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animamii · 9 days ago

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Hit Different | Eren Jaeger 𝜗𝜚 Part Quatre

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Eren meets his match when Ymir's cousin crashes into his life. Classic playboy meets maneater. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

part un ✧ deux ✧ trois

𖹭.ᐟ modern aot verse! college au!

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

'just don't fuck with him'

Eren's words tumble around in your head as you look out the window, this weird feeling just swirling in your stomach. Unease? Guilt, maybe? But guilt wasn't a flavor you were used to. It tasted unfamiliar and yucky, like bad fruit. And you hated it. You were just playing your usual game. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. That was the whole damn point. You flirt, you move on, you keep it light. No attachments. No guilt. No messy little feelings that cling to your ribs after the fun stops. But the way he said it? Like his throat was caught up and the words were wavering with some sort of emotion he looks like he never had?? Makes you feel selfish.

Jean wasn't the normal kind of guy you'd play your little game with. He wasn't a dirt bag. Wasn't sleazy or grimey. Never asked you for nudey pictures or to hang out past midnight. No 'You up?' texts where you knew what the intention was. His compliments were never about your body, never objectified you. He didn't even call you hot, he had told you that you were beautiful. Even sent a goofy picture of him working at the office, his dorky face as he held up a paper cup of coffee from some hole in the wall coffee shop. Jean was sweet. Jean wasn’t the kind of guy you toy with. Not the kind you should toy with.

And yet here you were, playing your usual game like it was muscle memory. Batting your lashes, sending flirty texts, dangling just enough attention to keep him close but not enough to make it real. The problem was, Jean made it feel real anyway. And Eren saw it. Saw through it. It pissed you off, honestly. That he could read you like that. That his voice had enough weight behind it to actually make your stomach churn with something dangerously close to shame. You don’t do shame. Not anymore.

A deep sigh of relief leaves your lips when you round that familiar street corner, Ymir and Historia's little place coming into view. A little cottage looking one story, whitewashed and stucco like with a little flower garden in the front lawn. Historia said it screamed lesbian so of course they leased it. In all honesty you just had to get out of the car. Even with the AC blasting, you still felt hot and like you couldn't breathe. It was like the tension just filled the entire car, even if Ymir and Historia [pretended] to be oblivious—okay, well maybe Historia was oblivious in her drunken state.

With a sudden jerk of her beat up nissan altima, Ymir parks the car in her driveway. It's dead silent for a moment, aside from Historia's sleepy drunk mumbling. Exhaling, Ymir turns to look at you, then Eren, then a dozing Historia. Ymir doesn’t say anything at first. Just squints a little, scanning the car like she walked into the middle of a fight and was trying to figure out who threw the first punch. Her gaze lingers on you the longest. It always does.

Then she sighs deeply and pops her door open. “Alright, out. Everybody out. Storia’s about oneeee hiccup away from vomiting in my backseat and I’m not shampooing this shit twice in one year.” The only thing audible now is the metal clinking of Ymir's keys being tugged from the ignition as you yourself open the passenger door.

It feels fucking awkward as you slowly step out, like the tension is tangible and heavy on your shoulders. Eren steps out of the back slower; after waiting for Ymir to drag Historia out from the left side so he doesn't have to step out on the same side as you. Ouch. It's almost too quiet, until a couple minutes later Connie rolls up in his damn blue Beamer, music bumping so loud you could hear the whole frame of his car shake with the bass.

"Yerrrr! We ready to keep the party rollin' or what?? I grabbed a lil something from the gas station!" He gleams, going to grab a plastic black bag from his backseat, the sound of clanging glass against each other as he holds it up to show you guys with a toothy grin. He's absolutely clueless as to what had just happened in the car, and honestly, you'd like to keep it that way.

The clanging liquor bottles are like a dogwhistle to Historia, who, even just dozing off in the backseat, is now standing upright with perfect posture and thee biggest smile on her damn face.

"Is that what I think it is??" Historia beams, taking stumbling steps towards Connie, who wraps a protective arm around her to help steadily walk her to the front door. Her blonde hair is now mussed and mascara smudged but her lidded cerulean eyes still sparkle at the sight of Connie’s little black bag of salvation.

Connie grins, clearly proud of himself. “A variety pack of hangover cures,” he says, lifting the bag like a trophy. “And by that I mean a pint of Henny, one questionable peach-flavored Smirnoff that just appeared outta nowhere, and ginger ale. Hair of the dog, right?” With the hand wrapped round Historia, he playfully tugs at one of her tangled strands.

Watching this while Ymir unlocks the front door has you smiling. You had never had male friends. Not like this. Male friends who don’t expect something. Not the kind that carry you home when you’re blackout drunk. Not the kind that make you laugh without trying to flirt. Not the kind that keep Hennessy and ginger ale in the same bag because they know it’s gonna be one of those nights. It was weirdly wholesome, this dumb little group. And for a second, just a second, you forgot about the weight sitting in your chest.

Ymir swings the door open, already kicking her sneakers off by the shoe rack she keeps by the front. You step inside behind Historia and Connie, the scent of Ymir’s lavender plug-ins already punching you in the face. You loved the feeling you got in your cousin's house. It always felt... zen, even when you were hungover puking into her toilet. It was always warm, inviting, cozy. Messy but perfect. It felt like home.

