#and you certainly do not owe anyone an apology for not being from the us and not perfectly knowing everything from there. stop apologizinggg

[toxiccoworkeryaoi]

don't EVER apologize for misrepresenting the united states of america in fanfiction. if you don't quite know how things work over there that means you haven't completely been swallowed by their pervasive cultural export. that's good. HOLD THE LINE.

[helluvapoison]

Nice To Eat You

[ii]

The Vees x Cannibal!Reader

warnings: drugs, suggestive, rosie slander, dark themes, violence, security shenanigans and, hello, cannibalism

heads up: if you didn’t know, the people of cannibal town are hellborn; born in hell, never lived on earth, never sinned! their life spans are unknown(?) but seem to age as a human would, unlike other demons

Cannibal town has been off limits to The Vees, courtesy of Vox, ever since the incident with you know who. Meeting you was a suspicious surprise for them. You were kicked out of said town by Rosie for giving cannibals a bad name. Can you fucking believe the irony!?

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Suspicious might be an understatement

• For the longest time, Vox is unnerved by you for every other reason than your appetite. Anyone associated with Rosie is an adversary by proxy. If you take Alastor out of the picture, Rosie is still an Overlord and all Overlords will inevitably crumble to The Vees– even if they don’t know it yet

• There’s an expression for that though, isn’t there? Keep your enemies close. That’s exactly how Vox went about dealing with you

• Gives you a job as his security guard. Hell knows he needs one, what with the price of fame and all, those dirty fucking sinners that try and touch him wherever he goes

• It’s a slow development because neither of you initiate conversation

• Vox is beyond used to the rotating door of demons in and out of his life. He abandons the names of anyone that isn’t you, Velvette or Valentino (Angel Dust and Alastor he can’t forget against his will)

• Becoming attached to you while simultaneously waiting for the other shoe to drop is fucking awful. It feels it like a bug in his system, annoys him to the point his screen starts glitching one day

“Just what the fuck are you up to!? I know you’re with Rosie–”

You knew, on some level, Vox didn’t trust you all the way but it didn’t bother you because he hardly seems to trust anyone. So you cut him off with a mix of a snort and a scoff,

“Rosie? Rosie’s a cunt. She gave me the boot years ago, haven't seen her since.”

Involuntarily, he begins to smile, “Years, huh?”

• Trust is another slow endeavor. Now that Vox doubts your motives slightly less than before, he can silently appreciate the fact you do a damn good job of keeping demons away from him. Bonus: if you happen to take a chunk out of them for shits and giggles, blood never touches his pristine self

• “I believe I owe you an apology,”

“Am I going to get one?”

• In a way, sure, but you’ll be sorely disappointed if you thought it was with words. He invites you to dinner. From that moment until you arrive at the restaurant, he’s reveling in the constant state of shock you seem to be in

• Your eyebrows jump when the waiter nervously lifts the lid from your plate and reveals ribs. Real, demon ribs

“Surprised?” Vox asks rather smugly

“Somewhat,” You return his sly smirk, “Most can’t stomach my… indulgences.”

“I don’t have a stomach. I think I’ll be just fine.”

˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Vel doesn’t give two steaming shits about Rosie or her backwards, unflattering town so long as it doesn’t interfere with her enterprise. Vox’s grudges are his own. If The Vees got hellbent and demented over each other’s EOTD (Enemy Of The Day) nothing would get done!

• During a pathetic comment war on the her social, a few threats became too detailed for Vox’s liking

• A cannibal wasn’t his first choice– or second, or third– but you’d certainly scare off anyone trying to hurt his business partner!

• Velvette’s far from worried about being lunch when she meets you.

• “You’re my–? No. Absolutely not! I can’t be seen with this.” She gestures to all of you

“You’re not exactly making me drool either,” You mutter under your breath

• Judging by the looks of her partners’ faces, stunning Velvette to silence was impossible. Key word: was

• It didn’t last long and hasn’t stopped since

• She pulled out every trick in the book to get you to quit. She gave you a uniform to wear during your shifts, tossed fabrics at you until you turned into a living clothes rack, forced you to hold her phone during her live streams but criticized and berated the way you did

• For fucks sake, she even screamed at Vox to let her fire you!

• You didn’t need her to like you and that was as obvious as it was infuriating. She was Velvette! Everyone loved her! Having you around was like a black eye; literally bruising her ego and bad for business

• Or so she thought

• She made you stand in the shadows of her studio so you wouldn’t frighten anyone and ruin photoshoots with your “freaky face” she so eloquently put it.

• Velvette was mid fashion crisis, yelling at Joanne for the gazillionth time, when you approached from behind

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Fucking fantastic! Here, have Joanne since she insists on being fucking useless!”

Playing along, you let a guttural growl rip from your throat, making Joanne jump high in the air.

She squeaked and shook her head vigorously, holding her hands in surrender, “I-I’ll be better, I swear!”

• Her candy cane eyes widened in delighted surprise. How had she been so blind to your potential usefulness!?

• Velvette could get high off the new game she created with you. It was like having a scary guard dog– only better dressed to aesthetics. Paparazzi didn’t dare touch her now, standing at a respectable distance that made her more unattainable and desirable than before

• Her attitude change makes her like-able to you too, she’s heaps more pleasant to be around now. You don’t mind doing the extra stuff that wasn’t in your contract like being a dress up doll, dealing with the pet names or escorting her to events. She knows and takes advantage of this instead of saying how she feels

• “You’re my arm candy now, dollface! You go where I go.”

