Songs I'm totally going to make animatics out of and won't just forget about part 1
Sanders sides angst edition!
1: farewell wanderlust by the amazing devil
Angsty rociet anyone? Come get your angsty rociet here! This song can potentially make for an excellent ballroom scene and a very sneaky snake boy.
2: the one that got away by Katy Perry
I haven't picked a ship for this one, but it's gonna be bittersweet and mildly angsty, you know it is. This one could honestly straight up just be a fic but animatics are so much fun.
3: hey brother by Avicii
Yeah, I know, I know, it's kinda cliche, butz I want some good wholesome creativitwins angst. I mean just picture it
They were split up at a young age
They didn't really get to see each other at all
And then one day they're reunited only to find out they've both changed
It has possibilities, that's all I'm saying.
4: the village by wrabel
Angst prinxiety? Hell yeah
The song rotates around homophobia so there are a LOT of options for some hurt/comfort in here...
5: take me to church by Hozier
I think you get the idea at this point. Analogical, an abandoned church in the middle of the woods, fighting with family, bittersweet end, it's gonna be great, I swear
You can use these ideas if you want! I don't mind! The more content in the world, the better. (Besides, I procrastinate too much to start any of these anytime soon -_-)
“I have the Warhammer power,” Eren says, apropos of nothing. “If anybody is interested.”
Obligatory post-105 angst fic! I wanted to process this a little, as I’m sure many of us have needed to, after that heartbreaking chapter. It’s Eren/Levi, and it can be read as platonic, however it is pretty intimate. As always, thank you to @omglevixeren for beta reading <333
Also on Ao3
Eren is left until last, still in chains on the airship. Not even his friends wait for him, a tacit agreement that for now, discipline takes precedence over friendship. Silent tears track feebly over his cheeks, and dried blood flakes from his nose.
To Levi, he looks like a broken animal.
He has begun to shiver, his body thin and disgusting, and Levi fights the urge to do… something. He’s still not sure what. Doesn’t know whether he’d be handing Eren a handkerchief for his tears, or a fist to the face followed by an order to pull himself together. So Levi stays in the corner and allows Eren his silent misery. It’s done now, and further attempts at communication are unlikely to end well.
When the airship has finally emptied, he pushes himself from the wall and unlocks Eren’s chains. They’re just for show, really; they both know that his real chains are the blades at Levi’s sides. “Follow me,” he orders.
The old castle that houses the Survey Corps stands solitary in the clouded starlight. Most of the windows are dark or dimming, everyone heading straight for bed with their exhaustion, though Hange and Armin will likely be up with that bearded asshole for a while yet.
Levi doubts anyone will be in the mood to eat, not tonight, but he bypasses the communal areas anyway, and takes Eren straight down to the dungeons. The worst of it is having to walk so close, Eren shuffling along, stinking like he’s been swimming through a stagnant pond. “I expected you to be more talkative,” Levi remarks. He gets no answer, and when they’re at the correct cell – Eren’s pyjamas already at the foot of the bed, likely thanks to Mikasa – he shoves Eren inside rougher than necessary.
Eren stumbles, then mutters, “Would you like me to just kneel on the floor, Sir?”
It’s not really for his ears, but Levi winces anyway. And yes, part of him would, because at least it would be some kind of submission.
He needs to get out of here. They’re both still too agitated, too liable to resort to attack as a form of defence. I don’t know what to do with you anymore.
Everyone is counting on Levi to fix this. He can feel it, their eyes on him as if he alone holds the key to Eren Jaeger. Levi knows they are wrong, but he doesn’t know how to tell them he never had control of Eren. All he ever had was hope and intuition, and he was mistaken on both counts. There is nothing he can do to bring Eren to heel, and now he’s a nineteen year old kid who can destroy the world if he decides it’s the ‘right’ thing to do.
“Maybe we should consider… having Armin eat…” Hange had been unable to finish the sentence at the time, there was still hope Eren would come back before it was too late, but Levi knows now it won’t be long before he’ll have to hear the suggestion again. A little firmer this time, a little more resigned. And probably from higher ranks than Hange, too.
“I have the Warhammer power,” Eren says, apropos of nothing. “If anybody is interested.”
“And you started a war to get it,” Levi replies flatly.
Eren closes his eyes, sighs, and sinks onto the bed. He’s like a blank slate to Levi, just a dirty, messy thing behaving like a brat, shutting down as if nobody will ever understand him. You used to be an open book to me.
Levi hovers awkwardly in the middle of the cell, the cloying thickness of dust and stale air crawling over his skin, but he has to ask. “Do you even understand what you did?”