Connie makes a beeline for the kitchen, yelling something about shot glasses and chasers. Historia trails after him, giggling, whispering loud as hell about doing “just one, just to keep me from bein' cranky pants.”

You’re about to follow their little tipsy parade when you feel a presence brush past you—close and heavy, but cold. Eren. He walks past with barely a glance, broad shoulder brushing your arm as he mutters, “Move.”

No eye contact. No smirk. No little jab. Just that one word, blunt and clipped, like you were a door in his way. And maybe that would’ve pissed you off. Hell, usually it would’ve lit a fire in you, made you bark something slick and sharp right back at him. But this time? It just stings. Because you’re not used to being invisible. Tossed aside. You’re used to being the sun, the center, the gravitational pull in every room. But Eren doesn’t even give you orbit right now. He just keeps walking, disappearing down the hallway toward the bathroom. And it leaves something hollow behind in his place.

Ymir watches the whole thing go down from the entryway, eyebrow arched, a brow raise so obvious it might as well be a full-on siren going 'wee woo wee fucking wooooo'. But she doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Instead, she just mutters, “Get comfy. I’ll throw a pizza in.”

And just like that, the door closes behind you. But that sentence? 'Just don’t fuck with him.' Still hasn’t left your body.

‎♡‧₊˚

Connie’s already yanked open every cabinet like he lives there, balancing a handful of mismatched shot glasses in one hand with his phone tucked under his chin playing some random ass Gunna song as he waits for Ymir to bring him a speaker to connect to. Humming and nodding his head to get everybody just as excited as he was.

"Okay, okay, okayyyyyy—fuckin’ bartender Connie in the buildinggg!" he announces, slamming the glasses down onto the marbled counter like it’s a bar top. "Line up, sluts! We got options." His fingers tap the bottles, Hennessy, vodka from the fridge, a near empty bottle of Espolon, aaaand that random ass peach smirnoff that had definitely been sitting in Connie's backseat since last night's party.

You slide onto a stool at the island, arms crossed but smiling despite yourself. You still felt weird, the way Eren lightweight just shoved you as he passed by, looking at you with whatever disgust he was harboring for you at the moment. But you couldn't dwell on how he felt about you right now. You never dwelled on how a man felt about you. That would be giving your power up.

Historia’s singing off-key under her breath while she shakily attempts to pour some of the smirnoff into a glass and misses entirely, peachy vodka now pooling on the surface of the kitchen island countertop.

“You need help?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you yank a paper towel from the roll and clean it up for her. God knows Historia had cleaned up plenty of your messes before.

“I need another liver,” she mumbles, licking the sticky sweet vodka off her knuckles with her eyes shut in bliss as she shivers from the way too artificial peach flavoring like it was rewiring her whole system.

Connie pours two fingers of Henny into four different glasses, pushes one toward you, one toward Ymir, and keeps one for himself. Historia gets an itty bitty baby shot, because Ymir makes a disappointed mom face from across the kitchen, head peeking from the fridge as she pulls out some juice for a chaser and a cold water bottle that she's gonna force feed Historia.

"To... the brunch bitches and keeping the party rollinnnn'!," Connie toasts loudly, holding up the sparkly pink 'I got my ass ate in Vegas' shot glass up.

The four of you let out a collective 'ayeeeee!' as you clink the glasses together, Historia's a little sloppy and spilling a tad bit. You knock it back, not even bothering with a chaser so the sting could distract you. You try not to think about the fact that one person’s missing.

‎♡‧₊˚

Eren’s hunched over the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain so hard his knuckles are somehow even more pale than he already is. His head hangs low, strands of hair shadowing his eyes, jaw tense, chest rising and falling like he just got out of a fight—or’s about to start one. He glares at his own reflection like he's disappointed in himself.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, teeth gritted from tension. “Why do you even give a fuck?”

Eren Jaeger had not once gave a fuck about anything that didn't involve himself. If it didn't regard him? He paid dust. Nada. But seeing you text Jean? To act so fucking sweet and update him on brunch as if he was your boyfriend? Irritated Eren to his core. He chalks it up to him being upset that you're playing your stupid little game on his friend, someone who didn't deserve to be toyed with. Even if Jean knew exactly what kind of person you were, Eren didn't think that you should even be allowed to talk to Jean in that way.

“Just don’t fuck with him.” Like he had any right to say that. Like you weren’t free to do whatever the hell you wanted. Still... he saw it. That flicker on your face. The way you hesitated. The way you didn’t fire back like you usually would. And now he can’t stop thinking about it.

He splashes cold water on his face, palms dragging down across his cheeks as he shakily breathes through his nose. Down the hall, he hears Connie’s voice yelling something about 'round two' and Historia shrieking like a raccoon got in the house, probably was about to fall off a bar stool if Eren had to guess. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Your laugh. His stomach twists. He dries his hands, eyes hard in the mirror like he's visually erasing every shred of emotional vulnerability. Then he reaches for the doorknob.

