking lake*
Bystanders: What the fuck Jesus Christ
Arthur, probably: no im king arthur
#he's just so fucking dumb#i love him#based on that one scene#you must be courage#no im king arthur#merthur#merlin#bbc merlin#arthur pendragon#arthur pendragon returns#modern au#someone write a fic pls
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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR TEN
in which you and eddie find out just how much can happen on the roof of a parking garage. a scary criminal could show up, a phone call could interrupt important moments, a bit could go too far, and... marriage vows could be exchanged?
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, one (1) use of y/n, minors dni
→ wc: 8k+
→ a/n: if this is bad don't hmu. i returned to my wordy girl roots. also shout out to @br0ck-eddie and @big-ope-vibes for beta reading this for me <3
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
10:00 ─────ㅇ──────────── 24:00
HOUR TEN - 1:00 AM
Eddie is an erratic driver, which you should have known, but it doesn’t make you any less scared as he takes the empty curves of each street with intense speed. It doesn’t make you loosen your grip as you press into him as tightly as possible, practically molding your body to his.
You’re just grateful he was right – you didn’t see another soul for the entirety of the five minute drive. And if you did, you would have been mortified for them to see the way you clung to him.
His secondary location is a parking garage. If it were anyone else, if it were even so much as Eddie from ten hours before, sirens would be going off in your head and screaming for you to run as far as possible from this situation.
You don’t. Because it’s Eddie, and it’s Eddie being kind and flirty and civil. A new version of Eddie, and a new version of you.
You sit still and polite as he navigates the bike through a gap in the gate, the perfect size for a motorcycle to fit.
He keeps driving in circles, nearly making you dizzy, going up up up the parking garage levels until the ceiling breaks and you catch sight of the night sky again. The stars are more visible this high up, above the buzz of the city, closer to the atmosphere in altitude.
“Still alive back there?” he calls out as he cuts the engine, coming to a stop in one of the darker corners of the top level. You tell yourself it’s for practicality – if any sort of security happened upon this level, the two of you would remain hidden.
“Mhm,” you hum just loud enough for him to hear you through the helmet, arms aching from how tightly you continue to hold onto him.
If either of your hands were to slip, you’d graze against his partially exposed torso. Your fingers would make contact with his hips, would trace the expanse of curves and softness, possibly find their way to the trail of sparse hair down the center of his stomach.
It’s enough to make you fist his shirt into both hands, just to prevent that outcome.
“You sure?” he twists his body to look at you, and as he does, a hand comes up to rest on one of your arms.
It’s just a hand, and it’s just an arm. It’s just skin on skin. It’s nothing to call home about; Robin has grabbed your forearm plenty of times out of unbridled excitement, Steve has held onto it to guide you through crowds without losing you countless times, even Nancy has held your arm there before. None of them ever burned you before.
Maybe it’s not that Eddie’s touch scorns you, it’s not his palm kissed with flames. When his skin closes over yours, it only focuses your fire. That’s why it sears, that’s why it leaves your skin nothing but hot coals.
You burn for him.
“I’m positive,” your breath threatens to fog up the glass visor from the inside, “How do I get off this thing?”
He chuckles, and the hand holding your arm trails down, passing each of your knuckles with the press of a fingertip, drenched in intention. There is no reason for his touch to linger. There is no reason for him to draw roadmaps over your skin – it isn’t his to mark. And yet, the ashen lines appear all the same to you.
“Just swing off. I’ll stay sitting to balance the bike.”
You unravel your arms from around him, leaning your chest away from his back and immediately missing the proximity. You miss it as you clutch his shoulders, you miss it as you lift off the bike, you miss it as you stumble ever so slightly with your feet planted on concrete, and his hand shoots out to your hip in an effort to balance you.
It was an earnest effort, a casual touch, absolutely nothing but innocence in his fingertips as they wrap around your hip for a mere second before retracting. That doesn’t stop it from being gasoline on your fire.
He stands off of the bike unaware of the effect he’s continuing to have on you, pulling the keys from the ignition and popping the kickstand with such cruel casualty it begins to drive you insane.
“You need help with the helmet, or is it just part of your look now?” Eddie inquires as he walks around the back of the bike to stand in front of you.
The fucking smirk and the fucking dimples and the fucking eyes and the fucking-
“I need help,” you deadpan, playing into his game of cat and mouse. You’re willing to see how far you can push this until it breaks, is he? “You put it on me – you take it off.”
Your mind wanders to his comment, his threat, earlier. How if you didn’t get ready to come here, he’d undress you himself.
If him taking off this helmet is the closest you will ever get to that, so be it. It’ll give you something to think about tomorrow night in the comfort of your own bed.
Eddie shrugs happily, taking a step forward and carefully reaching out both hands to either side of the helmet. He’s slow in lifting it off, certainly just being careful and mindful of not hurting you, but it sends you hurtling even further to insanity. Inch by inch, the night’s cool air creeps up over your chin, over your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose. Your eyes flutter shut somewhere in the process.
When the helmet is fully removed, you keep your eyes shut. You wait for the shuffle of Eddie stepping back from you. You anticipate a comment on the state of your hair, your surely disastrous ‘helmet head’.
Neither comes. Instead, a warm breath hits your now cold cheek.
Your eyes open to find Eddie standing impossibly close to you. All downcast amber as his eyes trace over your face steadily, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips that remain slightly agape with each puffing breath. You don’t think he’s even recognized the way you had closed your eyes, nor the moment you’d opened them to catch him memorizing you up close.
“Eddie?” your voice cracks with the questioning, his name heavy on your tongue, “Is… Is everything okay?”
When his brown eyes meet yours, gilded honey and roasted chestnuts, they make your breath catch.
He nods with trepidation before breathing out, “Yeah. Everything’s…”
His words trail off, fading out into the buzz of the night surrounding you. The sounds of a city that never sleeps – distant sirens, a one-off car alarm, the random chirping of a bird, the beeping of a crosswalk signal. They all meld together into white noise, none of the singular components discernible. They’re nothing more than a background to the way Eddie is looking at you.
He raises a hand suddenly, still leaning in at a creeping pace, and tentatively reaches out to carefully tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. As his fingers curl into the skin behind your ear, lingering for far too long, the heel of his palm brushes your cheek.
You lean into it. Your face turns ever so slightly, eyes beginning to flutter again, desperately seeking out his touch. Enticing him to break, to cup your face fully, to give you more than you deserve in this moment.
Because he’s looking at you as if he’s about to kiss you. His eyes are flickering to your lips as you give in to futile want and heedless need, continuing to lean into his feathered touch, and you’re sure he’s about to kiss you. And you’re sure that you’ll let him.
His chest heaves just as painfully as yours. His pupils widen larger than yours, if possible. You watch an internal war rage behind his eyes, and you’re begging the part of him that wants you, wants this, to come out the victor. You want him to abandon all sensibility as you have.
Fuck civility. Fuck nuclear explosions. Fuck ocean waves. Fuck forest fires. Fuck friendship.
You’re past the point of return. All you want from him is his lips on your lips.
“Baby,” he whispers, a sickly sweet prayer falling from his lips, not a single ounce of malice soaked into the nickname. It’s not sweetheart. It’s not uttered in the same playful cadence as when he said it as he started up the bike. It’s not him teasing you. It’s a plea, a beg – he’s begging something of you that you’re too far gone to recognize.
But you hum in response, not knowing what he’s asking of you, opening your eyes as wide as you can manage in your moment of weakness, recognizing that his palm now fully cups your cheeks as his fingertips lazily press into your hairline. He’s closer now, leaning over you and covering you in his shadow, multiplying the darkness you reside in.
His nose bumps against yours. The oxygen you breathe in is replaced by his breath. He’s close, so terribly close, yet still so far. You’re tempted to finish the distance, but you need him to come to you. You need him to want this as much as you do, if not more.
You need to be the ocean this time. Because if you come to him, you’ll drown. You’ll descend to his darkest depths, and never find yourself above the surface again. Irreparable, collateral damage to yourself. All for wanting a man you’d claimed to hate ten hours prior.
Eddie’s freehand is grazing your hip, prepared to curl around you with force this time, to pull you into him and kiss you until the two of you are left bloodied and bruised, when your phone rings.
Both of you jump. In an instant, the closeness is lost – his hand leaves your cheek and hair, your eyes fully open, both of you stand awkwardly and flustered in the light shadows.
“I-” you don’t know what to say, hands shaking as you reach into your pocket and wretch out your phone.
JOHNNY BOY.
Jonathan is calling you, and you don’t know whether you want to commit a federal crime against him or your phone. Or maybe yourself.
You swear you can taste Eddie despite your lips never touching his. You can still feel the weight of his palm against you.
He has to take the phone from you, this time only because you’re holding it so tightly, glaring down at it so indignantly, he’s scared you might break it.
His thumb that once rested against your skin so gently is gliding across the screen, answering the call and putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Hey! Eddie!” Jonathan’s voice happily calls out, and it does nothing to chip away at your fruitless fury.
He was going to kiss you, and now he can’t even look you in your eyes.
“Are you both there right now? Or is she asleep?” Jonathan continues over the line.
You finally break your silence, “I’m here. We’re both here.”
“Where are you dudes?” A second voice from Jonathan’s side of the call asks, and you recognize that warm tone immediately. Argyle.
He won’t look at you. His gaze is sturdy on the phone, as if this wasn’t just a regular phone call but a video chat, as if there’s something more interesting being reflected in the screen compared to your currently desperate face.
You want to scream at him to hang up the phone. You want to beg him to throw the damn device over the wall behind the two of you and let it fall to the street, let it shatter and let the deal be damned just so you can feel his lips on yours and taste the sweetness of his tongue.
You just want to scream, honestly. Like a child. Stomp your foot, let out a fitful shriek, and pull the boy back into you.
You don’t. Partially because you’re grown, and partially because he won’t look at you.
There’s a doubt that creeps up as Eddie says something to the two boys on the line, a shadow of doubt that is darker than the night sky hanging above you two. Maybe Eddie didn’t want this. Maybe he’d just gotten lost in the moment, and now he felt ashamed.
The scream is left in your lungs, and the blooms on your vines quiver from the insecurity its residency radiates.
“Alright,” Eddie suddenly chuckles, pulling you back into the conversation, “So, uh, did you guys call for anything else besides playing babysitter?”
“No, that’s… all,” there’s hesitation in Jonathan’s voice, words unspoken that finally makes Eddie look up to catch your gaze.
Brown eyes meet yours – you burst into flames like it’s the first time.
The shadow of doubt eviscerates in the glow of the flames, the glow of your cheeks, as you watch him take you in with careful consideration. There’s no regret in those eyes, only remarkable care. A connection, a string tying you to him, the knots first set in place that night amongst friends.
He’s looking at you like the Eddie you thought to be dead and gone.
“You sure about that?” his tone is teasing, but his face is set in stone, eyes never leaving yours, “Sounds like you’ve got more to say, Byers.”
Argyle is the one who speaks up now, “It’s not that, it’s just… The photo you dudes sent is on your motorcycle. Are you even at your apartment right now?”
“Oh, absolutely. We actually only went outside to have a photoshoot on old Nightfury here. We’re currently safely tucked into bed, don’t worry, dudes.”
Eddie’s finally cracking a grin at you, and through it you’re transported to the past. Before you is a man of possibility, someone not yet an enemy. There’s a blank page set out before the two of you, and he’s wielding the pen like a weapon to be seen.
Nightfury? You mouth at him.
He blushes in response.
Oh, you’re definitely bringing that up after this phone call. Fuck talking about the almost kiss.
“Why do you sound so sarcastic?” Argyle questions, “Are you lying to us?”
“Argy- Yes, he’s lying. Christ, where is she? Put her on the phone instead,” Jonathan sounds entertainingly frustrated at the moment, and you take a step forward, palm reaching out for your cell.
Eddie doesn’t hand it over, head tilted at you, his youth breaking through the shadows that sharpen his jaw, “No can do, boss. Already tossed her body into the canals.”
“You what-” Jonathan’s voice is shrill, and Eddie bites back his laughter as he remembers that Steve is the only one in on that inside joke amongst the three of you.
“He’s lying,” you finally call out, taking another step closer, “I’m fine. He’s… it’s a joke. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay. But are you guys actually at the apartment, or not?”
“We’re not,” your honesty has Eddie playfully scowling.
I hope you kiss me when this is over. I hope you berate me for not playing along, and I hope you press me against the cold concrete behind us, and I hope you kiss me until I can’t breathe.
The version of yourself from ten hours ago is practically wailing on the floor, kicking and screaming in defeat. You don’t even care. You can admit it – you want Eddie Munson to kiss you. You don’t have to say it out loud, you don’t have to voice that want quite yet. It’s enough for your beating heart to silently admit it and accept the truth.
“Then where are you two? Jesus Christ.”
Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but you’re shaking your head with warning, knowing he’ll only lie and make things worse, “Some parking garage. Don’t worry about it.”
“Some parking gar- are you two fucking stupid? It’s one in the morning, go home,” Jonathan’s using a brotherly voice you’ve only had the pleasure of hearing on rare occasions – usually when you’ve joined him, Steve, and Robin out at the bars, and the latter two have drank well beyond their limits.
“We know what time it is,” Eddie scoffs. Now that he’s set his stare on you, he’s unrelenting. He keeps you in his line of vision as if you’re a buoy in his ocean, as if he’s capable of getting lost in his own waves.
Hopefully he is. If you can’t be an ocean to him, you hope he has to suffer in his own depths.