“I hardly think I qualify as arm candy,” You mumble to her, overtly aware of how she holds you close to her

“If you’re fishing for compliments, fuck off to another pond. I don’t waste my free time with uggos,” She says seriously, abruptly smiling as a camera flashes in her direction, “Now get ready. Fans have been dying to get a picture with me lately and if anyone smudges this dress with their dirty fucking fingers, I want you to bite them off!”

“Anyone that touches you won’t have hands tomorrow,” You promise

• You swear she shivers upon hearing that

˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• The easiest by far to get along with. In a mortifying way

• Val is fairly accepting of all Hell’s creatures. It’s typically followed up by something sexual but, hey, you’re not in a position to complain, not when no one else in Hell would willingly sign up to work with a cannibal. Especially one outside the confines of Rosie’s civil town

• Rosie’s loss is his gain

• You would be lying if you said you weren’t expecting him to turn horror-struck but he barely blinks when you explain what you did to get exiled. Your savage methods intrigue him, a plethora of potentials just waiting to be explored. In fact, he goes a step further to praise you for being different

• “Hell would be deathly boring if everyone thought the same way, darling. That’s what makes you so… alluring.” He rolled his tongue with the last word, dragging it out and making it ring in your ears

• You’d been called many things in your afterlife, but never that

• You feel rather useless at the moth’s side. You were supposed to be protecting him but he could take care of himself just fine. Val was about the tallest in every room (if not the tallest) with guns hidden under his coat that he never used

• Later you’d understand he only reached for them as a last resort, when his head was unclouded by blood lust

• If you ever voiced your complaints, he’d be quick to reassure you that you make him look good. What powerful Overlord doesn’t have bodyguards? (Do. Not. Answer.)

• However the day does come when you prove your services have merit. On set of all places! A coked up Hellhound didn’t take kindly to Val’s directions, sending a demon wielding a boom mic flying towards him

• Valentino dodged the demon with ease, whipping around and aiming his pistol to put the dog down. Instead he saw you pushing the mutt’s face into the ground, his arm pinned at an angle. Your sharp teeth were bared at his throat, drool dampening his fur

• But you made no moves without Valentino’s say-so

• There’s a lot he could say about the scenario you provided him and how it made him feel– but he only calls your name, beckoning you back to his side

• Where you belong

• “You’re lucky I don’t like hair in my food,” You growl in the Hellhound’s ear before following after Val

• Valentino may be a mastermind of porn and sex but he knows the real way to a demon’s heart, it’s is the universal love language

• Unbothered by blood, he’ll sit pretty and poised on his loveseat while you tear into the meal he provided you. A thanks for a job well done

• “You’ll never go hungry now that you’re with me, monstruo,” The pet name is dripping with adoration, “I won’t waste you like that bitch did. Look at you, you’re already so special.”

~

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ i lost the request that went to this but i hope it reaches them. cannibal!reader got that rizz, huh?

[fallen-w1ngs]

'' flower shop of new feelings ,,

[ 05 : run ]

|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x florist!reader

|| warning : nothing ! jealous bucky makes a brief entrance 🔥

|| wc : 2.1k

|| btw, if any of ya'll wanna be apart of the taglist, js comment :3 or dm idc <3

The Avengers Tower’s atmosphere was awkward. Like, a weird tense awkwardness. Clint, Wanda, Sam and Bruce got back from their mission which.. Did not go according to plan, and were already bummed out with that, despite there being a backup plan. Tony had a fight with Pepper, yet again, which let’s be real, no one’s surprised about. And last but certainly not least, Peter had seen Bucky leave your apartment the previous night.

I would love to say that Bucky did a graceful job at covering for himself and explaining it.. But that’d be a lie. The second Peter uttered the words “Mr. Barnes?” Bucky ignored him and sped walk outta there. But being an Avenger, and having Peter practically live in the Tower made it virtually impossible NOT to run into him at least once.

“It’s not that big a deal, James, I promise.” You said, your phone pressed against your ear and shoulder. Currently, you were out checking on your shop and running a few errands. That’s when Bucky called and told you the whole ordeal after you shut the door. “I really don’t see how it’s such a big deal. Just explain to Peter that we’re friends.”

But I don’t want to. He thought, I want you as my secret. As strange as it is, you were one of the only things he felt he had that wasn’t poisoned by Hydra or the Avengers. He loved the Avengers (.. sorta) but he needed to have something that was his.

“Yeah, okay. Okay. Just- the team can be.. Unbearable with gossip.” He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry for calling you ‘bout this”

“Hey, no, I get that. You don’t gotta explain why you freaked out about Peter,” Your voice was full of understanding. Oh, god, Bucky absolutely loves- no. No, no no. “Oh, and never apologize for talking to me, I love talking to you”

“Oh,” He felt his cheeks warm up. “I like talking to you too.”

A small laugh could be heard from your end of the line, god, he could melt with how warm your laugh was.

“Hey, I gotta head off, I’m meeting up with my brother and his wife for a small get together, but I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, I thought I told you ‘bout him! His name’s Silas? He’s a pretentious fuck. Love him to bits, but I don’t like him, y’know?” This made Bucky let out a small chuckle. He had remembered a past conversation of yours where you rambled on about how your older brother was the golden child in your family.

“Good luck with him, [Name]”

“Thanks, James, I’ll call you later”

“Bye” He tried to hide his disappointment in his voice before hanging up. Man, what were you doing to him? He’s a lone wolf, never likes anyone, always grumpy, and rarely smiles. But with you? Seemed like he was the jolliest guy on Earth.

Ah, but he can sort out his feelings later. Right now he needed to talk with a certain Peter Parker.