‎♡‧₊˚

You lean over the counter, scrolling your phone while everyone talks over each other. Connie is using one of their cocktail shakers to make Historia a peach vodka cosmo, just like she wanted at that damn gay bar she was still going on about. Ymir was checking on that pizza she promised she threw into the oven—which she barely did once you reminded her for the third time.

Connie's shaking that damn rose-colored cocktail shaker vigorously like the bartender at The Pussycat, letting Historia play her gay tunes so she wouldn't whine that the lighting is off. Tossing the metal cannister up in the air before catching it behind his back like it was a circus act, Historia clapping like an entertained child.

"See? My cosmo's are better, blondie. Theirs are just vodka and cranberry. Mine are peach vodka and cranberry," Connie winks and wiggles his eyebrows, pouring the pinky orange cocktail into a martini glass, tossing some raspberries that he found in the fridge just for that extra flair. Connie was always going that extra mile for his friends just to make them happy.

Ymir, who’s crouched in front of the oven in socks and a hoodie that’s too big, lets out a grunt as she peeks at the chicken and spinach white sauce pizza inside. “I swear to god, I put it in this time.”

“You barely did it,” you call over without looking up. “Don’t act like me yelling ‘hey, where’s the pizza?’ three times didn’t make you move.”

“Snitch,” she mutters, turning off the oven light as she checks the timer she set on her phone once more.

Jean’s name lights up your screen again. Another message; “Hey, I was thinking… maybe dinner this weekend? Just us. Lmk 🧡”

Before you can react, before your fingers could even twitch—the bathroom door loudly creaks open down the hall. And Eren steps out. Dry hands. Wet jawline, sideburns dripping just a tiny bit. Eyes somehow even sharper than before. His gaze? Goes straight over you. Doesn’t say a word. Just walks past you, silent, and grabs a shot glass Connie had set aside. He downs it with an audible gulp, head tilted back and adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Doesn’t even wince. Doesn't make a face. Just slams the shot glass back down on the counter with a heavy hand.

"Refill that," he mutters to Connie, not once looking your way as his fingers slide the neon green shot glass back to the boy with the buzzcut. Like he's trying to look anywhere but you right now. But then—finally—he turns. Sort of. Just enough to look past the curve of your body, gaze flicking to the martini glass that sat in front of you, the same fruity cocktail Connie made for Historia inside of it. His lips quirk—barely, a puff of air snorting from his nose. And then he finally turns to say something.

“You’re not drinking that peach shit, are you?” he mutters, almost like a joke.

You blink at him, lashes feeling heavy. “Why?”

He shrugs, but it’s slow. Lazy. Disinterested. “You’ve got better taste than that.” Then, as if he just dropped the hottest bar of the century, he turns his back to you, walking to the sliding door to the backyard, already grabbing his lighter from his pocket, thumb striking that rigid metal wheel with a flick flicker. He grabs the blunt tucked behind his ear—berry fusion dutch, fat and rolled perfectly—and slides the glass door to the backyard open with one hand.

Connie blinks, his eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. “...Well damn,” he mutters, glancing at you for confirmation. “What the hell was that?”

You keep your face neutral as you give him a shrug, taking a slow sip from your own glass like it didn’t affect you, "No idea." Like your heart didn’t jump a little. Like your mouth didn’t go dry the second Eren looked at you and saw through you again.

Connie’s lips twist into a sly smirk. “Mmhm. That boy took one shot and got bold. I like it.”

Without missing a beat, he snatches the empty shot glass Eren left behind, flicks open the Henny cap and refills it to the brim—none of that measured-pour bullshit. Just straight brown liq, heavy-handed and reckless. As if he wants to egg his friend on.

“Let’s see if he wants to back that attitude up with another one,” Connie grins, placing the full glass on the counter like he’s lighting a damn stick of dynamite. A ticking bomb made of ego and alcohol.

Ymir cackles from across the kitchen, oven mitts on and ready to take out that pizza she been promising you. “If he gets drunk, I’m recording every second of that shit. That man is unhinged on liquor.”

“No literally,” Historia chimes in from the couch, still cradling her half-finished peach cosmo like a baby, both hands coddling the bottom of the bowl of the glass. Her mascara’s smudged but her memory is vivid. "You guys remember the one time he finished that whole bottle of Don Julio?? Like just demolished that whole bottle by himself."

“YESSS,” Ymir groans, setting the pizza down on the stovetop with a clatter. "He tried to fight that big ass bouncer at Eden's Lounge just 'cause he asked Historia for her ID. What'd he say again??" She starts looking through her kitchen drawers for the pizza cutter, smiling over the comedic memory.

“Oh my god,” Historia cackles, head falling back, nearly sloshing her drink. “He was like—‘She’s GROWN, bro. She’s with ME.’”

Connie wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “He was screaming at a six-foot-five bouncer in a damn velvet vest. And then threw up in my cupholder on the ride home. Iconic behavior, honestly. I love when that boy actually lets loose.”

Ymir fans herself with the oven mitt, the heat from the freshly baked pizza rising up to her freckled face. “Drunk Eren’s a menace. Drunk Eren with a point to prove?? That’s a full-blown cautionary tale.”