“We’re being safe,” you assure the two boys over the line. If you took one more step, you would brush up against Eddie. Shoulder to shoulder, cotton sleeve against leather sleeve. You don’t, but the thought still thrills you.
“Safe?” Jonathan is now scoffing, making Eddie twist his face in annoyance, which makes you want to laugh. He’s getting a taste of his own medicine. “Do you two even know our city’s crime levels? Eddie, I’ve seen you in fights, you cannot-”
“First of all, you’ve seen me in drunken fights,” Eddie snaps in interruption, finally looking down at the phone he holds, “I can throw a fucking punch when I haven’t drank my body weight in whiskey. Second of all, we’re fine. I’m sure if I can’t take whatever big, scary criminal that comes our way, little miss independent here can. She’s scarier than we give her credit for.”
Silence. You almost don’t notice the way Jonathan and Argyle have gone quiet as you’re still hung up on the nickname of little miss independent.
Eddie’s the one who steps closer this time. He glances around the empty rooftop of the parking garage, and he takes a microscopic step closer to you. It’s more of a shuffle, really, but it’s enough for your shoulders to finally brush.
“Shit, man,” Argyle is sighing over the line, as you stare at the ground and Eddie stares at you, “Nance was right.”
Eddie freezes. There’s a choking sound from the phone, and it sounds an awful lot like Jonathan.
Nance was… right?
“What was Nance right about?” you ask, looking up to Eddie quickly. You expect him to be just as confused as you are but he looks petrified.
If all his blood hadn’t drained from his expression, he’d surely be blushing. But he’s stark pale beneath the moonlight, eyes glued to the screen as if Argyle could see his death stare over the line. He looks like a man caught red-handed. You have to look over his palms, the one holding your phone as well as the one quickly being shoved awkwardly into his pocket, just to double check that the skin there isn’t painted maroon.
“What was Nancy right about?” you repeat yourself, but the question is less directed at the phone now. You don’t care about Argyle or Jonathan’s answer – you care about Eddie’s, “What did she sa-”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jonathan interrupts, “We’ve gotta go, but there’s no need for you guys to send a photo this hour. We, uh, we’re the only ones awake probably, so… consider this your official hourly check in. Please, stay safe.”
“Talk later, my dudes!” Argyle yells in the background.
The line goes dead. The black screen returns to flash both yours and Eddie’s face in the reflection. One looks overexposed, left out in the light for far too long, and the other looks shadowed, as if having been left behind in the dark.
You’ve been left in the dark. Whatever just happened between the three boys, you’re clueless to it.
You have to put your hand out for Eddie to give back the phone, still looking far more nervous than he was before the phone call. All the cocky attitude, all the hints of teasing, all the almost kisses are gone.
Now’s a perfect opportunity to grill him on what Nancy said. He obviously knows, and if you were smart, you’d dig your heels in and force an explanation from it. You deserve answers; after an exchange of apologies and a quiet acceptance from both of you at giving this a real chance tonight, you deserve to not be left as the odd one out still.
“Why is your bike named Nightfury?”
Except it’s not the perfect opportunity. If you ask him now, he’ll deny knowing anything about it. You’ve learned a lot about Eddie in the last ten hours, and the major discovery has been the way in which he uncurls pieces of himself for your eyes only. He is slow and shy in being observed, and he won’t offer honesty when put on the spot like that.
If you change the topic, if you let it slide, he might tell you on his own time. You’re praying he tells you on his own time.
He looks taken back by your question, watching as you tuck your phone away into the pocket of his sweats that rest on your hips, “What?”
“You mentioned your bike’s name is Nightfury,” you shrug nonchalantly, “Is it some superhero reference I’m not getting? It’s fitting, but I just… I don’t know. I’m intrigued, I guess.”
“Superhero reference? Uh, no, not quite,” he scrunches up his face, and you recall the weight of his palm on your cheek. The almost taste of his lips almost on yours, “It’s- Jesus Christ, now I wish it was a superhero reference. The truth is so lame.”
You break a smile and bump your shoulder against his, trying to shake the racing of your heart, “Can’t be more lame than all your action figures back home.”
“Didn’t you say they were actually cool?”
“I actually called them creepy, if I’m recalling correctly.”
The two of you move as a unit, gliding over to the concrete ledge that over looks the city, simultaneously leaning your full body weight onto your forearms as Eddie digs out a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s pocket.
He catches you eyeballing them, and immediately shakes his head, tapping the top of the carton against the palm of his hand (the same palm that was once cradling your face so gently), “I’m not sharing my cigs. Fuck off.”
There’s no malice, and that’s probably the only reason that, once he’s pulled his own cigarette out of the pack and discarded it onto the concrete in front of the two of you, you immediately shoot a hand out to take one. You await for him to snap at you, to smack your hand away, to repeat himself.
He stays silent as you pull one for yourself. Offers his lighter, even, once the end of his glows cherry red.
You wish he would just lean over and occupy your space again, cup his hand around the end of the cigarette that is dangerously close to your cheek, let the flint fueled flame flicker between you as your gasoline fueled embers sparked to life again. You wish, you wish, and you wish. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t even meet your eyes as you pass the lighter back and inhale the smoke.
You hold it until his fingertips brush the palm of your hand, before you exhale sharply.
“It’s from How to Train Your Dragon.”
You have your cigarette halfway to your mouth, leaving it hovering as you side-eye him, “What?”
“Nightfury. It’s from the movie, How to Train Your Dragon. The, uh, main dragon, Toothless, is a Nightfury.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. You already wanted to kiss him badly enough, already found your defenses drooping limply when it came to him, and then he had to go and say shit like that.
“You named your motorcycle,” you start slowly, tilting your head in his direction, “After an animated movie? Cute, although I don’t think scary metalheads like yourself were the intended audience.”
Your words make the corners of his mouth twitch. Smoke curls out from the center of his lips, puckered in consideration as he turns his gaze to the buildings towering around you. “I’m a massive nerd who holds a weekly D&D club and collects mythical creature figurines. I am exactly their intended audience.”
“You have a D&D club?”
You’ve learned a lot about Eddie tonight. And yet, every new discovery you uncover continues to surprise you.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he laughs quietly into the night air, “You saw the inside of my apartment, did you really not see the whole Dungeons and Dragons bit coming?”
You shrug, still watching him watch the city, “I… I don’t know. Contrary to belief, I really don’t know much about you. A shame, really.”
“Are you trying to say you’d like to know more about me, sweetheart?”
Yes. “God, no. I think I’ve had my fill of Eddie Munson Jeopardy for the night, thank you very much.”
You want to know the name of his band, you want him to ramble on about the game you know nothing about, you want him to elaborate more on his love for How to Train Your Dragon. You’re brimming with wants, overflowing your cup with curiosity. He shouldn’t intrigue you this way. It’s dangerous – you don’t know where you’ll put all this information when the night ends and you two part ways, both five hundred dollars richer and returning to the hatred that had been established.
Was it even hatred anymore? Or had it morphed into a softened version of itself, something more akin to indifference?
“Hey, Eddie,” you watch your cigarette burn away at itself, think of it like your insides as the flecks of ash fly off into the wind of their own accord, “What happens after tonight?”
You’ve caught him off guard; he’s not expecting the question, and it occurs to you he’s just as unsure as you are.
He doesn’t know where to go from here either.
“I dunno,” he murmurs. His arm shifts, and the hand that has his cigarette tucked between the fingers is now resting beside your own, “What do you want to happen after tonight?”
I want everything to change. I want to laugh with you again. I want to see you when we’re out with our friends and for you to smile instead of scowl.
You just shrug, and it makes your shoulders brush again, his leather crinkling against the movement, “Nothing has to change. We can… We can pretend it was all a bad dream, if you want. Although I’m definitely referring to your motorcycle as Toothless from now on.”
“No one will believe you,” he scoffs, ignoring your comment on nothing changing. But the curl of his lips had faded instantaneously, a subtle change that would have been missed if you weren’t watching him so closely. But you were. You noticed. You’d probably never be able to not notice. Even when he returns to scowling, even when he’s returned to the bottom of his ocean and you’re left with legs too weak to continue kicking in an effort to keep you afloat, “But… yeah. Yeah, it can all just be a…. Dream.”
Dream. Not a bad dream, just a dream.
“It’s weird that we don’t have to take a photo, right?” you’re quick to change the subject, to avoid deep diving into his implications.
It should give him whiplash, but he seems completely unaffected as he waves a hand around the open air in front of you two, “Not really. But we could still take one, if you want, though. Just for us.”
Just for us. A stolen moment and a blanket of security that this night existed, that it wasn’t just a shared fever dream and that it was all real. The Eddie you first met still exists six feet under, you two managed civility, and it was real.
“We could,” you agree, a bit too eager for your liking, “I mean, it’s a pretty view. We shouldn’t waste it.”
He doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s mentioned he comes here often, that this is a space he finds himself running to, just like the bar. He bites his tongue just as he had when you’d stolen a cigarette for yourself. A cigarette now wasted, because you hadn’t taken another drag in far too many minutes.
The hand that rested beside yours so casually inches closer, pinkies beginning to overlap. “Exactly.”
Your hand shakes the entire time as you reach into your pocket and produce the phone, as you hover the camera to perfectly capture your two hands and the cars that are so small in comparison on the streets below. Overlapping pinkies become hooked, twisted together, and you’re not sure if it was you or Eddie that took that final step.
You leave the flash off as two cigarettes glow orange like a sunset, like the ending to a beginning you’ve been hurtling towards at full force with Eddie this entire night.
It’s a nice photo.
Eddie lowly whistles as he glances over at the screen and the barely blurry photo displayed, “That’s a good one. We’ve gotta put it in the scrapbook, for sure.”
“The scrapbook?” you giggle, still memorizing every detail of the moment frozen in time, “What are we going to call it? ‘The Night Y/N and Eddie Didn’t Hate Each Other’?”
“The name can be a work in progress. After all, the night is still young. Maybe murder is still on the table and it can get shown on our Dateline special.”
You snort, and he grins. Your pinkies are still interlocked.
“Imagine the name of that episode. Just Keith Morrison narrating our greatest hits,” you muse as the breeze picks up around the two of you. It’s nice, cool and relieving from the flames that have been building and creeping up your wrist.
Both cigarettes are wasting away now; neither of you are willing to let go of the contact long enough to properly smoke them.
It’s as if he’s noticing it, too, as he curls his hold even tighter, a subtle squeeze you return without thinking. It’s just a small touch, a miniscule connection between the two of you, but it feels bigger than anything before. It’s larger than the almost kiss, it’s larger than his apology, it’s larger than everything. That’s what it is – it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it’s everything to you. A rebuilding and rekindling of all the paths not taken.
Eddie pulls you from everything suddenly, not by pulling away his pinky, but by putting on his best Keith Morrison impression, “Two enemies, one apartment, an unfortunate series of city canals. Hatred is a fine line to dance, but just how far can one young woman go when a twenty-two year old man takes things too far. Tonight, on Dateline…”
Your free hand shoves at his shoulders, and his pinky clings stiffly to yours to keep his balance, “Shut up! Why am I the one murdering you? I’m a helpless woman! If anyone’s getting murked, it’s me.”
“Oh please, sweetheart, that’s exactly why you’d be the one to get away with it! No one suspects the sweet college girl who lives in the dorm down the hall to murder the big, bad wolf,” he cackles, returning to lean into your space tauntingly as he sets the scene, “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t throw my ass into those canals if given the chance.”
I wouldn’t. “I’m about ten seconds away from it.”
“Yeah?”
No. “Yeah.”
“Well, that’s hot.”
You remember his whimpers from the bathroom suddenly, and bloom into color. Instead of answering his banter, you bite your lip and look harshly down at your conjoined hands. Pinky in pinky, cigarettes dying down together. The burning end has neared where your fingers clench on the filter, and you tell yourself that that’s the source of the heat coursing through your body. It has to be, because it certainly can be the effect of Eddie. Eddie, touching himself. Eddie, moaning. Eddie, definitely not stubbing his toe.
Flames and oceans, you remind yourself, flames and oceans do not mix. Can not mix.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks with certainty, the cadence in his voice fading into something of serious discussion. The playfulness is still there, just more subdued, “And can it… not cause some big fight between us this time?”
Well, that can’t be good. “Go for it.”
“I told you why I hate you, so… why do you hate me?”
You understand his request immediately; it’s a loaded question, no doubt.
Why do I hate you?
For the life of you, you can’t pinpoint an exact moment. And unlike Eddie, you’re willing to tell him the truth, you want to reward him with honesty. The time of avoidant answers has passed for you, and you want to bare your soul to him in a peculiar sense.
“I- Okay, I don’t know exactly why,” you begin, considering finally disconnecting your pinky from his before deciding against it, “So I’ll talk you through it, but no interruptions, okay?”
“Okay. I’d pinky swear, but, y’know,” he raises your hands into the air ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the position he’s put you two in for the first time in the entire conversation.
You both laugh at the sentiment before you continue on.
“I’d like to preface this with the fact I know you won’t tell me the truth about this, even the others can’t tell me the truth about it, so don’t think of this as me seeking out answers. I’m the one offering an explanation, not you. So…just…” you take a sharp breath in and catch his eyebrows shooting up into his bangs from the corner of your eyes. You can’t look at him head on, a lingering fear of showing this type of vulnerability with him being impossible to shake, “That first night we met. You were nice, right? You were nice, we got along, and then… Then I went to the bathroom. And I came back, and suddenly, you… you weren’t nice. You weren’t quite mean, not yet, but you certainly weren’t acting the same anymore. And I don’t know why you changed, I don’t care,” An absolute lie. You cared. You cared so assiduously, far more than you should, to know why, “But after that, you were just… cold, I guess? And it all built up. I thought it was a game at first, I gave up trying to be friends and decided whatever was happening between us might be normal. You’d give short answers, so I gave short answers. You’d insult me or make fun of me, so I’d insult you or make fun of you. It was just a game. Until you got mean.”