–

“D-Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky was quick to find the spiderling, he was up in the lab with Bruce. Tinkering away at some sort of more protective type of suit, trying to replicate vibranium without using vibranium. He made up some bullshit excuse for why he needed to talk with Peter, even if Bruce knew it was a lie, he didn’t fight it.

“What you saw last night–”

“You leaving [Name]’s apartment last night?”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, god the way he said it felt like he was caught in an affair. “Yes. That. It was nothing.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes, but if it was nothing, why’d you run away?”

“I didn’t run away,” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the teenager. “It was.. A strategic retreat.”

Peter deadpanned. “Mr. Barnes, I don’t care if you’re dating-”

“We’re not dating.”

“Oh.” Peter sighed and snapped his fingers. “I owe Aunt May 20 bucks now.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” Bucky sighed and tapped his finger against his arm. “Look, just.. Don’t tell anyone I’m friends with [Name].”

Now.. This is where Bucky lost Peter. Why? What?? It was a strange request. A doable one! But a real strange one. “W.. Why?”

“Because Sam’ll bring it up non-stop and I’ll get teased.” It wasn't a lie, but again, not the full reason he wanted to hide you away from the team.

Peter’s puzzled look turned into a more sinister one. “I won’t tell anyone.. But I want you to give me 20 bucks every week I gotta keep your secret”

“Wha- fine. Yeah sure.” Wasn’t like Bucky had anything to spend it on. “If you tell anyone, I’m ripping your arms off.” He said with a small glare before turning away and walking off.

“.. Arms plural? Wait! Mr. Barnes! Arms plural??”

–

With that small confrontation over, Bucky was able to rest easy. Sure, he’d lose a couple of bucks, but really it was Tony who was throwing his money around. I mean, let’s think about it. So many people live in one tower, with electricity running practically everything. The electricity, water and heating bill must be skyrocketed. Ah, but that wasn’t our dear Bucky’s problem.

No, Bucky had to sort through his feelings and try to label your friendship. So he did the one thing that allowed him to feel.. Better, run.

Leaving the Tower was easy enough, being the “Winter Soldier” made it so everyone was automatically scared of him. Slipping away was easy, what was a problem was where he wanted to run. He let his legs take him.

The wind in his hair, the small burn in his legs as he ran farther and farther. His heart rate beating every time he was able to run longer and faster due since there weren’t many people around or stops. Bucky loved to run. He would run all day if he could, it felt like freedom to him. Something he wouldn’t let anyone take from him.

Bucky ran around a few blocks multiple times, by the end of it his face was damp, but not as sweaty as the normal person would be. Again, Super Soldier. Barely got tired. But, he still wanted to get something to hydrate himself. He sped walked over to that one Cafe that was across from your shop, your friend Finn ran it? At least, that’s what you told him. Maybe he could visit you af–

“James?”

Or now. It seemed you were taking your lunch break or something, ‘cause you were standing at the counter. Leaning against the solid surface, talking with Finn. And for some reason, that made a pit form in Bucky’s stomach. But, like many things, he ignored it and walked over to you, giving a small wave to you and.. Finn.

“Hey man, you want anything?” Finn had a charming smile on his face, he seemed.. Boyish. Certainly younger than Bucky, I mean, he looked like he was in his mid-twenties, younger than you.

“Black coffee.”

You snorted and tilted your head up at him. “No cream or sugar? Pegged you for a sweet guy”

The corners of Bucky’s lips perked up for a moment and he just huffed. “Got used to it.” He did, as a young adult and the war happening, everyone had to ration. That meant when he had coffee, it had to be black. None of the fancy sweeteners.

“Boring,” You hit your hip against his in a playful manner.

In a matter of seconds, Finn came back with Bucky’s drink. Some shitty ass black coffee that was overpriced. Ah, love New York. Though, it was fine. What wasn’t fine was how Finn just kept smiling and practically flirting with you.

“We should definitely go together, it’d be really fun, hell I could pay for your ticket too.”

“Finn, you shouldn’t, I’d be able to!” You giggled behind your palm. “But, I’m not opposed to that”

“We could get dinner, hangout beforehand too?”

Smooth. “I’ll definitely think about it, Finn”

Stealing a quick glance at Bucky, you realized his confusion. “Ah, me and Finn were talking about watching a musical together!”

“Which one?”

“The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals!”

“That’s a thing?”

“It’s definitely a thing.” You crossed your arms with a wide smile. “It’s really good! I should show it to you, there’s a recorded version of it up on Youtube.”

He hummed in reply and gave a lazy shrug. “You’ll have to send me a link to it.”

With a small check of your watch you took in a sharp inhale. “Shit, sorry guys, my breaks almost over, Bye Finn! Bye James!”

“I’ll walk you t’your shop.”

Now this you wouldn’t pass up on. You turned back and gave a small wave to Finn as you and James walked out. The second you felt a wave of fresh air roll on you, Bucky put his arm around your shoulder. A small smile tugged on your face as our eyebrow raised. “What’cha thinkin, big guy?”

“.. There’s a lotta cars.” He muttered. The both of you were standing side by side, he was walking on the outer edge of the sidewalk while you walked on the inner. Something you didn’t even realize.

“Such a gentleman, ey, James?”

He glanced over to you, a small smile tugging at his lips as he held you close. You didn’t mind it, didn’t mind that he was warm, didn’t mind when his grip on you tightened when crossing the street, didn’t mind the momentary lingering he had before pulling away from you when you got to the shop.

“Thanks for walking me!” You pushed open the door and grabbed your apron as Bucky stood in the doorframe. He wanted to stay longer, but he didn’t want to distract you as you worked.