“Do you think he’ll drink it?” Historia asks softly, eyeing the shot glass that's still sitting untouched on the counter, glowing amber under the kitchen lights like it’s some sort of magical potion. Your eyes flick toward it too. It’s still there. Waiting. Just like you. And you don’t say a word.

"Let's see," Connie shrugs then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “YO, JAEEEGERRRR. You got one more in you or what???”

It echoes through the house, cutting clean through the noise of the music bumping from the speaker. And for a moment, the whole kitchen holds its breath. Like the walls are listening too. Like even the air is waiting. For footsteps. For a shadow to darken the hallway. For the sound of someone coming back to claim what’s his.

For a second you think he can't be bothered now. But no, you hear the heavy shift of the glass sliding door, the scent of berry infused tobacco and forbidden fruit wafting through the air as Eren's heavy steps track through the dining area. His eyes are low now, mossy eyes red-rimmed, half burned blunt between his index and middle finger, lingering smoke giving him a halo.

He doesn’t say anything to Connie. He doesn’t even look at the drink. Instead? His eyes find you. Still seated in that bar stool. Still holding your own glass. Still pretending like your hands aren’t a little clammy. He reaches forward, takes the shot glass off the counter and walks over right next to you. He leans down just slightly, just enough to make it feel deliberate, elbows on the counter like this moment was his and his alone.

“You gonna drink with me?” he asks. Voice like molasses. A lil raspy from the smoke, but still velvety.

He holds the shot glass out to you. A challenge. A truce. Maybe a warning. And everyone else? DEAD silent now. Ymir’s eyebrows are curiously raised, Connie’s mouth is slightly open in a stupor, and Historia is holding her breath and gripping onto the couch like this is the season finale of a show she didn’t even know she was starring in.

Your fingers curl around the shot glass, warm where he touched it. And for just a second, your eyes flick up to meet his. He’s already watching. Of course he is, he always is. That same dead eyed stare—like he’s daring you, like he’s expecting you to break eye contact first. You don’t. You never do. With a slow, deliberate smirk curling at your lips, you clink your glass against his—soft, but sharp enough to cut the silence that you've been holding onto since the car.

“Cheers,” he says, then knocks back his own shot. Never looking away from you. Throat flexing with the swallow, jaw tensing just so. The kind of motion that shouldn't be that captivating but somehow is when it’s him.

“Cheers,” you echo. And then, you tip it back. The henny burns like gasoline. You welcome it. You don’t even blink. Even if your whole body wants to shudder from the taste. When the glass hits the counter with a soft clink, you lick a stray drop off your bottom lip, slow and unapologetic, holding his gaze the entire time.

“Mm,” you hum, voice syrupy and sweet. “Not bad.”

Eren’s lips twitch. Just barely. Not a smile—more like a reaction he’s trying to strangle to hold in. He nods once, bringing the blunt up to his lips and taking a fat puff, exhaling with the smoke swirling around the two of you. “Told you. You’ve got better taste than peach smirnoff.”

“Please,” you scoff playfully, nose scrunching up from the stinging scent of the tobacco smoke. “I wasn’t drinking that. I just like the color. It's cute.”

“Right,” he says, eyes dragging down your figure for the briefest second. “You like things that look good, not things that are good for you.”

You raise an eyebrow slowly, eyelids heavy as you tilt your head. His smoke still lingers in the air between you—sweet, thick, and making you the slightest bit lightheaded from the secondhand nicotine inhalation.

“Things that are good for me usually come with expectations,” you murmur, voice just as smooth as the shot you just knocked back. “And I don’t like being told what to do.”

Eren lets out a low, humorless chuckle as if what you said was comical to him. It rumbles in his chest more than it leaves his throat. “Yeah,” he mutters, flicking ash into a nearby cup with an abrupt tap of his forefinger. “No shit.”

You lean in a little closer, close enough to smell the berry flavored tobacco and weed and henny laced into his hoodie. “I’m just saying,” you continue, tone featherlight but your words meant to slice, “you don’t know what’s good for me either.”

He turns his head then. Eyes locking with yours in that same dead-on, breath-stealing way, eyes lidded in that lazy but dreamy way. His jaw shifts, tongue swiping his teeth. His hand—still holding the blunt—rests against the counter like he’s keeping himself steady.

“Don’t I?” he asks all gravelly. Like he knows you. Like he knows what kind of person you are. The tension’s high. Like the drop before a roller coaster. Like one wrong move and it’ll spiral into something messy. You don’t break the silence. You let it stretch. Let it snap.

Because the next sound in the room? Is your phone vibrating on the counter behind you. You don’t have to look to know who it is. You already know that name lighting up your screen.

Jean: "You still at Ymir's? Was thinking about you."

Eren’s gaze flicks past you. To the phone. To the screen. To his name. And everything changes in his posture. The light in his eyes shifts. The jaw sets again. He doesn't say anything this time. He just pulls the blunt back up to his mouth and takes another hit, slow and deep—longer than before. Eyes unreadable once more. Cold. But simmering.

“Should get that,” he says finally, smoke curling around the words. “Wouldn’t want to keep your boyfriend waiting.”

He turns then. Back muscles stretching under his hoodie as he moves toward the back sliding door again, letting it creak open and disappear into the evening air. And you? You’re still standing there, shot glass empty, skin burning, head spinning, heart somewhere between your stomach and the floor. The screen still glows behind you. Jean’s name still waiting. But the smoke Eren left behind? It lingers.