A siren flashes by on the street below, and you can’t even make out the sound of his breathing. Now feels like a good time to pull away your pinky, to take a final drag of your cigarette, to leave behind his burning touch. The moment you try, he completely traps your finger between his pinky and ring finger.
He’s not letting you go without a fight.
You’re tired of fighting him.
“I actually think it took me a while to really hate you back, y’know? I think I was still holding onto this... this childish hope that you didn’t mean to be cruel. Or that you were just jealous of me intruding on your friend group – you told me yourself that you guys go all the way back to high school. I was this invader, and I excused your cruelty for a really long time because of it, because I told myself I understood. But then… six months ago, I stopped understanding. I had to admit defeat and hate you because you didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“Steve’s party.”
He says it so quietly, you almost miss it. He sounds remorseful, he sounds sad, he sounds regretful, he sounds mournful.
“Steve’s party,” you confirm just as quietly. Your pinky is slack against his as his grip finally loosens, “That night, everything you said… It finally felt personal. From the minute I got there, you were just… awful. You knew exactly where to hit me when I was down. And it took me shattering Steve’s poor glass to realize you really do hate me. You hate me, so I hate you.”
It’s out there, the truth – your only reason for hating Eddie Munson was because he hated you. It was based on a worthless principle. Born out of necessity, you had forced yourself to hate the man who currently has your pinky wrapped around his, who had pledged his protection over you with the same mouth that had claimed he’d never miss you if you evaporated from his life.
The hate would always be there. It wouldn’t wash away with his waves, and it wouldn’t turn to ash from your flames. You couldn’t get your hopes up that one night could fix it all.
“I was a dick that night. I know I’ve already said sorry but… I’m sorry,” he finds his reply in the darkness, in a hushed tone. Quiet and ridden with shame.
His pinky falls even more slack with yours as if he’s silently offering to let you go, as if the memory of what he’d done is enough to remind him you aren’t his to keep. But you’ve already given up the fight – your pinky stays with his.
“You were a dick,” you agree, “But I know you’re sorry now, it’s just a matter of… accepting it. Letting it go. I’ve not exactly been innocent in this. Remember Chrissy Cunningham?”
He laughs dryly, clearly recalling the blonde you’d caught him out on a date with.
“Jesus, fuck. Yeah, I remember Chris. I never did get a second date.”
“Because of me,” you try to tease, doing as he would and leaning your bicep into his.
He nods, “Because of you.”
You’d been extra spiteful that night. It was before Steve’s party, even. The moment you’d seen them in that booth, Chrissy giggling far too much at each of what had to have been Eddie’s terrible jokes, watching her perfectly manicured hand settle on his shoulder, you had been out for blood.
You’d approached them, and made Chrissy believe Eddie was already your husband. You’d even switched one of the rings on your right hand to your left ring finger. An entire debacle had been made in that diner, and Eddie looked ready to murder you when Chrissy had left and murmured something about ‘calling him later’ as you continued to credit him for being an absolute cheater.
She never did call. You must have really sold the entire lie with your crocodile tears.
“I was a bitch that night,” you supply as you let your cigarette finally drop from between your fingers, hitting the concrete as it begins to sizzle out, “So… I’m sorry. And we’re even.”
Eddie steals his cigarette into his other hand and takes a final drag before he properly puts it out, “Looking back now, it’s kind of fucking funny. Seriously. Did you know I knew her in high school?”
You don’t expect his lighthearted response, but you take it in full stride with a squeeze from your pinky, “What?”
“Yup. She never gave me the time of day back then. And after our date, I found out she’d been already trying to get back with her on-again, off-again boyfriend from back then,” he shrugs, turning to glance at you, “Guess I wasn’t the cheater.”
“Jesus, I’m sorr-”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize for her. Apologize for the fact you never even signed a prenup with me, or invited me to our wedding, wife.”
That makes you break. You both laugh so hard you have no choice but to relinquish your hold on each other, bringing your hands up to laugh freely into your palms.
“I am so sorry, my dear husband,” you taunt, “Maybe I’ll remember to invite you to the renewal of our vows in five years time.”
“Five years?” he crinkles his nose, shaking his head harshly, nearly tearing his curls from his makeshift bun, “Fuck that. I never even got to say my vows the first time. You owe me a wedding, princess.”
“You never bought me a ring.”
“You never bought me a ring.”
“My bad,” you barely squeak out before you succumb to even more laughter. Eddie’s dimples shine as he joins you, looking to the ground as his shoulders shake.
He sighs deeply once the two of you compose yourselves, turning and leaning his back onto the ledge, staring out at the empty parking lot, “Where should we have our honeymoon? I’m thinking the diner would consider hosting us, even after your fiasco.”
“The diner?” you feign offense and mimic his position, “Fuck that,” you parrot his words right back, “You’re taking me to Paris, pretty boy.”
It’s a deliberate choice; the nickname doesn’t slip carelessly this time. It’s said with a conviction that makes Eddie blush, that makes him look at you with dark eyes.
“Pretty boy and sweetheart,” he mumbles, gaze flickering down your face, “We make quite the odd married couple. I don’t know how they’d feel about us in Europe.”
“They’d certainly stop and stare at first glance,” you play along, still giggling quietly, “But I think then they’d see just how in love we obviously are and just….” you pause and let your eyes flutter shut for dramatic effect, not catching sight of the way he suddenly melts for you, “Swoon.”
You don’t see it, but he’s looking at you like he’s about to kiss you again.
“Here,” he suddenly says, fiddling with his fingers when you snap your eyes back open, “Allow me, Edward Munson, to vow myself to you…. Uh….” he pauses as he realizes he doesn’t know your full name, and so you jokingly lean in and whisper it to him as if you aren’t the only two up here. He repeats it back as if he’d always known it, and you’re both back to giggling, “In sickness or in health. In hatred or in murder. In…. bets and from this day forward.”
He’s holding one of his rings, one decorated with a chunky skull, and motions for your hand. You offer it and allow him to slide the ring on with as much ease as he had slid the helmet onto you.
It fits a bit big, but you both look down at it as if it’s the world’s greatest gift.
“Wow,” you breathe out, your hand still cupped by his, “It’s certainly no diamond.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Allow me to just go to the twenty-four hour diamond shop and get something more to your taste, my beloved,” he goads, finally dropping your hand.
The metal is warm on the inner ring from his skin, searing into you just as his touch does.
“You sure know how to commit to a bit, Munson,” you murmur beneath your breath, lifting your hand to inspect the ring more closely. You’ve never paid much mind to his rings before, only ever knowing that they were there and they were a staple to his look.
“That I do, wife,” he grins widely, boyish in his suddenly shy stance, “You’re already wearing my sweats and my shirt, why not add the ring? Complete the look?”
“Complete the look,” you repeat and shake your head, shrugging, “Okay, fine. But just for tonight.”
Just for tonight, because after tonight, nothing changes. Your heart pangs at the thought but you don’t let your smile or joking demeanor fade with him.
“Of course, of course,” he waves the hand that is now one ring lighter, “Just for tonight. Come morning light, everything goes back to normal. No one has to know you spent the night married to me, sweetheart.”
“I mean, I’ve already moved in for the night,” you remark, looking up into his eyes, “We have moved quite quickly, haven’t we?”
“We have. All that’s left is consummating the marriage, or whatever,” he shimmies a shoulder into you, turning to face the motorcycle, “Speaking of home, we should get going before any scary criminals show up and you have to beat them up for me.”
Your cheeks are burning red, your hand is carrying his ring and flames, “Oh, I’m sorry. We are so not brushing right past the fact you know the word consummate.”
It’s easy. Being with him is easy, on fire or not. It is easier to enjoy him and joke with him, fall into civility with him, than to force yourself to hate him. You don’t care if tonight changes nothing for him; it changes everything for you.
“I’m brighter than I look, doll.”
It is easy to burn for him. For tonight, and for the rest of your life, quite possibly.
He picks the helmet up off of the seat and holds it out for you as you follow him, immediately making you grumble in protest as you take it without a fight.
You decide to take one last chance before the helmet separates the two of you again. One last way to tell him you don’t hate him, you don’t know if you ever hated him, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever hate him.
“You know, I think we skipped a step,” you flip the helmet, not meeting his eyes this time, mustering all your bravery, “Usually, you have to kiss your bride, then consummate the marriage.”
Quiet. He’s too quiet.
You’ve stunned him into silence, and you take it as a sign that you’ve gone too far. You’ve brought the almost kiss back up in the most indirect of ways, and you regret it immediately.
“I’m sorry,” you immediately try to rectify, “I- that was dumb. Bad joke. I… I’ll leave the bits to you.”
You don’t give him a chance to reply as you shove on the helmet, much less gracefully than he had put it on you, and wait for him to get on the bike.
No words are exchanged. You can’t see if he’s blushing through the tint of the visor. You convince yourself that he’s only tense as you climb onto the bike behind him because he’s uncomfortable now, because you’ve breached a limit you’d never even noticed.
Of course he wasn’t going to kiss you. Of course you shouldn’t have mentioned it, let alone joked about it. You’re an idiot. Even in civility, you’re an idiot.
He drives even faster to the apartment this time, which is dangerous considering you don’t grip him nearly as tightly.
A game of fate you should have realized is dangerous to play. It is dangerous to burn for him, because he does not burn for you. This fire is one-sided and self-destructive, and although it is easy, you should have known better. The hating him is safer than the wanting him. The fury is safer than the yearning. The glasses shattered were safer than the moments shattered.
You arrive back at the apartment. He parks the bike. You return the helmet to him.
You walk up the stairs ahead of him. You don’t speak to him. You twist the ring he gave you.
You keep your head down at the door. He rustles with his keys.
The burning is too easy. You should have known better.
But then, he says your name, keys still hanging from the lock of the door to apartment 2C.
You look up at him, and wonder if he sees your embers, clear as day. You wonder if he’s about to tell you to collect your things and inform the others that the bet is off, that the two of you will scrounge together the money you owe them and forget the night ever happened.
“Tonight changes nothing, right?” he questions once he has your full attention. You can only nod, ignoring the sharp pain of reality, “Nothing that happens tonight has to matter, right?”
You swallow hard. “Right.”
He’s the one nodding now, seemingly lost in thought.
This is it. This is the part it all ends.
“Great,” he finally concedes, voice raspy. You’re about to parrot back the sentiment when his hands are suddenly back in your hair, and his breath is back against your cheek, "Then fuck it."
This time, almosts don’t cut it. He kisses you, and he tastes like salt water as he meets your ash.
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#twenty four hours#my writing#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fic#i am nervous for this one jesus fuck#shaking as i post it but the show must go on!#gonna go offline for several hours now#or just simply read bluey's newest story hehe#no one look at me
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All I want…is for Pete to have a white streak in his hair where Wiggly touched him. Okay? Is that too much to ask? For the drama???
#like the great horror protagonists of lore#am I writing a fic to make that happen yes#has it already gone through like three plot shifts yes#does it involve the Lords in Black sticking around Hatchetfield High to cause cosmic horror yes#is it already almost ten thousand words you’d better believe it#one day I’ll finish something and not produce a novella#starkid#nerdy prudes must die#nerdy prudes spoilers#peter spankoffski#hatchetfield
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Hello, could I please request a Captain Levi X reader fic where he comforts a sick and injured reader please? Canonverse of course. I love your writing btw :)
Thank you so much for the request! I hope you enjoy, dear anon <3
Tags: levi x reader, fluff, canonverse, mutual pining, caretaking, broken bones + blood mention, reader is physically supported, platonic undressing/nudity, fem!reader
Word count: 5800
Levi could not shake the feeling: had he been there, you never would have wound up like this. With that train of thought came a crash of regret, his one vow being to live without it. He could not turn back time and prevent the accident from happening, but there was one thing he could do to alleviate its aftermath.
Fresh off the return from the expedition, he had not even changed out of his uniform yet, Levi made straight for Hange’s office. “Put me in the infirmary tonight.”
Hange rolled their eyes and teased, “How about a hello or a please first, huh?”
“Hi, and please.”
Hange grinned, internally laughing for having expected anything more. “You got any good reason? Hurt or something?”
They already knew the answer to that. His grey shirt was just as ironed as it was before setting off beyond the walls. Not one wrinkle in his canvas coat. No rips in his cape. Certainly not injured.
“Or did you just want an easy shift?”
They both knew: only one person had ended up in the infirmary. They both knew: that one person was you. In a wordless, imbalanced eye contact, Hange communicated their knowledge of the nature behind his rare request. Levi communicated that if they uttered one word about it, they too would end up on the list of casualties.
“Yeah,” Levi spoke flatly, “that’s it.”
The section commander dipped their quill pen fresh, crossed out Nanaba’s name and replaced the assignment with his. “Consider it done, but you owe me!”
Levi merely scowled and promptly turned on his heel. Stewing in irritation yet also simmering in thought of how to repay them. Maybe some assistance with a titan capture, maybe just saving their ass again as he had countless times before.
With the captain’s back turned, Hange hollered after him, “You would save yourself a lot of time and trouble if you just asked them out, you know, like a normal person!”