He nodded to your thanks and looked around the shop. It still smelled like a garden, everything still felt humid. Everything was still the same. The flowers were in neat rows but they still perfectly transitioned into one another, the small rotating seed holder was still fully stocked. You talked about how people would grab the seeds and buy them, bunches at a time, but you never let it look like that. Always wanted it to be full, just in case.

“On the house.” Shit, he didn’t even realize you were behind him. What great assassin skills guys, real good. You had a hydrangea in your hand. “It’s blue, like your eyes.”

A few beats of silence settled between you two. Bucky just stared at you as your face got increasingly hot.

“T-That was stupid! I dunno why I did that, uh- it’s just what I like to do with friends, give ‘em flowers on the house I-” He cut you off by taking the flower from your hand, all gently and he quietly examined it.

“It’s real pretty.” He muttered and held it close to his chest. “Thanks, [Name].”

“You’re welcome! I-”

Again, you were cut off, not by Bucky, but by his phone. He muttered a small curse and a “sorry” before walking a few feet away. As much as you’d love not to eavesdrop.. IT WAS SO EASY. Not like you had much to work with.

“Mhm… No, I’m out right now,went on a run.. No, I didn’t see Sam… You can tell him to suck it up. I’m not–” He groaned and stayed quiet as the other person on the line kept speaking. “I’m not- just ‘cause they screwed up shouldn’t mean-.. Ugh. Fine, you’re the captain, punk.. Yeah yeah, I’ll be back soon.”

With that he hung up the phone, glaring at it as if it just cursed everyone in his family line.

“Sorry for that, doll, it was work. Turns out next time Sam and the idiots go out, I have to go with them ‘cause they can’t do shit.” He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, calming himself before he spoke up again. “I gotta go, but I’ll text you.”

“Goodluck with uh, Sam and the idiots.” It wasn’t funny, Bucky was genuinely ticked off, but you couldn’t help but giggle. Thankfully, that seemed to ease some of his tension. His shoulders dropped as he walked over to the door, shooting a small wave to you before leaving.

Hydrangea still in hand.. It was pretty. Like you.

|| the title of this chapter makes this part seem real scary 😭😭 its not, its cutsie. also, i wanted to just show small bits of jealous bucky cz i love jealous bucky. jealous bucky WILL be getting a full part of his own later down the line.

taglist : @iyskgd , @highhopes1008

[penvisions]

underbelly {gone to the dogs} - a holiday special

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: You and Joel have an understanding, a new thing between you both. Where once biting words were exchanged and annoyance flared, now there's this simmering thing that slowly takes hold. And who is Joel Miller if not a giving man at his core, determined to do right by the people he lets into his pack?

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: canon typical language, outbreak fic, age gap (about 15 years), sub! joel miller, dom / sub dynamics, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), oral (m and f receiving), sappy gift giving, holiday fic, some good ole pwp (well a little bc it's me lol)

Fic Notes: set at the beginning of their relationship, so between chapters five and six, i believe

A/N: hello, my loves! this is an apology of sorts for joel's behavior in the most recent chapter of the main series 😅felt like i needed to even the playing field a bit hehe. happy holidays and hope the days are good to y'all!

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The table in front of you is an organized mess. From the small baggies of pills and powder, to the piles of hand rolled cigarettes and joints separated in plastic bins, there are four more full of medicine and vitamins that aren’t offered at the infirmary. This is most of the current stock you have, save for a bin that contains five to ten baggies of each drug and pill you offer safely secured underneath the loose panel of wood that acts as one of the many patch ups to the walls of your apartment, this one in your bedroom right beside the bathroom door.

You’ve got a beaten up notebook open as you’re looping out names and exchanges owed. A tally of who you traded with the past two weeks and what they asked for in the next two. There’s a lot to organize and you take an afternoon each week to keep it all neatly transcribed. The small bottle of ink you have is beside the little stamp you’ve kept well hidden from anyone else. Not wanting it to fall into the wrong hands and end up being used on product that is certainly not yours or up to your standards.

Tess had just gotten up from the couch, her resting spot for a moment after work. An inner jacket pocket full of baggies she was about to go and deliver to the tenants of the building next door. Just as you’re about to get up and stretch your legs, the front door opens after a jingling of keys and the lock turning.

Joel.

He’s back late for the day, but you don’t mind getting the random hours to spend with him. You do a lap or two around the table before you set a pot of water up on the stove to boil in an attempt at a late lunch. There are a few cans of potatoes you found last week and you wanted to try and make something soft and hot- mashed potatoes.

Snow dusts the top of his shoulders as you watch him carefully lock the door behind himself, his thick fingers sliding the deadbolt and side latch locks. It’s all in his hair too, darkening the locks by contrast, though you can see the gray beginning to thread itself between the strands. Without a word, Joel is turning and something flies out of his grip and towards you across the room.

You catch it, though the hit of the hard thing is cushioned by a swath of thick paper around it and a twine bow tied to keep it closed.

“Joel, what the hell?” But he doesn’t respond, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair you had been in before disappearing into the bedroom. His boots clunk with the heavy steps he takes, the pain in his back and hips worse today without him needing to tell you. Sighing, you set the electric burner to the lowest setting and sit back at the table.

The little wrapped item gets set to the side, not forgotten but saved for later.

“Why didn’t you open it?”