“Yes,” Eren says. He rolls over and shoves his face into the pillow, putting his back to Levi. After a moment, he glances over his shoulder. “But you don’t.”
Levi takes a step forward before his brain catches up, and he stops, awkward and frustrated and not sure what he wants to do, but it’s too late. Eren has already tensed, staring at him, preparing for a blow. He’s so filthy, greasy hair hanging over his eyes. It’s pitiful. He looks like some kind of mangy dog, baring its rotten teeth until the end.
He used to look like a puppy. One that trusted Levi, and Levi had trusted Eren in turn, and now that trust lies broken and bloodied on the cold stone floor between them.
Levi cocks his head to one side. “Do you hate me?”
Eren blinks. All he offers in response is a shrug.
How am I supposed to fix this? Levi thinks. I wish Erwin were here. He gives up, at least for tonight. They’re both exhausted, and he’s keenly aware that he needs to find some time to process the death of yet another deeply cared for squad member. He makes for the cell door. “Get some rest. I’m sure you need it.”
After locking up, he douses all but one of the oil lamps outside, so Eren will at least have some darkness and peace. Halfway to the stairwell, he hears the sob. Just one, a kind of dry gasping heave, but it stops Levi in his tracks. He waits for more, almost desperate for it, but nothing comes.
An hour later, Levi is back. “I couldn’t sleep,” he announces.
Eren frowns down at the bucket of lukewarm water, and the towel and soap tucked beneath Levi’s arm.
“You’re fucking filthy. It was annoying me.”
Eren makes a disgruntled noise and sits up. In the hour Levi was stomping around his room, hungry but unable to face going down to the kitchens without some memory of Sasha assaulting him, Eren hasn’t even bothered to remove his hospital clothing or get under the blanket.
Levi rolls his pyjama sleeves up and dunks a sponge in the water. “Get undressed,” he snaps.
Eren stares at him.
“That’s an order, Eren.”
The old castle dungeons are silent save for the rustling of Eren’s clothing as he wriggles out of it, and the wet slop of water as Levi lathers up the sponge. There’s not a lot he can do about Eren’s hair just yet, though he’s determined to drag him down to the showers in chains tomorrow if he has to, but Levi can at least wash off the worst of the sweat and grime. His fingers are itching to do so.
Neither of them are shy after years in the Survey Corps, but Eren still flinches when Levi presses the sponge to his shoulder. He stares into space, disassociating himself from the process. Levi methodically scrubs away the dirt, replacing it with lather and the scent of lavender, not that Eren seems in any state to appreciate one of the most expensive soaps in Mitras. He watches as globs of fluffy foam slip down Eren’s bicep and onto the blanket, wet patches blooming in their wake.
“Lift your arm,” Levi commands, and Eren does so. Levi wrinkles his nose and gets scrubbing.
He pretends not to notice when Eren starts trembling, his breaths coming quicker, distressed. Levi focuses on keeping his movements precise, methodical.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean for… for Sasha…”
“Shh,” Levi says. “I know you didn’t.”
Eren’s chest shudders, the once healthy musculature now withered, bones sharp and jutting. Everything about him is diminished, sunken, wasting away. Levi is going to lose him, and he can’t even stop it. Eren is sitting right here in front of him, and he can’t stop it.
He focuses on the sponge, on the slow circles, the rhythmic scrubbing.
“You’re making me steam.”
Levi blinks. A patch of skin on Eren’s left ribcage is turning bright red, rubbed raw and near-bloody beneath the sponge. “Shit.”
“I think I’m clean now.”
Eren is still staring into empty space.
“Think again,” Levi says.
Green eyes slide over to him, sceptical. Levi arches an eyebrow, because it’s achingly familiar. Eren fussing at the windows, asking Levi if they’re clean enough, knowing damn well they need another round of polishing, yet hoping anyway. Something inside Levi threatens to break. He looks away. “Come on. Let’s just get this over with.”
Scrubbing down Eren’s bottom half is as uncomfortable as expected. He stinks, and Levi is sorely tempted to just drag Eren up to his quarters and dump him in the bath. But Hange would be right next door, and he doesn’t want to risk it. Brusquely washing Eren’s private parts is actually less bothersome than the thought of explaining to Hange why the brat is soaking in his bathtub when he should be locked in a cell.
Soon enough there’s only one thing remaining. Levi looks at the patch of dried blood across Eren’s cheek, the wound long since healed up, and swallows. He grabs the handkerchief from his pyjama pocket, dunks it in the now-grimy water. The greasy strands of Eren’s hair tickle the back of his hand as he dabs at Eren’s face. Blood stains the white cotton, ruining it forever, and Levi sighs. “I failed you, didn’t I?”