But Levi had already shut the door and started down your way. Gritting his teeth, by subduing a smacking, he considered the two of them even again.
// // //
Though he had sped down the hallway, Levi dampened his pace as he approached the infirmary. At your door, a deep breath as his fingers delicately inched along the handle, just enough leverage to let himself in as quietly as possible.
Golden hour seared the white walls and placed a spotlight on the lone patient bundled in bed. Your lips were trembling. Your breaths were uneven. Your body was tired, bogged down by stiff casts and bandages. Levi felt his throat instinctively tighten. Fists clenched at his sides, aching to do something - anything - for you. To brush the strand of hair from your face, to straighten you from the entanglement of your sheets, but he was woefully aware that any movement carried the potential to wake you, and with the look on your face - he determined that unconsciousness was not a bad place for you to be.
Levi shuffled his boots across the wooden floor, cautious of how creaky the panels could be. Slowly, he lowered himself to a seat on the bed across from yours, nothing but a nightstand and temptation between. With a sigh, he tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, searching for ironic escape from the scene he had begged to be placed in, but instead - all he could picture was what must have happened to you out there. How had you ended up injured but no one else? Where were your comrades? Your squad leader? Where was he?
“Alone out there,” Levi pitied. The one who was always thinking of others - in their time of need - no one showed up for them. Again, Levi released an exasperated sigh. He was well familiar with how cruel the world could be. Every now and then, it still managed to surprise him. In your case, he supposed.
Come to think of it, the infirmary itself seemed in remarkably poor condition. Levi swiped his finger along the bedframe and scoffed at the dust that flew from his touch. At the allergen, he sniffed slightly, and through that noticed the musk in the air. Levi glared out the window and into the empty courtyard. A lovely spring evening you were both missing: budding trees, bloomed flowers… Flowers.
Levi surveyed your state, bargaining within himself for a handful of seconds. With no sign of your stir, he clutched the side of the mattress and hoisted himself to his feet. Despite the audible crunch of the comforter, you remained sound in sleep, silently granting your attendant permission to depart from your side - however temporarily.
At the door, he turned back once again: on one hand - anticipating that you would remain at rest so he could sneak out, on the other - hoping that you would call out to him, Levi, please don’t go. His knuckles turned white around the handle before swiftly departing, cutting himself off from overthinking any longer, at least for a little while.
// // //
It had only been ten minutes, but he swore he was going too slow. Picking all of the wildflowers he could find, he tucked them beneath his arm until he had assembled a makeshift bouquet. Just enough to flush out the hospital aura, but as his arm began to cramp, he realized there may never be enough when it came to you. Grateful to be outside, Levi waited out his blush before heading back inside.
This time, more hurried than when he first approached - the guilt of leaving you alone in there propelled his pace. Hastily, he flung the door open, causing your eyes to do the same.
“Shit…” Levi cursed himself as he watched your figure shift. Tiny groans echoed throughout the barren room as you came to. With a few harsh blinks, your vision adjusted to the scene. A stark but beautiful transition, dreamlessness to the stuff of dreams: Levi in the door frame, flowers in hand, overcast in the gradient of sunset.
“Am I … dreaming?” Your words made his heart halt, Levi clutched the stems a little tighter. Your angelic voice fresh out of sleep was suddenly seized by a sharp inhale, speech weakened, “My… my head…”
He may have said something, but you could not tell. Merciless ringing in your ears combined with the pounding at the back of your head, leaving you oblivious to everything external. You cupped your palm around your forehead and winced through clenched teeth. Atop your hand came his, fingers wedged in the spaces between yours. His contact was your answer: this was not a dream for not even in your most self-indulgent desires would you have come up with this.
His hand did not massage you, did not apply pressure, but reminded you of his diligent presence. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you. It was what he longed to say, what you longed to hear. As your inhales and exhales diluted, you both regained the composure to settle for less forthcoming words. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and were met with those of solid steel, “Levi?”
Cracks in your voice, he swallowed for you, “You’re burning up.”
Your lips parted in confusion, hardly believing the scenario you were in. I thought… Nanaba… Why is he…? Levi read your questions and chose to ignore them.
He was conscious of it, but conscious not to mention it - the sweat that came off your skin and stuck his hand to yours. Instead, he paraphrased, “Don’t you feel hot?”
An autonomous response, you shivered, whether due to the temperature or a certain other factor. “N’No, I think I -” your speech was interrupted by a pair of violent sneezes - saying all he needed to hear.
Levi closed his eyes and frowned, silencing the germaphobe within him, “I see.”
Hiding behind your wrist, “Sorry.”
He reached into his chest pocket and lent you a handkerchief, “Don’t be.”
His gaze descended from your eye contact, granting an ounce of privacy. Now that you had sat up, he could see precisely the spot you had laid. A stiff indent on the pillow outlined your shoulders, nape, and head. Folds in the sheets likewise defined your stagnant sleeping pose. You hadn’t moved for hours. It prompted him to scan for more hints: your nightstand displayed no tissues, no tea. Levi stifled a disapproving sneer, substituting action for anger.
Levi’s fingertips grazed your comforter, “Your bandages…”
“Yeah…” a tinge of stuffiness in your voice, your movements staggered as you brought your limbs out from underneath your bedding.
Upon revelation, his eyes widened. Your right calf had been swallowed by a cast startlingly thick. Your right arm had been painted red by blood-soaked bandages. The sight made you lightheaded, nauseous, Levi caught it, “Hey, don’t look at it. Look at me.”
Your throat bobbed in nerves, anxious whimpers emitted. Over your frightened sobs, Levi ordered over them, “Look at me. Look at me.”
Past blurry eyes, you strained to follow his guidance. His steel gaze was dead set on your wounds. Lips remained their characteristic flat. Hands were gentle and stable in lifting your arm closer to him. Even as your blood soaked through to his skin, even as you cried in panic and pain, he showed no signs of rile. Observing his calm brought you closer to your own: infectious medicine.
“It hurts?”
“Y’Yeah.”
Slowly, Levi lowered his hold until your arm rested on the bed again. He stood and made his way to the cupboards. In your gaze, past the twitch of your eyelids, you caught the focus in his. Jaw set, near-silent rolls of pills as he picked up bottles and read them, knuckles white around the acetaminophen. A coughing fit snuck up on you, and by the time it was over, he was once again at your bedside. Effortlessly, he twisted the cap off, and poured two pills into his palm. With his left hand, Levi placed his thumb on the bulb of your chin and pushed down, tugging your lips apart. In his right hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched the capsule and perched it between your top and bottom teeth.
In his contact, you shuddered against him, yet his voice remained monotone, “Swallow.”
You raised your brows sharply, and at your sight, Levi realized how self-indulgent he was being. On the other hand, you were ignorant, too blinded by perplexion: the command of your captain and the tenderness of a husband. You sure this isn’t a dream?
Levi reached into his coat and pulled out his canteen, untouched from this morning’s expedition. Again, his eyes honed in on your lips as his reach began to approach you again. God, chills once again seized you, you weren’t sure you could take much more intimacy without - well, you weren’t sure what you would do. Squeal? Giggle? You didn’t want to find out, so instead, you stopped him. Hand cupped his container, fingertips grazing, you tried to ignore it and affirmed, “I’ll manage.”
Levi’s eyes briefly widened, the rest of him froze. “Right,” you idiot! He scowled and cursed himself. He thought your feelings had been mutual, but your refusal reminded him that he wasn’t so good at this sort of thing. With a heavy sigh, Levi left your side and strode to the other side of the room. A harsh, unpleasant drag of wood on wood echoed throughout the room - Levi pulled the chair out from under the desk and slumped on it. Arms crossed, gaze sank to his toes.
Now it was your turn to chastise yourself. Nice work, now he thinks you hate him. The opposite was true, but how were you supposed to convey that now? He could not have been further away, nerves in your shin reaffirmed: there was no chance your leg would walk you there.
Wordlessly, you both shared a simultaneous thought: Maybe Nanaba should’ve been here after all.
For some time, the two of you sat in silence. Levi thought about retreating to his room, but something kept him planted in that seat. Hange had already humiliated him enough today, they would have even more if he came back and asked to be relieved of the assignment he pled for. Then, there was the question of who would replace him. Some half-ass recruit? Even if he called on a fellow veteran, he was sure that the last-minute shift would impact their morale, and therefore, their performance. Even if his feelings were unrequited, it did not affect the fact that he cared about you - though it would have been easier if it did. Leaving you with someone other than him was unacceptable - in this context or others - Levi jut his heel against the ground.
Just a few meters apart from him, but you were in your own world. Your body ached, your muscles tired, but nothing was more painful than this silence. You thought about trying to sleep, but that attempt would be futile, for this quiet was too loud. Your heart longed to run to him, to throw your arms around him, to dip your lips to his ear and tell him you were sorry. Legs and fear damned that option. Powerless, you leaned back, crossed your hands at the wrists, and threw the X over your forehead. Resigned.
Inside and outside, “I feel gross.”
First, a side eye. Then, he turned his neck and shoulders. Even after you had shoved him away, Levi found it impossible to ignore you. Still, there was a lingering paralysis, a fear of letting himself go again. Invisible ropes reigned him in and kept him tied to humility.
You peeked out from under your hands, flickering eye contact made from across the way. Despite the distance, he could see the glaze of brimming tears, blurring your gaze. Lips quivering, both overwhelmed and let down, his name cracked in your throat. Levi could not hear it, but saw it in the weak motions of your mouth. His hands clutched the edge of the desk, fingers clenched, your call of his name released the last of his anchors. Swiftly, he crossed the room to stand at your side.
Blood caked to your skin. Sweat glossed over it. Gross was not what came to mind when he looked at you, but he could see why you felt that way. As for him, a shower was a necessity the second filth found him, but his lips stayed sealed. Something about recommending it to you made him feel even dirtier.
Levi kept his gaze averted, scanning the room. A metal bucket would keep the water hot. A stack of washcloths adjacent might feel nice. A thick roll of gauze, he glanced to the clock, it was probably about time to change your bandages anyways. He began to start towards them.
No, don’t leave me again.
Before you could think, your hand snapped to his wrist, drawing a startle and brow raise from your captain. A cough scratched its way up your throat, you snapped to the other side and leaned into the crook of your elbow, sparing him. With each cough, your hand twitched around his arm. Painfully pathetic. After the fit, your voice was left broken, throat sore, craving steam and humidity.
There was one way you could get that, sweetheart. One place.
“Wait, Levi…” your arm shook as it rose to point. Bathroom door on the other wall, “will you help me in there? I kinda,” you tried to speak past the impending tickle, “I think I want a - ah…” three rapid sneezes, you groaned in their wake, “ngh…”
Was it that each of your words was so obviously pained? Or was it his eagerness boiling over again? The interruption arrived before he could answer: “A bath?”
You sniffled away whatever irritant that was, and smiled sheepishly, “Sounds nice.”
Heart pounded in his chest, Levi swallowed his feelings down and replaced them with his reliable intuition. Grey gaze assessed your state. The injuries in your arm - you wouldn’t be able to hold onto him. The cast around your leg - he wouldn’t be able to hold you. Carrying you was not an option - not tonight at least - but otherwise, the venture should be possible. He just needed a little bit from you, he would shoulder your rest.
“Here,” Levi kneeled. Over the edge of the mattress, you looked down to see him awaiting. Inexplicable shivers were due to no cold. The solidity of his voice incinerated your wandering thoughts, “- alright if I?”
His arm gingered towards your back, and with it came a run back of that last interaction - the one you screwed up. You knew, you were lucky to get a retry. This time, you would make the choice you would regret the least, just like he’d want you to.
And he did.
Rather than cutting him off from you, you sewed yourselves together, leaning into his reach and leaning on him. Through bangs, Levi glanced up to you. Had you really just done that? Or was he again misreading things? You met his stare with a weak yet assured smile, cupping his shoulder. Understood, his hand curved to match your waist. Delectable.
“With me,” Levi ordered. As he began to rise, you did, too. Your left side put in overtime as your right side dragged without much use. His hand on your hip did most of the lifting - not only effortless for humanity’s strongest, but a hand he was happy to lend. Each time your balance threatened, you found that his grip cinched tighter. Buckling knees and selfish imagination longed to topple - the former for relief, the latter just to see.
You needed to get there. You needed to get there! You could have sworn that light was glowing from the outline of the door - a bath with Levi Ackerman - but it seemed the world had some stake in preventing your arrival. Pain shot through your side, you could not help but wince. Your high-pitched mewl fell upon his ear, making your shudders shared.
“C’mon,” Levi beckoned, the strength to your struggle, “you’re almost there.”
The edges of your vision turned blurry. The floor and the ceiling seemed to switch, or something? A painful ringing in your ears, his voice was the ice to soothe it, the sturdiness to silence it, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You blinked for long spells, it seemed to help the threatening headache. Cold ceramic on the backs of your thighs lured you out of that strategy. When your eyes blurred open, the harsh white of the infirmary’s bath had been softened by a handful of candlelit lanterns, a four-wall twilight. The sound of water flowing from faucet to tub, an indoor waterfall. Maybe it was the medicine speaking, but you could not have pictured a more romantic scene.
Levi shouldered off his tan coat, loosened his cravat, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows - you bit the inside of your lip, punishing the indulgence of your mind. Not romantic, you reminded yourself. Platonic, Levi settled.
The bath was filling. Water hot to the point of steaming: the mirror fogged, Levi’s cheeks tinged to red. You told yourself it was because of the room’s humidity. As he perched himself between your knees, Levi knew better.