Connie just whistles, cutting the silence as he loudly pours another round. Historia winces sympathetically before sipping her cosmo, leaning back into the couch like it'll ease the tension in the room.

"You good, cousin?" Ymir asks, her own face etched with sympathy.

"Mmm, peachy," you respond as you snatch one of the shots, downing it before you grab the bottle and pour yourself one more. "Drive me home, Con? Gotta long day tomorrow, wanna rest up." You knock that shot back quickly, eyes on that damn back sliding door where you can see Eren finishing his blunt. You place the shot glass down as you toss your purse strap over your shoulder. "See y'all tomorrow, yeah?"

"Uh, yeah," Ymir nods, shoving Connie to grab his keys, already sensing the tension in your body, "See you tomorrow."

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

tags ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ @jaeg3rb0mb @zeunys @booksandbud4me @asthesunrisessolow @erenjaegerfein @cc1306 @spammmmmmsstuff @knucklesdeepmingi @honeyfewr @ic-slxt @moonchillsstuf @miirily

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animamii · 2 months ago

Text

Hit Different | Eren Jaeger 𝜗𝜚 Part Trois

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Eren meets his match when Ymir's cousin crashes into his life. Classic playboy meets maneater. ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

𖹭.ᐟ modern aot verse! college au!

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

"Next time we're keeping Historia's ass far away from the mimosa tower," Ymir grumbles, her arm slung tightly around Historia's unsteady waist as the group walks out of the diner. Her grip tightens with every teetering step Historia takes, like she’s wrangling a drunk toddler in heels. With the sun somehow still bright as hell you put your sunglasses back on, needing to black out the unnecessary light. You swear it's always extra bright when you're hungover.

"Dunno how she always ends up in charge of it," Eren mutters, tone dipped in that signature blend of amusement and irritation. He squints after her, watching as Historia sways into Ymir’s side, muttering some gibberish that doesn’t sound remotely human. "It's like the two just gravitate towards each other." In Eren's head he imagined the mimosa tower being a magnet, Historia a teeny piece of steel, being pulled towards it no matter what.

"I know, shit's insane. She downs half the tower on her own every time and then acts surprised when she’s blacked out by noon. Always ends up the drunkest cause she doesn't know her damn limits. Talk about white girl wasted," Ymir grunts as Historia stumbles a bit when she trips over her own shoes and uneven pavement, "Plus when she's drunk she somehow gets ten times heavier like a damn anvil. Help me carry her to the car, Jaeger?"

Historia suddenly jerks upright like a woman possessed, blonde hair all in her face as her bleary eyes lock onto something across the street. "Oh shit! That gay bar is open!" she gasps, voice filled with a kind of awe usually reserved for witnessing a miracle. "Let’s go!" And just like that, she’s off. Ymir's still attached to her side, practically getting dragged in the process like an owner with an eager dog.

"Oh hell no!" Ymir scrambles to grab her tighter, heels digging into the pavement. "Jaeger! Fucking help me!"

Eren lets out a long-suffering groan before swooping in, effortlessly scooping Historia into his arms. "Alright, that’s enough outta you," he mutters, adjusting his hold as she kicks her feet in protest. You’ve carried a drunk Historia before, and you know she turns into a human sandbag the second alcohol hits her system. And yet, Eren moves like she’s weightless. Even with her flailing and attempting a dramatic escape, he barely struggles, his grip unshakable. You linger for a second too long, watching the way his arm flexes underneath his hoodie as she wriggles in protest, the slight tension in his forearms as he tightens his grip to keep her still. Okay, so he’s stronger than he looks. You shake off the thought, refusing to let it take up any real estate in your brain. But you can't help but stare just a little longer.

"Unhand me, you big bozo!" Historia slurs dramatically, attempting to point at the neon-lit bar like she’s making a declaration of war. "This is gay business! I can smell the cosmopolitans calling me!"

"You're cut off, dumbass," Ymir groans, rubbing her temple. Connie can't help but just watch and laugh, not helping one bit. His cackles and Historia's drunken shouting can't help but draw attention to the normal people trying to enjoy their Sunday afternoons. Ymir just shakes her head, always tired of being a babysitter. She just shakes her head with a groan, already regretting not drugging Historia with a Pedialyte slushie before brunch.

"Bro, this is embarrassing for all of us," Connie says as he catches his breath, hands on his knees as he watches Historia still flail like a petulant toddler in Eren's arms.

"You’re not even helping," Ymir gripes, sharply glaring at the boy with the buzzcut. She leads everyone to the car like she's the only sane adult hauling a pack of children, looking back every so often to make sure that Historia's drunken ass hasn't escaped.

"Because this is the best thing I’ve ever seen, duhhh," Connie trails behind, recording a snapchat video for the group chat to laugh at later. He starts recording, narrating in a fake documentary voice. “Here we see the rare and majestic Historia in her natural state: absolutely wasted and irrational. Nature is healing.” The shutter sound clicks, and you know that video is gonna be looped for weeks. Maybe memed. Probably memed. Connie was definitely gonna play it out though.