Eren looks up, gaze unexpectedly focused. “It wasn’t your fault. The choice was mine.”
“But I taught you that.” Levi continues to wipe the blood away, gentle now, because every swipe of the damp handkerchief releases a bit more tension. He pauses to rinse the cotton again, struggling over the words, knowing he must try to be wiser than he has been. “Eren, I didn’t… I never meant… making the choice you’ll regret the least does not mean that you can take matters into your own hands whenever someone disagrees with you.”
He goes back for a second attempt at Eren’s face, but Eren pushes his hand away and shakes his head. Instead, he shuffles into the pyjamas Mikasa left for him, and lies down. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, and Levi is left feeling useless, clutching the soiled rag. They stare at each other across the empty space of the bed.
It’s big enough to fit two.
“Is that what you think I did?” Eren asks quietly.
Levi tosses the handkerchief back in the bucket. He considers leaving, but Eren is so close, and this is the most they’ve spoken in… Levi can’t even remember. He doesn’t want to sever this fragile thread that is connecting them.
So he shunts the bucket a bit further away, takes off his slippers, and lies down. He stares at the ceiling, ignoring the way Eren is peering at the side of his head. “I don’t know what you did, Eren,” he admits.
“Levi, none of you would listen to me. I was the one with the memories. The plan, the peace… it wouldn’t have worked.” Eren’s tone doesn’t quite have the conviction it once did, but his argument has not changed at all. “You don’t know these people. They’re not scared of us. They don’t even hate us. We’re… we’re just convenient to them. Just some tiny island they can blame for their problems.”
“And next time we disagree with you?” Levi asks, feeling bleak.
Eren’s silence is all the answer he needs.
Levi knows he should get up and go. He can feel the frustration rising again, just after he’d managed to scrub most of it away with the slow steady bathing of Eren’s skin. But he’s not sure he can admit defeat, not where Eren is concerned. “You can’t know it wouldn’t have worked,” Levi says, despairing.
“I know better than any of you,” Eren snaps.
“You’re not always going to be right, Eren!”
“But this time I am!”
“Fuck!” Levi punches the bed, hard. He wishes he was next to the wall instead, he could do with a few painful whacks of skin-against-stone and a bloody fist right now. He rubs harshly at his forehead instead, trying to get control of himself. “You never even gave us a chance,” he mutters. “I’m so disappointed in you, Eren.”
“Yeah well…” Eren rolls onto his back, presumably to face the ceiling, as if it will somehow give him more answers than it is giving Levi. “I’m disappointed in you too, Captain.”
Their frustrated breathing echoes through the cell, the oil lamp beyond slowly dying, and Levi thinks, I need to get up. I need to go. There is tension in the space between them now, the kind that threatens to destroy any progress they may have made. Levi feels fragile, breakable… exhausted. He wants to cry for Sasha, but he’s not sure he can bear to let Eren see how much he is hurting. Levi gave this boy a piece of his heart once, long ago in a crystal cave when he was so proud he could hardly stand it, and Eren has been destroying that piece ever since.
He doesn’t want to say it, but he has to. Eren needs to grasp the full implications of his choices. “You know we have other options, right?” Levi pauses, then forces the words out, feeling sick. “Armin never had a problem following orders.”
Eren is quiet for some time. Eventually the blanket rustles, and Levi senses he is being watched again. “And you’d let that happen?”
Levi removes his hands, and does Eren the justice of at least looking him in the eye when he says, “I’m not sure I’d have a choice. I’m not sure any of us would.”
Eren sighs heavily, turning towards Levi.
Levi mirrors his movements, and they face each other across the chasm of scratchy grey material. “I don’t know what to do, Eren.”
“You could trust me,” he whispers. “Like I asked you to.”
“I’m not even sure I can forgive you,” Levi says. He notices a leftover speck of blood on Eren’s cheek in the low light. “Or if you’ll ever forgive me.”
They stare at each other warily. They are both broken, and both unclean, and maybe that is why Levi never even stood a chance. He never had Eren to begin with, and it was stupid to fool himself that he did.
Eren reaches out and takes Levi’s hand. Laces their fingers together.
Levi looks down in shock. It’s an intimacy just a shade beyond appropriate. He must go now, he must, he must, because tomorrow… tomorrow he has to start convincing the world that he has control of Eren once more, and this time, he’s going to need to convince himself too. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find Eren again, when Eren has set himself so firmly beyond reach.