Clothes off. “Alright if I -?”
One hand would be hard. “Will you help me?”
The two of you interrupted one another with shared sentiment. A slight twitch of his lip - a smile - and a nervous giggle from you communicated mutual consent. He started with the hem of your tee. Fingers curled beneath the bottom, and god, how he was going oh so slowly. So delicate, there were times you had to rely on your sight to tell if he was really moving. Eventually, the brisk air wafted upon your skin, providing goosebumps as evidence. Within your collar, Levi spread his fingers wide, allowing the elastic to slide over your head and face without too much friction. When it came to your wounded arm, he was especially focused. Surgical precision, the fabric did not even graze your skin.
However, now was the time. From the side of his hip, he unsheathed his pocketknife. A sharp shing! The blade razor thin, yet you were not the least bit scared. Even as he reached toward your fresh wound and slid the dagger between your bandage and forearm, somehow you knew he would not slip. After this long in the Regiment, he had learned some things about the psychology of first aid. Before you could think to panic, he had already sliced the wrap in two. Your gauze fell to the floor. Now, all that was left of your upper garments was your bra. Levi deliberately met your eye contact - this okay? You smiled and leaned forward, shortening the distance - I trust you.
There was something about the way he unhooked you, and there was something about the way you interpreted it. Not suspiciously swift - he must not’ve been with many girls before. Neither clumsy nor awkward - had he anticipated this moment for a while? The tension of your brassiere as well as the tension in the room diluted when he finally stripped you free. Your bare chest before him, you anticipated his stare, but it never came. Levi did not look, but at the same time, it did not seem that he was trying not to. The aversion of his gaze once again humbled your ego, maybe he just wasn’t into you like that. The truth was, sex just wasn’t on his mind. Life had thrown him enough cold stones, had sculpted him into a realist. Let down had tethered his reins, preventing him from lunging too far towards satisfaction.
Faced with your fragile state, your blood and bruises had his whole attention - more than the lips that longed to be kissed and the curves that yearned to be held again. Was it because he was a soldier that he could not care less about this opportunity? No, it was because his desires for you were far less shallow.
Levi wanted to see you smile, actually smile. He wanted to show you the world beyond the walls, but only once the titans had been eliminated. Eyes on you on every expedition, he resented the perpetual fear that snared you. So terrified of the near threats - even the potential of threats - that you could not see the beauty in distance. The horizon. Mirages. Mountains in haze and trees to the forests. They were out there, and he had brought you there, but as long as the world was a dangerous place, you would fail to enjoy them. An expression without worry, that was his desire, more than anything -
“Levi?”
Snapped from his daydream, your puppy-dog gaze brought him back down to earth. A bob in his throat, a silent swallow, “Right, sorry.”
Gently, he took your bra and flowered it on the bathroom countertop. Your starch white pants, now stained with blood and dirt. Fingertips sandwiched your button and its opposite flap, looping the metal circle out from within, his knuckles grazed your tummy on the way. Drag of your zipper, you twitched beneath his touch. Once again, he checked on you. To confirm your consent, you used your left leg to shift your lower half off the edge of the tub, granting him the space to remove your bottoms. Levi glanced up to you and gave a half-nod. Then, he gradually curled his grip beside your hips, beneath the fabric of both your canvas pants and cotton underwear. Unexpected, scratchy lace on its edges drew a shiver he nearly subdued. Likewise, his neatly trimmed nails slightly scraped your sides. With the two of you flinching at once, both of you were ignorant to the startle of the other.
Fabric bunched on his way down, he slid the loops off your ankles and over your feet. After dealing with the left side, he realized the problem of the right. Your cast so thick, there was no way it would fit through the sleeve of your pants. His thought process seemed to glimmer on the reflection of his blade. Its glare took hold of your peripheral vision.
“It’s okay. It’s fine.”
Levi held the blade in his trademark backwards way, “I’ll get you -” not we’ll get you - “a new pair.”
With one hand, he held the bundle of canvas. With the other, he gave a quick nick at its top, just an inch past the thickness of where your belt would go. A jut of his wrist snapped the switch back under its protective case, Levi shoved the knife back into his leg strap. Two free hands grabbed each side of the cut and tore apart. A satisfying tear! Not as satisfying as the way his forearms flexed. Somehow, the movement of his muscles contracted with the still in his face and the lack of audible exertion. Purposed and effortless.
Your pants had been destroyed, yet still, he folded them neatly over his forearms - a perfectly symmetrical square. Levi draped your panties over your bra. While he fixated on the potential for wrinkles, your teeth began to chatter, nose began to tickle. Though you were glad to be out of those filthy clothes, the loss of warmth was beginning to affect you. Bundling into yourself, you ducked your head down and sneezed again - immediately garnering his attention.
Levi chastised himself for moving too slow, but did not loom. In this context and others, he preferred to rely on action. After a quick cuff of his sleeves at the elbows, Levi gestured his arms out to you, you lifted your reach toward him. By an arm at your back and one beneath your knee, he helped maneuver you into the bath, all without getting your cast or cuts into the water. Although, Levi bit the inside of his cheek, those scratches would have to be cleaned eventually. But for now, he could not bring himself to sever your bliss, let alone replace it with pain.
Hot, but not too hot. Scented, but not overwhelming. You tipped your head back and sighed. Singsonged breaths, your toes curled around the porcelain rim. The sight and sound of your satisfaction made his heart stop, his middle blaze, “Ah, that feels good…”
Levi balled his fists in his clothes, good god help me. He could practically see Hange laughing and teasing: Look what you got yourself into, Levi! Lips pressed together, a grounding throat clear. Maybe, selfishly, he should get your arm under the water after all.
He did not have to say anything, for you could feel his gaze searing onto your arm. You were impressed with his composure. In your eyes, just thinking about your wound was enough to make your stomach flip. Levi, on the other hand, seemed relatively unbothered. Looking back on this moment would bring you immense sympathy: what had he seen already that made this okay? Indeed, he had witnessed enough injury to accurately survey: the scratch was actually not as bad as the amount of dried blood suggested. Until he cleaned it, you would continue to shriek at your own sight.
You knew what had to be done, so don’t make me beg.
Your voice was quiet, sagged by reluctance. Your lip started to quiver, your throat seemed to close. No one enjoyed this sort of thing - shots, the dentist - but some things just had to be done. As long as he was here, it wouldn’t be so bad. It was how you tried to convince yourself, but despite his presence, your eyes began to burn, sobs began to simmer. Stuttering turned to blubbering, “C’Can you… C’an you…” Tears brimmed, you tried to speak past them, “H’Help m’me…?” You could not even manage the thought of voluntarily sinking your arm into the water, let alone the speech.
Thankfully, he read between the lines. Levi knew what he had to do. Fingers intertwined, you squeezed his hand hard. “You’re okay,” Levi assured, “I’ve got you.”
He lead the way, you went along with it. On your descent, despite his solid contact, you could not stop trembling. Levi used his other hand to graze the bottom of your chin, beckoning your gaze to meet his. “Don’t look at it, just look at me.”
Brows flat, eyes plain, Levi’s calm was contagious. You didn’t believe in yourself, but he did: “I know you can do it.” Who were you to object to your captain?
You can do this. You can do this. You -
Steaming, soapy water finally consumed your arm. The spot of contact managed to demand each of your nerves and diminish any ounce of composure. One leg pushed against the end of the tub, the other squirmed and snapped. You threw your head back over the rim with a scream that hurt your own ears. Levi did not shush you, only fierced his grip. His grounding technique brought you back a bit, just enough to substitute your high-pitched mewls for between-teeth hisses.
Pathetic, it was a word he used towards plenty of people, but when it came to you, it meant something different. Helpless - not weakness - in a way that pled for his assistance. When others acted like this, it irked him. And it wasn’t that he enjoyed seeing you like this, but the hold you had on him was confusing: how did this bother him so intensely yet make his heart do somersaults?
Levi chose to distract himself from his emotions and instead fixated on the twitches of your body. Some here, some there, but now starting to die down. Deep breaths, your chest rattled on exhale. As soon as you regained coherence and speech, you apologized, embarrassed, “Sorry.”
Levi knit his brows, you had nothing to be sorry for. If anything, he did. Sorry that he wasn’t there when you needed him to be. With each tear you shed and each strain of overstimulated muscles, he was painfully reminded that this could have - should have - never happened. Maintaining his hold of your hand, Levi took a washcloth from his back pocket, dipped it in the lather, and began to scrub your skin clean. Sorry that - “I wasn’t there,” at that moment, he swabbed a little harder, “what happened?”
It was as if he was trying to wipe away your layers and get to the bottom of today. Gentle at times, deliberate at others, he worked to massage an answer out of you. Reaching all the spots on your back, over the shoulders, the sides of your neck, the divot at your middle. Fingers woven, he leveraged his grip to lift your hand from the water and clean your arm. Levi pressed the cotton against your skin from the insides of your thighs to the tips of your toes. His arm aligned with your spine, reclining you backwards so that your hair could soak. Not too deep, as he tipped you back, Levi whispered, “Trust me.”
Throughout the bath, you remained quiet, though Levi could tell that you were not dosing him the silent treatment. Rather, you were still searching for understanding yourself. You sunk your gaze to the water below, hands kneaded beneath the surface, “It was my fault.”
There was no change in his movements, but his gaze snapped to you through sullen bangs, inviting you to ramble on. Ramble. “I was looking at another wing. A six… no… seven-meter abnormal.”
His brows arced, eyes to yours, That was my encounter.
Caught red-handed, your own admission, I know.
“And… in the distance, I could see - could see someone was fighting it.”
Me.
Yes, you.
“I got nervous. Startled, panicked… cinched the reins too hard.” It had happened in a second and was still so raw. Memory foggy, you tried to fill in your own blanks. “She must’ve thrown me or something. Stepped on my leg, I think?” With your blood washed away, you could finally bear to glance at your cut. “I remember being dragged, this must’ve been from the ground.”
Levi’s lips parted, struck by your story and a thousand ensuing thoughts. It was his fault after all. It wasn’t that he was too far away from you, it was that he was too close. In your sights, but wait. Why were you looking?
It was the last time that your eye contact began with uncertainty, but the first time that the two of you overcame your doubts. Through your story, you had all but confessed. Through his actions, Levi had, too.
“Thanks for looking out for me.”
“You, too.”
When you were ready, you held out your hands. This time, far fewer check-ins were needed in the progression of your contact. Levi scooped your fingers in his palms, caressed and supported, he helped you out of the bathtub - your hands in his as he stood. Faced with his front, you noticed how his shirt had been soaked in the process, made more and more see-through as he bathed you. While he still refused to indulge himself in your appearance, you could not help but admire the symmetry of his abdomen and the new tightness of his top. Suddenly, your pain was flushed out and replaced with some other honey-like hormone. Was this the best medicine?
Levi kept one hand on you, there for balance, as he reached to the rack and unfurled your towel. Wrapped tight, he tucked the corner beneath your upper arm, allowing you to keep warm while he used a spare rag to dry the rest of your limbs - gentle and thorough.
You rolled your neck and shoulders, “I don’t have clothes here…”
Levi flicked his head to the side, “...and that bed’s filthy.”
“Hey,” you glued your pointer and middle finger together and pushed the middle of his chest, sighing, “I couldn’t help that.”
But he could now.
The next couple hours were another blur. In one arm, your dirty laundry. With the other, Levi supported your weight as you sneaked yet stumbled through new moonlit halls. You could not retrace the path to his room, but there were a few parts along the way that you could write novels about, could paint portraits of. The way his index finger crossed with the line of his lips, shushing your nervous laughs as you passed recruits’ barracks. The hush and haste in his voice. Bringing you to his bed and pulling the covers to your nose, why did he insist on taking the sofa? The answer to that question, you could not understand. The oceans in his eyes, you could not quite draw. The words that dwindled on the tip of his tongue, you could not quite pen.
But there were many more nights to get there.
// masterlist //
#levi x reader#levi ackerman x reader#levi x you#levi ackerman x you#levi#levi ackerman#oneshot#fluff#2023#requests#anlian writes#my writing#alias's#If you ever want a long fic from me#the secret must be caretaking#cause I will never shut up about it 🥰
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been wanting to write a sort of grey-ace character first time for a while now, so here it is with dream and hob from the silly cafe universe. tackling grey-asexuality can be a tricky prospect as it has the possibility of falling into a "you just haven't met the right person yet" asexual erasure stereotype, but uninformed black and white judgements will exist in the world anyway regardless of whether we explore shades of grey. so here it is anyway, grey-ace dream. [rated E]
~~
Dream thought he would wait, be more patient, but it only took a few dates before he was following Hob home. Perhaps that already counted as waiting. He never knew what the timeline of these things was "supposed" to be.
But he knew he liked being with Hob. He liked when Hob held his hand, or hugged him. He discovered that Hob could easily tolerate his silent spells, often so annoying to others, by filling them with his own chatter. It was soothing to listen to him talk. He discovered that as easygoing as he usually seemed, Hob could be quite intense, too. On their third date, someone had hit on Dream rather aggressively at a bar—an unusual occurrence he'd had no idea how to react to—and Hob had told them not quite politely to shove off. This had made Dream feel all sorts of things.
Perhaps that was why he went home with Hob after their next date. He expected they would just fall into bed, wasn't that how these things usually went, at least in stories? But instead Hob cooked him dinner. And Dream learned that Hob was an excellent cook; truly, it seemed, his only weakness was coffee. Which called into question why he worked at a cafe of all places, but Dream wasn't about to complain when it was what had brought them together.