You’re trying not to laugh, but you’re too busy watching Eren handle the whole situation like it’s just another inconvenient errand. No complaint, no fumbling. No struggle, no fuss. Just calm, sure movements—like hauling a drunk girl around is as familiar to him as tying his shoes. His hands are steady, one arm braced around her thighs, the other across her back, like he’s done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. That thought shouldn’t bother you, but for some reason, it kinda does. Not that you’re going to unpack that right now. And if your brain kind of… short-circuits for a second when he adjusts his grip—one hand flexing slightly as he shifts her weight so effortlessly, hoodie riding up just enough to hint at toned skin beneath—well. No one has to know. It’s a private glitch. You’ll reboot later.

“Fuck me,” Ymir groans, dragging a hand down her face, already exhausted and they haven’t even gotten to the car yet. “She’s gonna be a handful the whole ride back.” She turns her head toward Eren. “Ride with us, Jaeger?”

Your stomach does a weird little flip at the thought, but you push it down. It’s just a car ride. Nothing to overthink. Right? You blame the sudden onset of butterflies on the champagne still lingering in your system. Just champagne bubbles mixing with the greasy breakfast.

Eren, still holding a continuously struggling Historia, finally gives a resigned sigh after some thought and glances at Ymir. "You got the doors unlocked?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ymir waves him off, already fishing into her flannel pocket for the keys. Her tone is flat, but her eyes still twitch toward Historia like she’s waiting for her to explode again.

Eren shifts Historia in his arms again, and this time, his gaze flickers toward you. The movement is subtle, barely noticeable, but you feel it—the way his eyes drag up just enough to catch yours. But just as quick as he looks at you, even if it felt like an eternity, his eyes flit away.

You shove your hands into your pockets, tilting your head at Historia, who is now reduced to limp, defeated grumbles in Eren’s arms. “You done fighting?”

She sighs dramatically, letting her head flop back. "I just wanted to drink cosmos and dance to Doja Cat." You swear you could hear tiny sniffles from her, but you can't see her face, just blonde hair hanging as she dangles from Eren's broad shoulder.

"You can do that shit when we get back home," Ymir tells her, unlocking the car with a beep. "It'll be easier to carry your drunk ass to bed when you eventually pass out."

Eren doesn’t even wait—just yanks open the door with one hand, the other still hooked under Historia’s knees like she’s weightless and deposits her into the backseat. He barely dodges a sloppy slap from her as she whines something about oppression and the straight white man doing what he does best. You chuckle and shake your head as you get in the front seat. You'd be damned to sit next to Eren as he manspreads out. Or even worse, have a drunken Historia rolling around on top of you.

“You’re violating my rights,” she slurs, her hand flopping uselessly against his chest before sliding off. “This is textbook oppression. The straight white man strikes again.”

Eren dodges the limp hit with a sigh that says this isn’t his first rodeo. “You’re not even making sense,” he mutters, mostly to himself, but there’s the tiniest curl of his lip, just a little side smirk of a smile. His patience shouldn’t be attractive. You decide it’s not. It’s definitely not.

“Do you see that bar?” she asks Eren, pointing lazily out the window like she’s discovered the world’s greatest treasure. “Cosmos. Dancing. Gay magic.”

Eren doesn’t even look at her. He just sighs again, the sound low yet amused. “You’re literally impossible.”

“I know,” Historia drunkenly hiccups. “But also—Eren, help. I wanna go there. I need it." Her voice turns soft with a needy desperation, her hands up against the window like a prisoner, leaving splotchy handprints on Ymir's car window as she drags her hand down with an audible squeaky sound.

A soft laugh escapes your lips, the sound is sweet and genuine, light and bubbly. which makes Eren look up. And what he sees makes his heart stutter. Looking at you from the rear-view mirror, he can see you smile. Not your slick smirk or that fake, passive aggressive condescending one you had been giving him for the past two days. This is your actual genuine smile, apples of your cheeks dimpled, pulled wide enough that a hint of teeth shows through. Something in him pauses, like a skipped heartbeat. It’s annoyingly soft. Disarming.

Before he can linger on it—before he can figure out why it hits him the way it does—Ymir abruptly swings open the driver door with all the force of someone exhausted by life and brunch. "Alright, hadda make sure Connie was sober enough to drive his dumb ass back to our place. Ready to roll out?"

"I am," Historia says just a little too loud in Ymir's ear, making her jump. "There's a gallon of Tito's with my name on it in the fridge." If she wasn't gonna get her cosmos and gay bar, she was gonna make vodka sodas at home and at least pretend she was at one, one Charli xcx song at a time.

"Fuck, Stor! Buckle your ass up," Ymir pinches the bridge of her nose before she starts the car. Ymir's beat up altima starts up with a heave. "Gonna end up going over a speed bump and your tiny ass is gonna go flying out the damn window." Fumbling sounds could be heard, Historia helplessly mumbling as the seatbelt keeps slipping from her sloppy grip.

With a tchht of his teeth, Eren takes it into his own hands and leans over to buckle her up. Ymir backs out of the parking lot, her music turned up loud enough so she doesn't have to hear Historia whine every time she doesn't stop at one of the dozens of downtown bars. Your left elbow is rested on the center console as you scroll through your phone, your vibrating notifications pulling you away from your tipsy watching out of the window.