“You have seconds to explain, Steve.” Bucky can barely get the words out; it feels like there’s a lump in his throat and he can barely breathe around it. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, hunched over his knees and desperately trying to hold everything in. He’s not sure if he wants to cry or scream more.
Or: In which Bucky has some questions for Steve, Natasha has a little more than that, Rhodey makes a heroic sacrifice to save Bucky Bear.
Because I'm such a sucker for angst, may I request Cobert and "loss"?
Well, not an all-out Loss drabble but here’s this ...
Loss
She stared down at where her father held her hand; Sybbie stared down through the hot blur of tears at the way her father’s hand swallowed hers whole, and she pushed down the next sob that rose in her throat.
Don’t look up. She told herself. Don’t look anymore, because she knew what she’d find. Donk leaning ever closer to Granny, his body teetering on the very edge of the chair he’d been in for days now, weeks, his face hidden down where he hung his head. Aunt Mary on the opposite side, her long fingers clutching a handkerchief that Sybbie had never seen her use before today. Daddy peeking up toward her aunt, his eyes red though his grip was firm.
It was happening. Months of knowing had turned into weeks of caring which had turned into days of waiting and now...now Granny was dying.
She was dying.
“Mama?” Aunt Mary’s voice choked through the darker whispers in Sybbie’s mind; it broke through the lighter ones, the lighter ones that reminded her that there’d be no more pain, that they knew it was time. She hated those voices. Aunt Mary had been one of those voices, but now she was more broken. Aunt Mary sounded broken, and Sybbie bit at her lip.
She would not look up. George, though, moved beside her. Eleanor touched at Sybbie’s elbow. Aunt Mary tried to speak.
“Mama, Edith is nearly … just — “
The warmth of her father’s hand left her, and Sybbie felt him move away from her, closer to Aunt Mary. In the periphery of her vision, she could see Aunt Mary draw the handkerchief beneath her nose. Beside her, George turned around to the windows, toward Grace, toward Paul, toward Uncle Henry who covered his face with his hand.
“I can’t,” George whispered, and Sybbie made herself look at him. “I can’t. I can’t.” He repeated it softly as the silence from the bed grew louder, as the sound of waiting grew harder and colder. As the low sound of tears filled up every space in the room.
It was George, and Aunt Mary, and Eleanor and ...
And then another sound, another soft sound as Sybbie reached out to George, as Eleanor stepped closer into her side, as Grace stood from the chair to meet them, as Paul turned away in some show of respect. There was another sound, and it crept softly into Sybbie’s chest, and she began to ache, burn.
“ — I should’ve said it more often.”
It was Granny, though her voice sounded so unlike her, so unlike the soft-spoken Granny who’d worn pearls and stitched roses into long soft fabrics. It was Granny, but it wasn’t. It was low and gravelly, and terribly tired.
“Should’ve said more often — that I love you.”
“Oh, my dearest one. Let’s have none of that.”
Sybbie looked up at Donk’s reply, a reply that was somehow both curt and tender, a reply that felt very far away though he sat so very close to Granny. Even through the light streaking across her vision, Sybbie could see how Donk shook his head closer and closer to Granny.
Granny, though, ignored him.
“But I have. I’ve loved you from —“ She lifted her chin upward and Sybbie could see as she tried to catch her breath. Her next words barely made any sound at all. “ — from the very first moment I saw you.”
Donk was still shaking his head, his hands grabbing at Granny’s limper ones. He said something Sybbie couldn’t hear. He said something she didn’t think Granny could hear either. And around them, the room fell even more silent.
“At the Whitmere’s ball. Dancing with that lovely blonde girl —“ Granny’s voice faltered, and it took her a moment to recover. It was a moment in which Aunt Mary turned away from her parents, a moment in which Sybbie couldn’t help but stare at them, a moment she wanted to go to Donk and hold him, but he leaned in to Granny instead. His face was so near hers Sybbie thought their foreheads may touch. But they didn’t.
“Cora…”
“— and how I wanted you to dance with me. But you hardly noticed me.”
And then, Granny was crying. Her chapped, pale lips turned upward into a fragile smile and her voice crackling as if it could break, Sybbie saw that she was crying, and yet she couldn’t look away.
“You were laughing and -- dancing and you -- you barely noticed me at all.”
And Donk was crying, too. He shook his head and Sybbie watched, her body trembling from the hole growing inside her chest, as he fumbled with Granny’s fingers.
“A blue dress,” she heard him say at last. “You were in a blue dress and … of course I noticed you.” Donk drew Granny’s fingers to his lips, and Sybbie closed her eyes. “I saw nothing but you. Darling.”
Don’t look up. She told herself. Don’t look anymore, because she knew what she’d find.