Hob fed him dinner, and a glass of very good wine, thus proving that his sommelier abilities were also up to par, and Dream might have been planning the rest of their lives in his mind. It was fine if Hob couldn’t make coffee, Dream could make the coffee, if only Hob would keep making dinner for him, and letting him stay in his cozy apartment, and holding his hand on top of the table.
He watched Hob’s hands as he poured more wine. Hob had very nice hands; Dream knew what they felt like, now, holding his, and cradling his jaw, and carding through his hair as they kissed. Hob’s shirt looked very soft, and clung appealingly to his shoulders. Dream found his gaze drawn to Hob’s forearms, where he’d rolled up his sleeves.
It was hard to focus on the conversation, but he managed. Afterwards they wound up on the couch, sitting just close enough to be touching, and Dream was not sure what he was supposed to do. He had figured Hob had brought them back to his home because he wanted to have sex. That was a common expectation, was it not? Dream was not very good at predicting these things. Perhaps he was meant to initiate?
This was often the point where his past attempts at dating had gone sideways. Trying to intuit what he was meant to do usually did not go well for Dream. Normally whatever he did was, somehow, wrong.
“Dream?”
Dream shook himself back to the present. Hob was looking at him, head tilted, a slanted smile on his face. “You looked like you were thinking about something very deeply,” Hob said, a question in it.
He had draped his arm across the back of the couch behind Dream’s shoulders, and started trailing his fingertips up and down the back of Dream’s neck. It made Dream’s skin prickle pleasantly. Perhaps… it didn’t matter what he was ‘meant’ to do? And only whether he wanted to do it?
He was not sure he had ever truly wanted to before. Not the way that he did with Hob.
He leaned into Hob’s side, into the circle of his hold, and kissed him.
Hob made a low sound of surprise, but kissed him back, wrapping his arm around Dream’s shoulders to pull him closer. As always, it was so lovely to kiss him. There was something comforting about it, which Dream had never felt when kissing before, and more than that, it sparked something in him. That feeling, it was new. When Hob kissed him, when Hob ran a hand through his hair, when Hob pulled him close with a hand around his waist—it made something in him go hot, something he hadn’t felt before. And... he wanted. Even if it was new, and unfamiliar.
He took a deep breath, and slid into Hob’s lap.
Hob took a sharp breath and braced him by the hips. Dream settled into his lap, resting his hands on Hob’s shoulders, a little shiver running through him. It was good, though, it felt good. He didn’t know exactly where it was going to go, but he wanted to find out.
“Well, hi, darling,” said Hob, a pleased smile growing on his face. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“You are horrible,” Dream told him, and Hob’s smile only deepened.
“You like me, though,” he said, ducking his head almost bashfully, and Dream kissed him, right above one eyebrow, overcome with fondness for him.
“I do,” he said. So much. So much that he felt things that were unruly and strange—but he wanted to feel them.
He tipped Hob’s face back up, thumbs hooked under his jaw, and kissed him. Hob hummed happily, sinking into the kiss. He slipped his hands under Dream’s shirt, fingertips pressing into his bare back, and Dream shuddered.
“Did you want to move things into the bedroom?” Hob murmured, lips brushing Dream’s. “Is that what that meant?”
Dream nodded, breathless, and then Hob was wrapping his arms around his thighs and picking him up. Dream squeaked as Hob stood up, holding on tight to the back of Hob’s neck, and Hob grinned at him. “You seemed to like it when I caught you.”
Dream had. Dream very much had. And he liked it now, Hob’s strong arms under his thighs, and how tightly they were pressed together. He felt all warm inside, like his body might set itself on fire in a flurry of a thousand sparks, and it was… scary. He hadn’t felt that way before, but he didn’t want it to stop. He wanted more.
“I did. I. Had wondered before if you would be able to pick me up,” he admitted, blushing, and Hob’s smile turned mischievous.
“Oh, yeah? I can do a lot more than that, love.”
“Like what?”
So Hob carried him into the bedroom. It didn’t seem very difficult for him, which made Dream’s stomach flip. When they reached his room, Hob tossed him on the bed. Dream landed with a gasp in the pillows.
“Like that,” Hob said, grinning. He tugged Dream’s shoes and socks off, and then his own, and Dream made grabby hands at him. Hob crawled up the bed after him, settling between his legs. His weight over Dream made him shiver pleasantly. He ran his hands up and down Hob’s arms, over his shirt, surprised by how much he truly wanted to touch him. And to have Hob touch him.
Hob kissed him deeply, then gazed down at him, his gaze heavy. Dream swallowed, throat dry. Hob stroked Dream’s hair. “You’re so pretty, you know.”
“Thank you,” said Dream, and Hob laughed. He kissed the corner of Dream’s mouth, then his cheek, little pecking kisses. He played with the hem of Dream’s shirt.
“Can I take your shirt off?”
Dream nodded, breathless, and Hob sat up enough that he could pull Dream’s shirt up and off over his head. He trailed his hands down Dream’s chest, over his stomach. Dream followed his touch, everything else fading to the background. He wished Hob would touch him all over. What a strange, scary, delightful feeling.
He tugged on Hob’s shirt, and Hob let him pull it off over his head. His chest was broad, and far hairier than Dream’s, and Dream stared, then laid his hands on Hob’s body, mesmerized.
“This is very flattering,” Hob said, humor in his voice, as Dream kept touching him. “What do you want, darling? Because I’d love to get my mouth on you.”
Dream’s attention was suddenly wrenched away from his examination of Hob’s chest by the fact that he was painfully hard. That Hob’s voice and words alone could do that—he hadn’t thought it was possible.
“Okay,” he said, voice tight.
Hob unbuttoned his jeans, and Dream lifted his hips so he could pull them off. Dream felt very exposed then, but Hob’s gaze on him was kind, and hot, as he looked Dream up and down. Dream reached for the waistband of Hob’s jeans—it suddenly felt very important that Hob be naked, too, if Dream was going to be. “Can you—?”
“Of course.” Hob slipped out of his own jeans, then sat before Dream on the bed again, only in his boxers, their legs brushing. Dream studied him, the strength of his thighs, of his hands, the weight of his arousal in his underwear. He had never gone this far with someone, wanted to go this far. He felt like he might combust. This was all so new, but he trusted Hob. He wanted to see where it would go.
Hob ran his hands up Dream’s legs, from his ankles, over his knees, up his thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where his thigh met his hip, and Dream shuddered, feeling heavy and warm and so very aware of everything around him. Hob was like a beacon, everything about him drew Dream’s eye, his presence so strong that everything in Dream wanted to go to him. Touch him, kiss him, lean on him, have Hob touch him. It was an overwhelming fire within him, consuming all sense.
“You’re so beautiful,” Hob said, voice a low rumble that Dream felt in his belly. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart?”
“I—” Dream didn’t know. He had rarely wanted any of it enough to consider it. He knew that he wanted Hob to touch him, but not much more detail than that.
“Wait, have you ever…?” Hob asked, suddenly unsure of himself, pulling his hands back. Dream did not want him to take his hands back, and briefly considered lying, saying, of course, of course I have, who hasn’t? But he didn’t want to lie to Hob. He shook his head.
“Shit.” Guilt settled on Hob’s features. He had nothing to feel bad for, nothing, Dream thought. “I didn’t mean to assume.”
“It is alright.” Dream huffed a laugh, but there was little humor in it. “It is a reasonable assumption, at our age, is it not?”
“Still. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
His mouth twisted in disappointment, and Dream took his hands, placed them back on his own legs. “You didn’t. I want to. If you’ll forgive my inexperience.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Dream.” Hob stroked his thumbs lightly over Dream’s legs, more a soothing motion now. “Nothing. You want to?”
“I do,” Dream said, still a bit shaken by the realization. “I never have because… I never wanted anybody. Not the way that I want you.”
“Oh.” Hob’s lips tipped back up into a half-smile. “Never fell for anybody else, then?”
“Mean,” Dream grumbled, and Hob laughed.
“That’s okay.” He seemed to be coming around to the situation now; he leaned forward again so he was almost in Dream’s lap, and murmured against his cheek, “Just means I get to make sure your first time is just as good as you deserve.”
“You are very sure of yourself,” Dream said, but curled his fingers around Hob’s hips, holding him close.
“I know what I’m good at,” Hob said.
“In that case I should probably inform you that you are terrible at making coffee,” Dream said, and Hob laughed, the sound loud so close to Dream’s ear. It made him smile.
“Wow,” Hob said. “I know, okay? I’m not usually in charge of it. Normally I just bake.”
Dream pulled back just far enough to see his face. “You… are not?”
Hob gave him a bashful smile. “Just wanted the chance to see you. Would have missed you if I was working in back.”
Dream stared at him, astonished—and touched, too. “I demand recompense for all the horrific coffee you forced me to consume.”
“It can be arranged,” Hob said. And kissed Dream again, his lips soft but sure. Knowing that Hob had been specifically engineering things to be able to see him, just as Dream had— it only made him like Hob more.
“Will you touch me?” he asked, and Hob groaned.
“Think I might die if I don’t.”
He eased Dream back to lie down against the pillows, then pulled off his underwear. Dream was breathing hard again now, lying naked under Hob’s hungry gaze. He hoped he wouldn’t faint, but it felt like a distinct possibility. At least Hob had proven that he wasn’t bothered by that, once before.
“I still want to get my mouth on you,” Hob murmured. “Is that okay?”
“Please.” Dream liked Hob’s mouth. He wanted Hob’s mouth on him. Had he ever felt that way before? He didn’t think so. But he imagined Hob taking him in his mouth and he wanted.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Hob said. “Since you walked into the cafe that first time, can you believe it? Sorry. Hope that doesn’t creep you out.”
The thought of Hob imagining this while talking to him over the counter only made Dream feel hotter inside. “I like when you think about me.”
“And I like thinking about you.” He kissed the tip of Dream’s cock, and Dream gasped. “And being with you even more.”
He took Dream in his mouth then, and Dream lost all ability to respond to him. Hob’s mouth was so much. All-encompassing wet heat, the flat pressure of his tongue, and then Hob bobbed his head and took him deeper and Dream moaned, startling himself with the sound. He flailed, and found Hob’s hair, holding onto it for balance, and Hob hummed his approval.
Hob felt so good. Dream did not know how he was supposed to survive it. Perhaps Hob wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Perhaps he’d take it as a compliment. Dream felt much like how he had right before he’d fainted on Hob at the cafe, a rush of pleasant lightness at the thought that Hob was paying attention to him and wanting him, but he didn’t faint this time. He just fell into the pleasure of Hob’s touch.
He lost himself for a while, to Hob’s tongue, the pressure of his lips, his skillful pacing that kept Dream struggling to find where the edge was. He felt he was supposed to be participating more actively but he could not gather himself together enough to do more than play with Hob’s hair, to touch his jaw and throat and slick lips as if in a dream. He felt out of control, and Dream normally hated feeling out of control, but Hob felt so good that it was worth it.
“Hob,” he cried, as Hob dragged his tongue over him in a way he’d clearly learned would get a particular reaction. Dream’s hips twitched up, thrust automatically into Hob’s waiting mouth, and he rushed to apologize—but Hob moaned. The rumble of his voice was too much for Dream, who already felt held on a razor’s edge of control. The weight that had been building and building in his belly and thighs snapped in a rush and he came in Hob’s mouth, cock bumping the back of his throat. Flushed and overheated, he tugged on his own hair. It cut through the bright overwhelm of being touched.
Breathing hard, he looked down at Hob, who pulled off him slowly, and then swallowed. Dream swallowed, too, a shaky echo of the motion, and pet Hob’s hair, twining the long strands between his fingers.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I did not warn you.”
Hob slanted a smile at him. “It’s okay. I knew what I was getting into giving a blowjob to someone who’d never done it before. Besides—” he kissed the crook of Dream’s hip, tongue darting out to wet the skin “—I wanted to taste you.”
Hob was too much for him. He made Dream feel so overwhelmed, but in a good way, such a good way. Hob crawled up Dream’s body to kiss him, arms bracketing Dream’s head, and Dream let the heat of Hob's mouth, and the pleasant wake of orgasm wash over him.
"Good?" Hob murmured, and Dream nodded. Good, yes, so good. He pulled Hob closer so all of Hob’s body was pressed to his, Hob’s weight over him. There was so much skin like this, so much heat, Hob’s hair brushing his stomach and the strong planes of his back under Dream’s hands. Hob groaned as his erection ground into the crook of Dream’s hip, and Dream needed, suddenly needed to see him come, too. He wanted to see Hob fall apart. He wanted to be the one who made it happen.
He tugged on Hob’s boxers, and Hob budged up enough that together they were able to get them off. Then Dream pulled him back in, wrapped a leg around the back of Hob’s thigh, chasing skin touch. Hob kissed his throat, grinding his cock against Dream’s sharp hipbone, the flat muscles of his belly. An image flashed through Dream’s mind of Hob moving like that but in him and he was startled by how fiercely he wanted it.
It was joyful, too, to hold Hob close to him and feel his pleasure. Hob did not have to be inside him for Dream to feel that he had never been so close to another person before. It was fascinating and beautiful, the mess of Hob’s lips on his skin, the glide of precome, the moving warmth of Hob’s body.
He reached between them and took Hob in hand. Hob stuttered at the touch, then groaned. “Fuck, your hands.”
