Also, do ppl think just any crew member can put whatever they want -MULTIPLE TIMES - on the stage (or point giant spotlights lmao) wherever they want without having stage manager/band approval? The fact that people think 1d and LM have no knowledge of anything are being extremely obtuse.
Final theory pre-chapter 85: Erwin is dead. At the Survey Corps headquarters, another Erwin is sitting at his desk, doing paperwork. Another Erwin is taking a nap, and two more Erwins are frantically trying to clean to Levi’s standards. There are no less than 30 Erwins at HQ. Levi loves them all equally.
Just wanted to say I loveeee switchblade and thank you so much for writing it. I love your writing and all the prompts you do. Just wondering what you though about Neil having a nightmare that Andrew died and left him like his mom. Maybe some ooc comforting or just the hand neck thing reassuring Neil that Andrews right there he didn't go anywhere
aw, thank you, glad you enjoy my writing! little post-canon nightmare fic for you:
Andrew woke up to the mattress shifting as Neil levered himself out of bed. There was no explanation for where he was going – there usually wasn’t. Neil wasn’t as good with words as he liked to think he was, especially when he woke himself up in the night.
Andrew, who preferred silence anyway, waited until the aching urge to just close his eyes and sleep again faded, and then dragged himself upright. He grabbed his hoodie from where it was sprawled over the top of the dresser and put it on, folding his pack of cigarettes into the pocket before following.
The entire apartment was still dark, but the sliding door to the balcony was cracked open to let in the sound of the street below. Andrew went to it, ignoring the bite of cold air across his bare feet. He made sure his steps sounded on the floor as he walked.
Neil had folded himself down into the spot between the lonely outdoor chair they’d inherited from the last tenants and the railing, a black shape huddled in on itself. Andrew reached for the light switch just inside the door.
“Don’t,” Neil said roughly, hearing the tap of Andrew’s nails against the plastic.
Part of Andrew wanted to anyway – there was nothing for Neil in the dark and the cold. He didn’t because he could just make out the bowed line of Neil’s neck, curved down, the press of his arm to his scarred left cheek. This was less run-and-hide than it was reaching for control. And when it came to coping methods, Andrew didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, even compared to Neil.
He stepped out onto the balcony but didn’t get close, dropping the pack of cigarettes on the ground within Neil’s reach so the lighter inside rattled. Then he turned around, sliding the door all the way closed behind him.
He went for his sneakers, first, tugging them on. Then he pulled the duvet off of the bed and threw it over his shoulder. The cats both protested the rude disturbance as they were sent sprawling onto the mattress, but he ignored them. It was payback, as far as he was concerned.
Back in the kitchen, he made a mug of decaf coffee – white, no sugar – and one of hot chocolate. Any remaining adrenaline in his body from being so abruptly woken drained out of him through his hands as he went through the motions he could probably remember in his sleep.
They had a routine, these days. Andrew sometimes struggled with the idea of that. Tonight wasn’t one of those times, though.
The pack was in exactly the same place when he returned to the balcony, untouched, which meant that this was one of those nights. Andrew put the mugs down on either side of it, then took the duvet off of his shoulder and threw it into Neil’s lap.
He took a spot on the concrete on the other side – the balcony wasn’t that big, but it was enough that they both had their space like this. Once situated, he folded his mug between his hands and let the heat sear his palms a little. The sensation chased away the habitual desire for the taste of nicotine, the steady inhale-exhale of smoke.
Neil had told him about what that smell meant to him back in Andrew’s junior year, why he used it as his anchor after all this time. Andrew hadn’t started to pick up the relationship with nights like this one until months later, but he was familiar with the idea of a stimulus riding the edge of comfort and trigger. Neil knew that, too: that was why he was always so careful with his touch.
After a few minutes, Neil moved. The duvet rustled as he unfolded it from his lap and then pulled it around his shoulders. He reached for the second mug and held it up to his face, letting the streetlight-orange steam wash over him.
Andrew looked away, taking a sip of his own drink. It was too hot, but the sting was a contrast with the rich sweetness of the chocolate. Comfort, trigger – they were all the same to him.
Neil said, “Can you…”
He cut himself off, and then made a frustrated noise. No more talking for the man who lived for the damage his words-turned-weapons could do.
Andrew made it simple, the same way he always did. He shuffled closer, and put his mug down, and held out his hand to where the barest trace of light silhouetted Neil’s jaw. “Yes or no?”
At his murmured yes, Andrew touched his knuckles to the sharp line of it – damp to the touch – and then curled his fingers just this side of too firm about the back of his neck.
The sound he got in response was just a breath, shaking on the way out, written all over with relief.
Neil said, “You’re here.” It wasn’t quite addressed to Andrew, and it wavered between statement and question, but the way his eyes, just barely visible, flickered to him and away again was telling.
Andrew didn’t reply - his grip was his answer, anyway, unyielding as stone.
Joyce Carol Thomas, a National Book Award-winning author who drew on her own experiences in writing books for children and young adults that accented her rural African American heritage, died Aug. 13 at a hospital in Palo Alto, Calif. She was 78.
The cause was complications from liver disease, which she developed as a result of a tainted blood transfusion years ago, said her sister, Flora Krasnovsky.
After beginning her writing career as a poet and playwright, Ms. Thomas published her first novel for young readers, “Marked by Fire,” in 1982. Set in her home town of Ponca City, Okla., the book introduces a memorable and resilient character, Abyssinia Jackson, who appears in several subsequent books and becomes something of a mythic figure…continue reading
I entered this weird and wonderful new land of girls’ school with wide, awestruck eyes. My twelve-year-old self was caught completely off-guard by how much freedom there was to be enjoyed.
Sanitary pads were tossed across classrooms without a care. Barely anyone bothered with traversing long corridors to get to the toilets just so they could change for P.E. class. Conversations were unfiltered, and carried out at whatever volume we pleased. Girls stood, sat, talked, walked, shouted, and ran about however the hell they wanted to, and no one ever so much as worried about a bra strap showing.
As long as I was in school, consciousness of appearance never weighed on my mind. Walking about on the streets, I would subconsciously hunch to hide my growing chest from the view of passersby. On a public bus or train, I’d notice one or two sets of eyes passing over me less than fleetingly, and I’d tug the hem of my perfectly appropriate skirt further down over my knees. But once I was inside the gates of my beloved school, I never once felt the invisible weight of a male gaze on me.