“It’s just more of the same. Wanted to catalogue everything I already have before adding more to the roster,” You swoop the pencil in your hand over the expanse of the table, it was clear what was going on, wasn’t it? Why did he have to pick arguments with you even now, you’ve shared your apartment and bed with him for nearly a year. But sometimes you still feel like you didn’t know all of him and while you had resigned yourself to that very likely reality, you would take what he could offer you. What he was willing and wanting to offer you, because when you did- the tension in his shoulders eased just a bit, that scowl he wears so well lessens just a bit, his dark eyes lighten enough to let you glimpse at the person you assume he used to be.

“Darlin’, it ain’t none of that.” When you tilt your head to the side, much like an entranced dog, you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs, his next words the softest you’ve ever hear from him. In both sentiment and tone, aside from the night everything shifted. “It’s a gift for you. For the holiday.”

“Joel…” The confusion leaks out of you, replaced by a warmth in your chest. It’s been…god, it’s been years since anyone got you anything for the holidays. And here he is, all brooding and big and violent, giving you a piece of himself you hadn’t previously seen. His eyes are heavy on you as the paper crinkles, the twine unravels.

Atop the notebook, nestled in the ‘gift wrap’ is a little wooden figure. A dog. A cane corso dog.

A physical depiction of the very thing that lended you the nickname you’ve taken on in stride. Adapted in your endeavor to provide things for the people that the remnants of government forces refused to or asked for too much in exchange for. You were always giving, sacrificing, scrounging, never taking anything for yourself unless absolutely necessary. But this? This was something just for you, something made just for you but the looks of it. The scrapes and a blade obvious in the carving.

The gasp that leaves you does nothing to help the rapid flutter of your heart.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sharp eyes watching the way water droplets cling to your skin as you emerge from your shower. The door was wide open, the space heater Joel had found among the rubble now fixed and set between the bedroom and bathroom threshold. A lame attempt at bringing some warmness to where you both curled up at night.

The cold was getting to him, his body aching. Not just sore, but aching in the way that begins to spur thoughts of old age in his mind. He’s not that old, he doesn’t think. But he is a hell of a lot older than you and he sees it in the way you perk up at the sight of snow softly falling from the sky. In the way you offer to run to the commissary or the food hall for everyone when there’s just no energy for standing at the stove or tinkering with something that’s been broken one too many times.

Your eyes are on him as you approach but he doesn’t feel like he used to when they pinned him down in a challenge. Now he feels rooted to the spot, waiting to see what you would do with anticipation rather than anger at being challenged. He no longer feels like you’re heeling him, like he’s nothing but dirt and grime underneath the tread of your boots, flesh that was torn apart and stuck between your teeth.

No. Now he feels like he’s been granted a fresh breath of air straight from your lungs.

And he’s reveling in it. He can’t help out but reach with itching fingers, trailing over the silk of your damp skin. The hitch in your breath he can fucking hear is driving him wild, the way you freely walk around like this when before it was all growls and threats if he even so much as managed a glimpse of what you look like underneath your threadbare clothing. Of the real you that hides behind the harsh persona and attitude you’ve taken on as a shell against the world.

He sees it now, as you let him trail his fingers up to the crooks of your elbows and tug you between his legs. His lips press to your skin, a groan escaping from his chest despite the pull in his shoulder muscles at the action.

The shift of the dynamic was sudden, brought on by seeing you in a new element. One where he was able to glimpse the person you used to be. And it had made his heart both stutter and ache. If you had crossed paths before the end of the world, you would’ve thrown him for a loop, stuck in his head until he carved out time to do something about it. But as the universe played it’s hand, he’s still crossed paths with you. That’s good enough for him, despite the biting words you used to mean as you berated him and bossed him around- shoved the barrel of a gun in his face and demanded what the hell he thought he was doing trying to edge in on the smuggling scene here in this zone like he owned the place.

Because he didn’t then, and he still doesn’t now. No, that’s you.

And he’s now the muscle in it, determined to do right by the situation. It feels good to step down, to follow the orders he gets from you or from you by Tess’s mouth. To just be a piece in the game he had been heading for far too long in far too many places and scenarios. It was nice to just turn off his brain and listen.

He feels much the same way now as he watches with a quick thrumming of his heart and blood rushing to his cock as you move to kneel behind him on the bed still in only your thin towel. Hands gently kneed into his aching muscles, and he leans into the touch. It was a good thing, he thinks, to have taken the time to carve that figure for you. A gift. A frivolous thing he wanted to give to you in the midst of chaos and too cold weather, the half-smile it brought to your face worth the effort of a new hobby he had dared to try.

When prodding fingers find a particular hard knot between his neck and shoulder blade, the moan he lets out pinches his face up in pain.

“Lemme get the menthol stuff, it’ll help.”

He watches as you strut across the room and disappear into the kitchen, towel now gone and all your skin on display. He feels the swell of his cock harden in his jeans and presses a palm to relieve some of the ache there too.

He’s always been the one to lead, to take charge but he’s thinking more and more that you like being that way. And his mind blanks as you stand in front of him with hardened nipples and a jar of homemade lotion that smells far too strong to handle at the moment.

When you upcap it, he reaches out to stop you. The puzzled look that has the hint of annoyance behind it has him rolling his lips, words stuck in his throat. As the silence drags on, you must see the way that his eyes are darkened by arousal and contemplation. But you don’t move until he manages to unstick the words from where they’re lodged.

“Just…not right now. Your hands are good enough, we can save it for another time, yeah?”

Without a word, you’re twisting the cap back on the jar and then pushing a small hand to the center of his chest.

“Then lay back.”

“What for?” He raises a thick brow at the command, ready to dispel whatever hesitation that lingers in his body.

“Gonna take care of you. You gonna let me?”