“Have you been thinking about them?” Dream asked. A thrill ran through him as Hob nodded. Dream would not have expected himself to want to, to be able to try to stoke Hob’s pleasure through words, this was all so new, but— “Did you imagine me touching you like this?” He twisted his grip around Hob, and Hob shuddered. “My hand wrapped around your cock?”
It did not feel awkward as Dream would have expected. Unlike with the stressful repartee of public conversation, he only had to focus on Hob’s reactions, and how he could use his words to turn Hob’s imagination, like he did with his stories. Hob was not even looking at him as he spoke, but he was focusing on him, Dream could tell.
He let Hob thrust into his hand, encouraging him on with his leg still wrapped around the back of his thigh, dragged his other hand through Hob’s hair, and murmured, “Did you know that I rarely fantasize about anyone, but once I met you I could not stop thinking about you touching me?”
“Dream.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he praised—Hob was, he was beautiful to Dream, he was an explanation of something Dream had always wanted to understand—and Hob whined. Dream caressed the back of his neck, down his spine. “I want to see you come.”
And Hob did, gasping against Dream’s throat and spilling into his hand. It thrilled Dream more than his own pleasure, to feel Hob come for him. Hob’s desire for him, and how he responded to Dream’s voice.
“Fuck, Dream.” Hob’s weight was heavy on him now, his breath hot against Dream’s throat. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“Nor I,” Dream admitted, and Hob chuckled.
“You’ll be a monster now that you’ve got started,” he said. They lay there like that for a few heartbeats, catching their breath, Dream running his fingers through Hob's hair. Then Hob pushed himself up on his elbows to look at him, hair falling into his eyes, a fond look on his face. “So. First time. Did you enjoy yourself?”
It was harder to speak again with Hob looking directly at him, but Hob’s look on him was kind, so Dream persisted. “I did,” he said, and Hob’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “And it is not so often that I enjoy something that is new to me.”
Hob kissed him lightly on the lips. “I'm so glad, love. That's what I wanted for you.”
He pet Dream’s hair. The touch felt so nice. “I…” Dream started, because he did have something more he wanted to say to Hob, hard though it sometimes was to speak. Hob looked at him expectantly, waiting. “I did not know what it meant to want this— or to want someone until I wanted you,” Dream admitted. “And… it was not something that I needed. But now that I have it, I do want it, and I want to explore more. With you.”
Hob’s smile softened. "Seeing you enjoy yourself was better than I could have hoped for. Happiness is so gorgeous on you. So don't hesitate to tell me what you're thinking of." He kissed Dream’s cheek, and by the corner of his eye. “There’s a lot I want to explore with you."
There was a low burn of heat in his words, and Dream’s body prickled in expectation. So strange, the way that he responded to Hob, without intention or control, and it was so much stronger now that he knew what Hob’s hands, and mouth, on him felt like. There was so much to discover. He thought of what he had imagined, Hob moving within him, but didn't speak that desire yet. He did not think he was yet ready to bring that from imagination to reality. But someday.
Hob fetched a damp towel to clean them up, then pulled Dream close to him again. It was very warm, like that, their legs tangled, Dream’s head pillowed on Hob’s arm. He had never lain in bed naked with another person before. He found that he liked it. At least with Hob.
“Thank you,” he said, lips pressed to Hob’s shoulder.
“Hm?”
“I do not… often know what I am doing, in these situations,” Dream said. “But I never feel like I am doing it wrong, when I am with you.”
Hob kissed the top of his head. “You’re not doing it wrong,” he said. “You’re perfect.”
“That is objectively untrue, but thank you.”
Hob laughed, and held him close, arms wrapped around him. Dream felt encompassed, grounded. It was a good feeling. Hob was a good feeling. One that Dream certainly intended to hold onto.
He tucked his head in against Hob’s chest, and, smiling, let the dreams he had been spinning at dinner, of Hob cooking for him, of staying, fill his mind again. Only now, there were a few other things included in those dreams, too.
#hob's trying to be normal about it so it doesnt have to feel like a huge deal for dream#but inside i think he's 5 trillion exclamation points in a row. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! about it all#meanwhile dream accidentally discovered hob's praise kink and now is like New Toy! New Toy! New Toy!#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#my writing#last fic of the year baby#i've obsessed over this for long enough i must release it
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I think Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett must have planned originally for Aziraphale to be involved up in Heaven leading up to when the Second Coming starts, or whatever actually happens in s3. Gaiman’s said he wrote s2 as a bridge to get them to the events of the sequel they’d plotted — and he spends most of it showing us again how they love each other and the world, how close they are to a truly shared life. And then he splits them. It feels like such a shock.
And he said he and Finnemore didn’t know till quite late how to write that bit. So I think that that must have been the decades-old plan. And s6 must have been the only way he could imagine it happening — the only way Aziraphale would ever leave Crowley to rejoin Heaven after everything — only if they promised to welcome Crowley and to offer Aziraphale the power to preserve the world. (Lie that that was.)
So in the end I’m guessing that, since it’s only a second installment/interlude instead of the entire sequel Pratchett and Gaiman envisioned (which would end happily), that’s why they made Crowley confess at the end of this season — so we had one hopeful thing amid the shock. At least we could imagine the eventual happy ending, the finally-together-after-all. It would have been an entirely different kind of crushing if Crowley hadn’t spoken — if he’d broken his heart over Aziraphale leaving in utter silence. That would have done me in. As it is I’m only mostly dead.
#he said he was so sad writing that part#he must have felt it was necessary to make the sequel plot work#there’s a split universe in my head now#one in which all the happy postmageddon fics are true#and one in which I’m waiting for the Second Coming and crying#I can live with both#to find out what happens next#good omens#good omens 2
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In discussions about the finale of Black Sails, one of the things I often see is folks hard-focusing on Flint's fate, in an either-or binary fashion, usually presented as "Which do you believe-- that Silver killed him? or sent him to the plantation?"
Now, for posterity's sake, gonna mention a few things-- first off, that's simply not thinking broadly enough. There are farrrr more than two options here and I've come up with my share of the reallyyyyy bad ones for sure. Whatever your mind chooses, none of those are happy endings anyway, there are bittersweet, bad, and worse endings all the way down. (They are paused, they are in a time loop, and also all endings and no endings are happening simultaneously)
But also, the more cogent point is that, it doesn't actually matter what happened *to Flint* The story is... not actually about him at that point. We have transitioned from Flint as protag to Silver as protag, setting up for (the fanfiction that Black Sails has ended up making of, ugh, king shit) Treasure Island.
And so, I just, don't find it to be of particular interest exploring what we think Flint is actually doing or if he's alive for real. What is EXTREMELY interesting to explore though is how Silver's speech at the end to Madi is sort of giving Thomas back to Flint as a pacifier/comfort object, but how... Silver is giving Flint that thing in his own mind as his own type of pacifier/comfort object.
That's the REALLY chewy bit. What actually happens to Flint is not the purpose of that scene for me, of Silver's recounting of events to Madi. It's more about... projection. It's about how Silver is dealing with whatever happened to Flint/whatever he did.
And I just feel like it's missing the point to focus so hard on if Flint is alive or not.
He is the ghost of the story regardless, that's what's important. He's going to haunt the narrative for the rest of everyone's lives. No one has been untouched or unscarred by coming into contact with Captain Flint; he has a forever legacy. I'm not the first to call him this, but he's Schrödinger's Flint and he's staying that way.
But this?
"No. I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. The man you know could never let go of his war. For if he were to exclude it from himself, he would not be able to understand himself. So I had to return him to an earlier state of being. One in which he could function without the war. Without the violence. Without us. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past... and undo it.
There is a place near Savannah... where men unjustly imprisoned in England are sent in secret. An internment far more humane, but no less secure. Men who enter these gates never leave them. To the rest of the world, they simply cease to be.
He resisted... at first. But then I told him what else I had heard about this place. I was told prominent families amongst London society made use of it. I was told the governor in Carolina made use of it. So I sent a man to find out if they'd used it to hide away one particular prisoner. He returned with news. Thomas Hamilton was there. He disbelieved me. He continued to resist. And corralling him took great effort.
But the closer we got to Savannah, his resistance began to diminish. I couldn't say why. I wasn't expecting it. Perhaps he'd finally reached the limits of his physical ability to fight. Or perhaps as the promise of seeing Thomas got closer... he grew more comfortable letting go of this man he created in response to his loss. The man whose mind I had come to know so well... whose mind I'd in some ways incorporated into my own. It was a strange experience to see something from it... so unexpected.
I choose to believe it... because it wasn't the man I had come to know at all... but one who existed beforehand... waking from a long... and terrible nightmare. Reorienting to the daylight... and the world as it existed before he first closed his eyes... letting the memory of the nightmare fade away.
You may think what you want of me. I will draw comfort in the knowledge that you're alive to think it. But I'm not the villain you fear I am. I'm not him."
This is the speech of a man who is self-soothing, who is spinning himself a tale, who is projecting, who is coping.
and THAT is just, way chewier, innit?
#Now that's just from a canon point of view#once we start to delve into like fan fiction#Because fic must necessarily change the story and change canon because it's creating something new#so of course then figuring out what you want to do with flint post canon is necessary#but for me fanfiction is a different realm than canon only based meta conversations about the show#black sails meta#long post#black sails#john silver#james flint#thoughts#black sails spoilers#I was coaxed into writing my group chat meta into a post by the Committee mwah
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☆ from gold, i am undone
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts
{☆} word count 0.9k
You weren't meant to be here.
You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.
You are changed, and you are whole.
But you are so unbearably broken.
A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.
Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.
All you see is a monster.
Something new, something old.
A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.
But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.
You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.
But you know it will not satisfy you.
Nothing does anymore.
You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.
And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.
There is nothing left but absolute authority.
You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?
Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.
Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.
You welcome it.
It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.
Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.
You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.
For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?
Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?
Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?
Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.
For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.
#sagau#genshin sagau#self aware genshin#genshin impact sagau#self aware genshin impact#fic tag#tsaritsa#genshin cult au#genshin impact cult au#tsaritsa x reader#this is. technically not a sequel but not a prequel but a secret third thing (mental health crisis)#kidding i just wanted 2 write the prev fic from more reader oriented pov bc it wasnt fucked up enough!!!!!#i need fucked up reader who is irreparably changed in horrifying ways!!!!!! and they cant die bc teyvat kinda needs them 2 uh#exist at all. and if u die well thats it. hits reset button#the horrifying fate of a mortal forced to be a god against their will and all the drawbacks that come with it#where is love to be found when they all cannot see themselves as anything but beneath you? there will always be imbalance#oh they try. they claw and scramble and beg but being the creator has changed you.#none of their worship. none of their sacrifices and gifts and pleas make you feel a thing and what a haunting thing it must be#do they reject it? delude themselves into thinking that they must try harder?#or do they accept that this is a god? absolute. horrifying in its entirety. something that even the archons cannot truly understand#a manmade god who seeks absolution in only the most heretical. the most blasphemous#literally shaking chewing on the bars of my cage LET ME OUT#i love deep dives like this sorry 2 everyone i made think i was normal my bad#i just think immortality and godhood r funky concepts and i love making them WORSE#also this took so long because i was playing b@Idurs g@t3 3 erm. censored so it doesnt show up in tags PLEASE DONT SHOW UP IN TAGS#taking i need the tsaritsa to bite me to a whole new entirely worse level!!#i just think (starts talking for 5 hours straight and doesnt Shut Up)#this one is also. considerably more openly fucked up then the other fic. even if its hidden behind flowery language uh. take it seriously.#okay im done no more angst its fluff from here on out i need 2 be NORMAL. i am a normal well functioning adult. maybe.
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Okay, okay, so hear me out: asexual Wilson.
He's not repulsed by sex, clearly, as seen in canon. But is he ever ACTUALLY sexually attracted to someone? From what we can tell (and what House keeps pushing), Wilson accidentally falls into relationships with people he has some form of emotional connection with. And then the sex follows, because that's what you do in a relationship, right?
Bonnie said that he was an amazing partner in bed because he always pleased the other person. Now, this could just be a continuation of Wilson's 'I would give a kidney to a stranger' level of people-pleasing, but I think it's more than that. I think that, while he doesn't MIND having sex, he mainly does it to please his partner, rather than from any attraction to them himself.
And I think that's why he has so many affairs as well. Because he sees someone, has some emotional connection with them, and goes 'well this must be that sexual attraction that everyone is talking about'. And he thinks that maybe THIS time, he will get something out of it too, because it's got to happen eventually. Doesn't it?
And then I think this all comes to a head in that episode with the asexual couple (which I am still seething about btw). He reads an article on asexuality. Then another. Then he searches for every single blog post, article, tweet, ANYTHING, on asexuality, because 'hey, isn't that just what everyone feels like though?'. He discovers the difference between aethestic, sensual and sexual attraction, and that asexual people may still have sex, and...
Oh. Oh shit. He's asexual.
#cue the 'house will fucking ridicule me so i must keep this secret'#and then house finding out#and i would hope and pray that house wouldn't be a dick about it#anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk#house md#james wilson#asexual#asexuality#i need to write this up into a proper fic
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What are you looking for here? Scroll back up.