From the angle you're sitting Eren has the perfect view of your phone. And him, being ever so nosy about the mysterious enigma that was you, couldn't help but watch. Because of course he would. Each social media app on your home page seemed to have double or triple-digit numbers in the little red bubbles that resided in the top right corner. Connie really wasn't lying about that roster, huh?

Opening up snapchat, your chat log is bombarded with unopened snaps and messages. Eren's eyes narrow ever so slightly as he watches you swipe through your messages. The longer he watches, the more he can’t seem to shake the feeling of being… a little too invested. He takes note of the little bitmoji avatars. Mostly guys, he realizes. The messages from the guys pile up, his brow twitching with each one. A few snaps, a couple of “What’s up?”s, a few “Miss you”s. You half swipe a few, reading the message but leaving them on delivered, leaving the sender in agonizing limbo. Others you flat out just leave on read without blinking, not even giving them a sliver off attention.

Then you open some from girls, he doesn't know who, but these are the only ones that actually get a response from you. You're actually engaging, actually responding. Laughing quietly to yourself. Sending back stickers and even sending funky ass pictures with weird filters. He tries to hold back a snicker as you use one that gives you a cartoonishly big forehead.

Then a notification pops up at the top. It's a text. 'How was brunch?' Eren's brows furrow, eyes scanning the screen to read the name. And everything in him stills in that moment. Jean. The fuck? Jean texted you? The thought settles in Eren’s chest like a sickly strong emotional cocktail—one part disbelief, two parts irritation. You were actually texting Jean. Did he actually manage to snag your number last night at the party? The thought sits uncomfortably in his stomach now, but he doesn’t dare to admit it. You tap the message to open it, your acrylic nail making a 'tut' sound against the phone as you do so. With his eyes stuck to your screen, he realizes you two had been texting... a lot. Like a lot.

Eren can’t help but notice the way your fingers dance over the screen, typing out responses quickly, as if the conversation is something you’re eager to continue. It makes something twist in his gut, something unfamiliar and green. There’s something about it that grinds at him. His jaw tightens slightly, and he watches you send the message to Jean without hesitation.

'So this is how you operate', he thinks bitterly. The decisiveness in which you engage, and the fact that you don't seem to care who you leave on read, except... for Jean. Jean, who in this moment gets all of your attention, all of your effort. Jean, who somehow managed to snag your number after one night of partying.

Eren’s fingers twitch. His hands, resting in his lap, clench into fists without him realizing. There's this sinking feeling in his chest; something sour he can't quite place. What does Jean have that he doesn’t? He doesn’t know why it’s getting under his skin this badly. He shouldn’t care. He barely even likes you, only tolerates you cause you're Ymir's cousin—at least that’s what he tells himself.

'Brunch was good. Lot of mimosas, a little too many.' Your fingers pause for a moment before you add, 'Ymir had to carry Historia out of the restaurant lol.' You send it with a little laugh. He can see it. He can hear it in the way you’re typing. And he swears he could actually hear you softly giggle under the music.

Eren inhales sharply. His throat tightens. He’s watching this entire exchange like it's some kind of sick fascination. But the thing is, it’s not just curiosity anymore. It’s... jealousy. He doesn’t know why it’s hitting him like this—why he feels this need to know how close you two are. How much he’s really got to compete with.

He watches as you send another message. 'I’ll let you know when I’m free to hang out next. You still owe me that drink.' The message seems innocent enough on the surface, but the way you send it, so casually, so… comfortably and expectant—it digs under his skin. You tap the send button without a second thought, locking your phone and not waiting on Jean's response. It’s as if you don’t even register that Eren’s been watching, studying you. But he’s fully aware of it. His focus is on you, every movement, every keystroke.

A quiet breath escapes Eren, and his grip on the seat tightens, almost painfully. What the hell was he doing? Why did it matter so much? He glances at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than it should, trying to read you—trying to make sense of the way you move, the way you talk, the way you operate. There’s a confidence in how you handle your connections, your interactions with people. He’s starting to get it now. You have the ability to make anyone feel important, to make them feel special, without ever giving anything away. And Jean? He's eating this shit up. Too naive to know that you're stringing him along until you get what you want out of him. Eren doesn't know what, but he knows a girl like you, someone who can charm her way into anyone’s life with ease, always knowing just what to say to keep them hooked, isn't easily satisfied by such a soft, nice guy like Jean.

Eren clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to ask you, to call you out on this subtle game you’re playing. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts in his seat, trying to pull himself together before he says something that would only make this worse.

Eren’s gaze stays locked on the back of your head for a moment longer than it should, trying to shake the knot in his stomach—or trying to burn a damn hole to see you drop dead from how jealous he is. He runs his fingers through his hair, feeling that familiar tension creeping up the back of his neck. He had never felt it before, but it was starting to become constant every time he was around you. You started to bring out these icky green feelings that he had never in his life felt before. His jaw is tight, his mind racing through thoughts he doesn’t want to have. Jean… One of his best friends that he knows like the back of his damn hand. Too sweet, too kind. A damn simp if Eren were to really want to get under Jean's skin. But you? You’re a whole different game. And what’s worse is that you know it. You know exactly how to play everyone, keep them dangling. He knows a nice guy like Jean is the perfect fodder for a man eater like you. But that's not what really pisses Eren off, if you could really see what was going on in that pretty little head of his.