All he can muster up is a nod before he listens and does exactly what you ask of him. He lets go of everything, every thought and you take the reigns from his hands. The clink of his belt is loud, breaking the drone of the heater working in the corner and the sound of his zipper as him closing his eyes tightly.

“You gifted me something and now let me do the same. Just lemme take the lead, turn that brain off for a moment, yeah?”

Joel sighs out a ‘yes’ as he lifts his hip at the tap of your palms there, allowing you to peel the jeans and boxers from his legs. Goosebumps crop up at the cooler temperature, the heat of his hardened cock bobs against his stomach. He’s never been this way before. Not with you and barely with Tess, physical and sexual interactions always on his terms, on his conditions. Giving into you know feels right, he trusts you. Even as he feels the nip of sharp teeth on his neck before a warm tongue sooths it over.

“You can be such a good boy sometimes.” And the praise falling from your lips in a confident tone should irk him, but it does nothing but cause him to jerk below the waist and clench his teeth together as he feels it wash over him. It’s genuine, not teasing. He should know, because he’s normally the one praising you in such a manner. It’s a nice moment, he realizes, letting you take the lead. Allowing himself to fall into your commands in a less than serious way. In a more serious way. This is everything.

His chest heaves as you move down his body, the denim shirt he’s wearing unbuttoned as you go, lips trailing over coarse chest hair, the trail that moves down down down…

The feeling of him in your mouth is a heady sensation, it’s lighting up your body in hot sparkles that almost vibrate in intensity. The salty, musky taste of him on your tongue is one you would never tire of, even if he seldom lets you indulge him this way.

Down to his core, he’s a giver. He’s someone who gives himself to those around him and that’s obvious even in the bedroom. He always pleasures you, with his plush, delectable lips. His thick fingers and wide hands, the edge of his strong nose. The heft and feel of his cock something you crave just as much as he seems to be willing to sink into your pulsing heat at any chance he could get. It wasn’t just about fucking. Hell, it wasn’t even just about being fucked by him- it was something more. A man whose walls were built so high, bricks unsettling and gaps forming as you both share daily responsibilities and nightly routines. You were bonded.

But right now? He’s given himself wholly over to you.

His lips form a hard line as you nose along the leading head of his cock, flushed a pretty dusky pink, the exact same shade. But you can’t fight the frown that threatens to take over your own as you press your them to the slit to gather the pearlescent drop there, tongue peeking out to taste it.

“Lemme hear you, Joel.” That paired with the hungry way you swallow him down has him surging up with a strangled expletive followed by your name. After that, he hardly has any trouble letting loose deep groans and guttural growls as you take him back into your mouth and hollow your cheeks. His hips lift as you take him as deep as you can, leaking head nudging the back of your throat in the most delicious way.

It's dangerous, how powerful you feel right now. With Joel Miller loose limbed and compliant beneath you, surrendering to whatever you deem he deserves.

But nothing compares to the grip his hands form on your hips and the frantic look in his eyes as you straddle his thick thighs and sink down on him until your bottom is flush with them. Panting, you grind slowly, reveling in the feel of him deep and stretching you to make room for him to nestle. He’s hitting that sweet spot only he can reach and starts burst in the corners of your vision as you meet his gaze.

He’s never looked for open and recked, eyes blown own, breath puffing out in harsh pants, lips glistening from where you swear drool shines over them…

Tracing the bounce of your chest as you continue to grind against him, pleasure swathing you both in a tingling that crawls over every inch of skin. You clench around him, pulling a tortured sound from him as he fights off the feeling of bucking up into you. The shaking of his legs makes you feel pride spark low in your belly just as a flash of heat does.

“Hold on tight, I’m gonna take a ride.”

His head knocks back harshly onto the bed when you lift up and slam back down, eyes fluttering shut as all he does is hold on tight to your hips and lets you take care of him.

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[bwat5-blog]

Reality Check: Caitlyn & Vi

**Spoilers For Arcane**

Alrighty. This won't be too long as it doesn't need to be but I am seeing a lot of the same nonsense lately and it is bugging me. For anyone who hasn't seen me say so a million times already, Vi is my favorite character. She has been since the show started for a variety of reasons.

And in truth although I greatly enjoyed Caitlyn's story and she grew much more engaging to me in season two, I was never nearly as invested in her. But My. God. The amount of absolute nuclear grade bull-shit that has been used to try and demonize her has made me talk about her SO MUCH MORE than I ever intended. So I wanted to address something.

The Hit:

Okay. Let's talk about this real quick because people have really latched on to this. It it okay or acceptable that Caitlyn hit Vi?

Obviously Not

And Caitlyn doesn't think so either. Look at her face just before she turns. But there is an OCEAN of factors at play here influencing Caitlyn and Vi both and it is about a million miles from being as simple as that. I'm not getting into all of that here I have done it many times already. But to address a few points:

This is the only time she hits Vi knowingly in anger. The second time she doesn't have any idea who Vi is. The third time is part of a plan Vi is quite clearly on board with. Stop exaggerating.

Vi forgave Caitlyn way too easily for this!"-

Okay. Like I said it isn't about making this okay. And it isn't about some sort of trauma Olympics as I've seen it called. But we need to remember some things that Vi certainly would.