Just kidding, here’s a treat:
#laishuro#laios touden#nakamoto toshiro#dungeon meshi#delicious in dungeon#Fic writing takes time but at least my wife is helping m#e proof read#for now.. i can at least draw the possible scenes that i wANT TO WRITE SO BAD but don't know how to go about em yet lol#STILL!!! As you can see i refuse not to let these dudes feel themselves a lil bit :)#Laios wants to feel all of those textures and toshiro's heart will explode with all the intimacy#also Laios' getting into the intricacies of the East culture that he starts to notice and enjoy things about Toshiro#also both of these guys have dad issues#that alone gives me TOO MUCH to work with >:)#But I must admit 70% of these are self-indulgent and I will not stop <3#Sam's doodles of the day#shuro
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Hiiiii Hippo 💕💕💕
Buddie fic title:
If only I knew you had electric fingerprints
-❤️🪐
Hiiii Saturn!!!! So lovely to see you here! You said Buddie. Please know you have my eternal gratitude for forgiving my slip into Diaz Family Feels. 💞🦛
After the debacle of broken salad bowls, 'I think you should go home' and 'This is your mess now', Eddie thought that he and Chris had worked through the biggest tangles of dating in the Diaz household. Introducing Marisol was almost a non-event. Eddie might even go so far as to call it a success.
He will now admit that line of thinking was more than a bit premature and naïve on his part.
Maybe it was his own growth and evolutions in the relationship department that led him to assume Christopher wouldn't face the same issues. And, well, technically he didn't. No, Eddie's son dealt him an entirely new, foreign set of tribulations. A one-eighty of Eddie's nesting instincts where Christopher is leading on five different girls. Five!
Wasn't it just last year they were discussing how much shirt sleeve was acceptable to show? What the hell happened?
And, OK, it's a new world with new methods of communication and apps and how teenagers interact with each other. Eddie likes to think he isn't completely stupid, because he tries to stay informed about current trends that he would honestly rather not know about. But no article or discussion with the school guidance counselor - or Frank - could have prepared him for tonight. No tips, tricks, signs to watch for could have fortified him for the devastating blow of 'We loved her and she left us anyway' and 'I can't remember her voice anymore'.
When Buck emerges from Chris's room, Eddie is still leaning against the wall, crushed under the weight of a thousand emotions and questions, attempting to prevent his heart from spilling past the walls of his chest. To keep it from slipping through the makeshift cage where his fingers press bruises into his skin, just below his collarbone.
Buck squeezes Eddie's shoulder before wordlessly leading them to the kitchen where he pours them both a glass of water and he waits. Waits for Eddie to speak, because it's what they do. They don't press. And maybe they should - more or earlier - but that's another thought for another day. For another version of Eddie that doesn't feel like the ground has been ripped out from underneath him.
"I don't- How am I supposed to-" Eddie blows out a harsh breath, frustrated that he can't form a complete question. That there is no entry in the non-existent Parenting Handbook for how to tackle this scenario.
"Eds," Buck says the nickname so carefully, so gently, like his tongue is shaping it from the most fragile glass. His hand tentatively slides across the tabletop until it's resting on top of Eddie's own. "You don't need to have all the answers or know exactly what to do."
"I know I don't. It's just-" He cuts himself off, huffing out an unamused chuckle. Because he doesn't know.
And, look, Eddie is fully aware that he doesn't have to be one hundred percent in control all the time, but it doesn't make him hate whatever this is any less. This combination of lost and thrown off course; of sad, bitter anger muddled together with desperation. His own eagerness to bargain for a way to make this situation more palatable. A pathetic yearning for the chance to go back. To never enlist and close himself off. To splurge on the digital camera with video recorder so he could capture a truly ludicrous amount of everyday, mundane moments.
How many hours of footage might they have collected? Of simple things like Shannon chopping vegetables or putting on makeup before a night out. Her and Eddie slow dancing in the backyard to music only they could hear. Or her laughing, bright and bold, as she smudged dirt and filth across Eddie's cheek after he showed her how to change the oil in her car. The way he pulled her in with his own grimy hands, pressing their mouths together so he could swallow the sound.
He blinks rapidly to keep tears from falling as he wonders how many instances would have featured her rolling her eyes - exactly the way Christopher does now - and shoving her palm in front of the lens.
But he'll never know because he's stuck with the choices he made. That they made. He can tell their son stories, bring him for graveside visits, and offer small souvenirs of the time Shannon had on earth, but that's all Eddie can do. He can't replicate what it was like to be in her presence. He can't convey how she was soft and gentle and all the things Eddie isn't, while also being sharp and spirited. How she smelled like peonies and summer rain.
Whatever he has to offer is two dimensional. Framed photographs, memories stored in his mind. Some of them also stored in Chris's though Eddie suspects in a completely different way. Hopefully in a way that doesn't taste as much like guilt and regret for things left unfinished and words left unsaid. Words like-
Dear Christopher.
He swallows hard around the phantom taste of sea spray from the Pacific Ocean, has the urge to claw at damp, sun-warmed sand that isn't there. And god only knows how his best friend has any idea what's scratching at Eddie's brain, but he does. And Eddie is so, so grateful when Buck rubs his thumb across Eddie's knuckles and asks if he should stay or would Eddie rather it just be him and Chris.
As much as Eddie would like Buck to be present as an extra layer of protection, he knows this is something he has to do himself. Even though, as he walks Buck to the front door, promising to call later, he gets the distinct feeling he won't actually be alone.
In the low lighting currently casting shadows around his bedroom, Eddie's fingers tremble as he reaches for the small safe in the back of his closet. A simple design meant to hold important, precious things. The metal dial is cool under his fingertips, easily manipulated as he rotates it right and left and right again until the door pulls open.
It's been years since he read the words written in Shannon's flowing script, but he knows them like he knows his own name. He traces over her loops and arches, wishing, like always, that he had more time. That he could put off performing this errand for a few more years, decades, lifetimes. Even if he knows it's only for selfish reasons. Because he owes this to Chris and to Shannon. It's on him to follow her instructions and deliver this remaining link between mother and son.
He holds the folded pieces of paper in his hands, feeling something familiar wrap around him that isn’t the usual despair. Something that's more like spun gold flowing between the note and his skin.
Eddie bites back a sob as it dives beneath the surface to wind its way around nerves and spill through blood vessels on its way to his heart. As a calm takes root, anchoring in all four chambers, unfurling and flourishing. As the room, that typically smells like lavender fabric softener and the fancy vanilla linen spray Pepa bought for him, is permeated by the overwhelming scent of Texas nights - filled with crackling humidity wrapped in silvery starlight - and velvety pink peonies.
He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing it in, inhaling deeply to his core like it might allow him to hold onto this moment forever. When at last his lungs protest, forcing him to exhale, his eyes flutter open again.
Eddie closes the door to the safe, hearing it shut with a satisfying click.
"Thank you," he whispers, letting his gaze drift to the letter once more before he walks down the hall to pass it to its rightful owner. His son. Their son. A living, breathing tether between past, present and future.
He knocks on the doorframe, briefly saddened by the sight of Shannon and Christopher’s picture turned face down on the desk. It only makes him more sure he’s doing the right thing.
“Hey, buddy…”
For additional Feels™️ may I recommend
#hippo gets mail#jfc i must go cry now#eddie diaz#christopher diaz#shannon diaz#saturn tag 🪐#7x1 coda#i guess?#hippo writes#fic title ask
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thinking about time loops and the idea of grim reaper!floyd sent to capture your soul and ferry it onwards to the afterlife, but he can't do that because you're stuck in a time loop. maybe unfortunate circumstances have led to your untimely death, but then something goes terribly wrong and, though you know you should be dead, you wake up and the day starts again and you're completely fine. of course this anomaly is what first grabs floyd's attention. you can't have more than one life; that's not how it works. so he's sent to correct things: pull you free from the time loop and take your very overdue soul.
AAAAAAA the concept of being hunted down by floyd, who greatly enjoys the chase at first until the task becomes near-impossible and suddenly he's less excited to catch you and more annoyed that you're so slippery due to the nature of the time loop...... and you think you can keep outrunning him because the time loop has given you a new appreciation for life and you can't possibly let him take your soul right now—not when you've just started to truly live!
it's all fun and games until you have not one but two grim reaper eels after you. :) if floyd is easy mode, then jade is impossible mode. floyd's mercurial, so he may just give up halfway through. but jade's determined to catch you, and each day you spend in your little loop, living off of borrowed time and getting intimate with that guy (azul) you were crushing on all throughout university, he grows ever-closer, his presence looming like a shadow.
#meraki mumbles#*quickly adds this to the list of octavinelle must-write concepts*#i want to write fight scenes so badly omg!!! i love fight scenes#i haven't written a fight scene since 2019??? aaaaa it's been too long >_<#but that will change when i begin rook's time loop fic >:) there are plenty of action and fight scenes planned!!!!!!
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Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Max redemption arcs in AUs where he survives the Waylon place but what about a corruption arc for Steph and the nerdy prudes? Like they catch Max before he falls and because he loved the prank so much and he’s so grateful they saved his life he decides they’re HIS nerds and they’re going to join him at the top of the social ladder. They all hesitantly join in on the bullying and at first they justify it as needing to keep up their new status to protect themselves, but slowly find themselves getting into it and enjoying the power trip.
They spend the rest of senior year being literal monsters and they all peak in high school and stay in Hatchetfield after graduation. They keep hanging out mainly because no one else will tolerate them and it turns into an Always Sunny-esque AU. They save Hatchetfield from the LIB multiple times solely because everyone who deals with them gets fucked over, even Wiggog Y’rath himself. The lords in black end up worse and worse off with every encounter and each time the gang summons them they just look more and more disheveled and defeated.
Maybe one of the adults can join in and be the Frank Reynolds of the group? Ted’s the most obvious choice because he is a self-proclaimed sleazeball and his history with Tinky could add an interesting element to the LIB encounters. Or it could be Solomon infiltrating the group to try and reconnect with Stephanie and he gets pulled into their shenanigans and uses his wealth, power and connections as mayor to help pull off their schemes. Or maybe Paul initially gets involved with them because he’s trying to convince Richie to be nice again and get his life back on track but then he ends up slowly getting more and more enmeshed in the group and ends up just as bad as them.
It’d be super out of pocket and out of character but it’d also be tons of fun.
#crack fic idea#npmd#nerdy prudes must die#max jagerman#richie lipschitz#grace chasity#stephanie lauter#peter spankoffski#ruth fleming#vague it’s always sunny au#I might write this but I’ll be too shy to post it probably so feel free to take this idea and run with it#I’d love to read it if you do#hatchetfield
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Y’all ever read a fic and realize that the author hates Kara? Like just truly, deeply hates her.
#the amount of fics i read that write Kara as if she’s a burden one must endure for the pleasure of Supercorp#like?????#could not be me
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I’m back Michie girlies and this has been on the dome for a while but I’ve been seeing people mention it and at least one fic has executed this idea (“I once was his tutor” I salute you 🫡) but I need to just present this idea anyways because it has COOKED for a while-
I think it would be absolutely fucking hilarious if Max had started treating Richie the way he did Grace. Like the whole, dumb himbo act where he laughs real hard at non-jokes and tries to rizz Richie up as he’s going to class.
In my head- this is connected to the “Richie tutors Max” universe, so in my mind- Richies been helping him out and he’s been getting to know the guy, Max either: 1) eventually realizes how much of a capital P Prude Grace is OR (the funnier option I think) 2) Grace, in her want to get thoughts of Max Jäegerman out of her head, goes so far in the opposite direction that she somehow accidentally sleeps with a woman and is no longer “forbidden fruit” as Max puts it. (Insert side story of Grace battling internalized homophobia as she developed a friends-with-benefits turned maybe actual relationship with…. idk Deb or Alice or someone.) Cue Max looking at Richie and being like “I can totally seduce this nerd, my skills aren’t lacking just because I couldn’t get Grace.. this is 100% not me subconsciously really liking the dude and wanting to genuinely date him and knowing no other way to outwardly express this”
ANYWAYS- point is I need Max to try to flirt with Richie in that himbo way that he did with Grace-and I need Richie “This projects on thermodynamics… what the fuck are you talking about???” Lipshitz to just be constantly confused on what’s happening to him.
AND THEN when he finally realizes that Max is trying to get with him, I need Mr. Richie “has definitely never been with or slept with anyone and is just as unhinged and horny as Ruth (need I remind you she said Stephanie was the object of both their sexual fantasies)” Lipshitz to look at Max, really debate over it, before going “I may not have standards but I, unfortunately, have morals” and that he couldn’t do anything with Max since he was… well…his and his friends bully for years.
Boom, kick start the redemption arc that starts with Max just wanting to sleep with Richie but shifts to genuinely wanting to date him and trying to open up/clean up his act.
(Also- to add to that ‘“Dirty Girl Soup” Richie version’ concept that I’ve seen somewhere- I think it would be so fucking funny if Max’s equivalent to this, scandalous, forbidden, sexual fantasy was just Richie being the most supportive, understanding and healthiest boyfriend ever. Just accidentally fantasizing them in the most domestic situation ever (you know, because it goes against his Literal Monster persona). Like Richie’s, i don’t fucking know, holding his hand as they get coffee together and is just so understanding and calming when Max attempts to bully this fantasy Richie, and Max-who is just swimming in toxic masculinity (but is super ok in knowing he’s bi. As people say- he’s an actual asshole but he will bully you using your correct pronouns damnit)- is just like “NO, what are these feelings??? Why do I feel like this??? This is so wrong… but why does this feel… actually nice???” Yeah… funny shit)
#michie#max jagerman x richie lipschitz#max jagerman#richie lipschitz#damn it if only I could write#maybe one of these days I’ll just start writing shit#I’ve always wanted to write fics-#I love that this tag and this ship is just an echo chamber of ideas#we really do be feeding each others huh#nerdy prudes must die#starkid
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