The quiet hum of the car seems to stretch forever. He wonders if you’ve noticed the way he’s watching you. Probably not. You’re too wrapped up in your phone, your next message, your next move.

He shifts in his seat again, uncomfortable with the weight of his thoughts. You’re a puzzle he can’t solve, a game he’s not sure he wants to play but can’t stop being drawn into. And Jean? Jean’s just another piece. It pisses him off, and Eren can’t figure out why. It’s not like he cares what you do, who you talk to. Right? Right?

He watches you again, his green eyes flitting between you and your phone—between his desire to snap at you, to call you out on the fact that you're playing with people like it’s a game, and the part of him that can’t help but admire how damn good you are at it. It'd be like the pot calling the kettle black, but Eren was a damn hypocrite. He couldn't stand that he actually respected the game you had.

Finally, his resolve cracks. His voice is quiet, a little rougher and choked up than he intended, as he breaks the silence.

“So, when’s this drink happening?” The words feel like a challenge, even though he didn’t mean them to. He feels a strange tightness in his chest, like he just poked the hornet’s nest and he’s about to get stung.

You look up at him then, a glint of something playful in your eyes. So, he’s finally speaking up, it seems to say. You lean back slowly, ever so smug, eyes twinkling, but there's a nonchalant coolness in your smile that sends another jolt through him.

"Were you reading my messages, Jaeger?" Your voice is a sickly-sweet patronizing pitch, and Eren hates that his stomach does a flip to it. Like a damn puppy wagging its tale when it's excited. Your words. The tone. It’s like flipping a match straight into Eren’s already gasoline-soaked nerves.

He doesn’t answer immediately—of course he doesn’t. Just stares at you with that staggered expression, jaw tight and calloused fingers curled against his knees like he’s holding himself back from doing… something. Anything. Maybe everything.

Your question just hangs in the air, obnoxiously casual, like you didn’t just clock him red-handed. Like you weren’t completely aware of the way you can irritate his entire soul with a fake nice smile and giggle. You watch his mouth press into that stubborn line, and for a split second, you can tell he’s debating whether to lie or double down. And you can’t lie—it’s kinda hot seeing him scramble internally, even if he’s doing a damn good job at not showing it.

Eren finally exhales a laugh, dry and humorless as he rolls his eyes. “You didn’t exactly make it subtle,” he mutters, glancing back out the car window, the irritation evident in his face, evident in the scowl he can't even bite back anymore. “It was practically a live show.”

You raise an angled brow, feigning innocence. “You mad I didn’t cast you in the lead?” Your voice lowers in register, raspy and sultry as your eyes go lidded a bit, now smugger, like you're feeding off of his negative reaction.

That finally gets a reaction—his head snaps back toward you, those sharp juniper eyes narrowing. He’s annoyed. And not in that flirty, I’m-pretending-to-be-jealous way. No, this is deeper. Tighter. Like it hit a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed until you jabbed at it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snaps, though the bite doesn’t land the way he wants it to. Too reactive. Too defensive. His own voice betrays him, makes him sound a little wounded and hurt like a kicked puppy.

And you? You smirk. Not out of cruelty—well, maybe a little—but mostly because you’ve got him now. Hook, line, and pretty little sinker. Eren Jaeger, who never lets shit get under his skin, is spiraling over a text thread with Jean Kirstein.

You tilt your head, voice syrupy-sweet and ever so condescending. “Aw, don’t worry, Eren. I’m sure Jean would share the spotlight. You could even hold the boom mic.” Teeth gems glinting as you grin at him.

That earns you a scoff, one that sounds way too much like a growl under his breath. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

You lean in, lips curved in a slow, wolfish smile, eyes locked with his. “No. I know I’m funny. But thanks for confirming I’m also memorable.” The silence after that is heavier. Not awkward—just loaded. Like the air between you could spark if either of you breathed the wrong way. Like shit would explode if one more thing was said.

Eren breaks it again, but this time his voice is lower, steadier. “Just don’t fuck with him.” It was almost inaudible, and you were definitely sure you were the only one in the car to hear that, with Ymir too focused on driving and Historia taking a drunken cat nap with her head resting against the window.

You pause at that. The smirk fades. A flicker of something unreadable flashes across your face before you look out the windshield again. His tone was different this time. Not teasing. Not bitter. It was serious. You roll the words around in your mind before finally responding. "Who said I was fucking with him?"

And maybe that was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. But either way, it shuts him up. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he. The tension sits between you like an uninvited passenger, strapped into the middle seat and very much not minding its business. The music plays on. The road keeps rolling.

And Eren? He stays silent. Because deep down, he knows he wasn’t really saying that about Jean.

He was warning himself.

.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・゜✧﹒☁﹒✧゜・．.・

tags ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ @jaeg3rb0mb @zeunys @booksandbud4me @asthesunrisessolow @erenjaegerfein @cc1306 @spammmmmmsstuff

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