Even if at the time it was for her own purposes Caitlyn got her out of prison when she really had no hope of ever being free

Caitlyn saved her life repeatedly in Zaun when she barely knew her and owed her nothing

Caitlyn offered herself in Vi's place before she knew the firelights were friendly

Caitlyn gave Ekko the gemstone and was going to let him present it to the council

Caitlyn stood side by side with Vi and told the council to their faces they had failed all of Zaun

Jinx abducted and terrorized Caitlyn after nearly killing her, all for her proximity to Vi

Caitlyn spared Jinx when Vi begged her to and it cost her her mother

As far as we see and are made aware, Caitlyn never blames or tries to put that on Vi

Caitlyn apologizes to Vi for springing the badge, clearly feels guilty and is honest that she is afraid she or Jinx will die if Vi doesn't come

When they do see each other again, Caitlyn immediately is on board with helping Vi save her family

When Jinx surrenders herself into custody Caitlyn doesn't send her to Stillwater and doesn't immediately try and execute her when she could have. Instead waiting for Vi to wake up

Clears the path for Vi to free Jinx and escape if she chooses. Putting her love for Vi over her hatred of Jinx

Like I said. This isn't about justification. There is no justifying physically harming someone you love. But there is a world of difference between doing something terrible in a TERRIBLE moment and being a chronic domestic abuser like some of you are saying Caitlyn is. And as far as I'm concerned, Vi knows exactly who Caitlyn really is, and chose love and forgiveness.

[sokkastyles]

Hi! I just had a funny interaction and it kinda reminded me of the stuff I see sometimes on your blog.

So I posted something that was certainly Azula critical (and definitely anti-Azula stan, I'm pretty sure I tagged both) and I had three or four people start discourse with me over it, which is fine and all. But the funny part is one of those people was a grown person with a JOB that decided that they were not going to conduct any analysis but instead just make personal attacks at me the whole time, which they freely admitted. Once they started, another joined in and kept going until I stopped contact with both of them.

Now for context, I'm a high school senior in six different APs, captaining a girl's lacrosse team and my Taekwondo demo team, and I'm fairly active in four or five other minor extracurriculars. The point is, I'm a busy person. Tumblr is a simply creative outlet for me to connect with people who share my interests. And yeah, as an 18 year old who just started making analysis posts on a website where I'm surrounded by many more older individuals, I know my posts aren't all that refined. But I still feel like I was able to articulate my thoughts in a decent enough way. However, not only was I not able to convince others of my viewpoints (which I'm ok with tbh), I also received some hurtful comments that's definitely turned me away from having any discourse in this fandom at all.

So this is all basically lead-up to two questions:

Since you have a lot of experience in this sort of writing, do you have any advice for making an argumentative essay/meta on fandom related content (characterization, relationships, etc)?

Are you supposed to respond to or ignore unproductive comments/personal attacks? Am I letting them win if they have the last word?

To be completely honest, even if it's not my number 1 choice, I think Zutara is a fascinating ship that makes a lot of sense (more than Kataang for SURE smh). Reading your posts on them have been incredibly insightful and it's given me a lot of respect for the ship. I just wish I could write something like that, mainly for my own satisfaction. It's frustrating seeing characters like Azula being obliterated in fandom and being put into a little box of either girlboss or victim when she's so much more nuanced than that. That's what I was trying to communicate, and I did say multiple times that I saw her as more than just one or the other, but it definitely came across wrong. This was my first experience writing any sort of meta and it's definitely been a failure.

Hello! As a grown person with a job, let me first say this:

You do not owe anyone a reply, argument, or justification, ever.

Understanding this will help you with avoiding a lot of pointless discourse. And I'm not saying I'm always the best at avoiding it, but I did witness what happened with you and the Azula stans, and you did nothing wrong. Your original post was very well reasoned and fair. The people who were attacking you over it were being overly defensive and are well known for their ridiculous takes and toxic behavior, and twisting the narrative to make Azula seem like she's been unfairly villainized by the narrative, other characters, and fandom.

If anything, you were being nice by apologizing for being "antagonistic," even though you were being no such thing and they attacked you, and that's why they took the opportunity to attack you more. The thing is, though, that they were being manipulative. Which is unsurprising, since all of their arguments defending Azula follow the same rhetorical patterns.

I'm not saying don't be nice and don't apologize, but you don't have to apologize for people taking your arguments in complete bad faith and using that to try and hurt you. They are the ones in the wrong, and they're the ones perpetuating harm. And if they can convince you that it's actually you doing harm, that's one way they can try and harm you. That's why they kept responding to you, because you were nice and they saw an opportunity to harm you. Not because there was anything wrong with your arguments, which were very eloquently put and well-reasoned.

It actually really worries me when I see these kinds of interactions. I joke about Azula stans acting this way because I'm an adult and I know how not to take their bullshit seriously, but what they are doing can perpetuate real harm if they can convince enough people that they need to apologize for imagined harm. I've seen it happen many times in fandom spaces that became abusive because a loud minority is able to convince enough young, impressionable people of the threat of harm. On a meta level, it's just like what Ozai and Azula do to Zuko by convincing him he is to blame and using that as a justification to hurt him.

Anyway, it's perfectly acceptable to block and ignore people who act this way, and probably preferable for your own mental health. Again, I'm not always the best at taking this advice, and I know what it feels like to get sucked into an argument about stupid fandom stuff, but it is always okay to just walk away. Letting someone have the last word doesn't mean you've lost. It means you're not letting yourself be dragged down to their level, which is often what these people are seeking to begin with. There's an African proverb that goes "if a madman steals your clothes and you run after him, you're still the one running naked in the streets."

If somebody wants to run naked in the streets, just let them do it. You don't have to run after them.

(Ironically, I said this to a coworker the other day, too. Being an adult with a job doesn't guarantee you never have to interact with shitty people, unfortunately.)

On that same note, I appreciate the compliment about my zutara posts, but it's okay if you don't like the ship. Shipping is a personal choice and you don't have to have reasons for why you do or don't ship something. If my posts resonate with you, great! But I'm not here to convince anyone of anything.

Anyway, have a nice day and take care of yourself! You seem like you have a solid head on your shoulders, so don't let fandom stuff get you down.

[strwbmei]

In the spirit of me fucking up my knee, could I request a short thing of Keqing/HSR Bronya princess carrying an injured reader?

~Teeth

(Also heya how’s it going?)

Hello, Teeth!! It's been a while! A lot has happened. Normally I'd say that I hope you've been doing well, but the fucked up knee speaks for itself. Not sure how you hurt your knee exactly or how bad it is, so I apologize if anything written here is medically unsafe/incorrect!

Keqing would go full asian mom style. She'd scold you for being careless, saying things like "I told you to be careful!" and to "stop being so reckless!" while dressing your injury. Her words sting, but you can tell that she cares with how careful she's being with you. Also, she insists on carrying you the same way a few days even after you've recovered. Acts strict, but you can get away with a lot more with her during the time that you're recovering. She'll even let you use her lap as a pillow.

"Ow!" You hiss in pain as Keqing tightens the makeshift bandage around your knee. She glares up at you, eyes full of disappointment and irritation, yet also with a hint of worry that only you could discern. "Well, maybe if someone wasn't being such an idiot..."

"Still, be more gentle! You're dealing with an injured person here, y'know?" You complain, and the other woman rolls her eyes in response. "I'm sure it isn't as bad as you make it out to be if you still have the energy to whine."

Suddenly, Keqing stands up and lifts you into her arms with ease, carrying you bridal style as she starts walking. You yelp in surprise. "What are you-"

"Taking a certain idiot to the infirmary." You sort of just stare at her awestruck because she's rarely so... gentle? It's hard to find the right words to describe it, but you're sure this kind of opportunity is rare.

"What, you think I'd let you walk around with an injured knee?"

"Honestly, yeah, a little bit." As soon as you said those words without thinking, you were sure she'd put you down out of annoyance and tell you that you're free to go to the infirmary yourself, but she only stays silent.

"Whatever. Just... don't worry me again like that, okay?"

Bronya... would definitely overreact. There's no other way to word it. Her expression would be akin to a wounded puppy. She'll have all of the best doctors in Belobog taking care of you and the most luxurious bed for you to lay on even if your injury isn't that bad. Qlipoth bless her soul if the doctors even mention the possibility of your injury permanently impairing you, because she is most definitely going into cardiac arrest. After you recover, she makes it a point to ensure every place in Belobog is accessible to people who can't walk.

Although Bronya works as the Supreme Guardian, she's spent most of her life on the battlefield and she's learned many useful techniques from her experience. One of them is basic medical care.

She's not a professional, but her know-how has saved a few comrades' lives. Still, Bronya most certainly didn't expect that she'd have to use this skill of hers on you of all people.

"Bronya... I'm okay now. Really." You say; an attempt to console the very obviously distressed woman in front of you. With how much she's frowning, anyone that saw her would think that she was the one with an injury.

"No." Bronya responds, and honestly, this is the first time you've heard her so... stern. She knows that you aren't lying, but she sure as hell isn't risking your wound getting worse. "We need to get you to a doctor."

On second thought, it's too dangerous to move you around; it'd be better to have a doctor come here themselves. Still, the nearest doctor is much too far away, so Bronya decides to carry you there instead.

As soon as she picks you up, her mind races with a million thoughts all at once. What if it leaves a scar? What if you aren't able to walk normally again? Aeons forbid, what if you won't be able to walk at all? However dramatic, just the thought has her heart sinking.

She senses your unease and takes a deep breath, pressing a small kiss to your forehead. Perhaps her emotions have gotten the better of her. "I'm sorry, my love. You know how I worry for you." She smiles reassuringly. Whether she's trying to reassure you or herself, you don't know.

[piracytheorist]

Episode 34 notes!

I was a little surprised we had a "previously on" part on this one. Were they trying to fill up time? XD

I do love, though, that they thought it very important for us to see this face (and getup) of Loid's again.

Best Spy of Westalis, everyone.

Anyway, onto the action! Damn McMahon scared me he was going to die, with how he lay there slumped like that.

Yor really got a second wind after her realization. Seconds ago she was barely able to lift her head up, and now she's up and fighting with multiple open wounds, and still getting the katana guy all bruised up and tired.

And I'm thinking, she believes Loid would forgive the blood on her hands and the fact that she may have to leave them, because he'd see how she's done it for the betterment of the world... and he actually would, because he's doing the same. We now need to see that she'll provide the same understanding and forgiveness when his secret comes out.

I find it a little funny that all this deathly action was taking place up above and everyone else, even Twilight, were none the wiser. Like we go from Yor and Katana Guy fighting to the death and then there's Anya jumping from excitement from the fireworks and Loid just being like "I'm glad you had fun".

And again, following what he thinks is her worries, he apologizes for not being able to find Yor. He's determined to comfort her and I find that so sweet. And then

Anya may be realizing she's too young to have the attention span needed for a professional spy. She's prioritizing fun without realizing it, and to the detriment of her plans, Loid is actually enabling that XD I love my weird family XD

Loid finds out about the bombs and though his spy training tells him to stay out of it and leave it to the SSS to handle the crisis, his knack for amassing responsibility rears its head.

He not only considers the worst possible scenario, he also takes it upon himself to avoid it, like he does with the cold war situation. Nothing of this is on him to blame, but he still thinks that "I can help avoid that" and he just runs straight into danger to do just that.

I wonder if he considers that a consequence of his enhanced abilities. If he believes that he's not above anyone else because he's smarter, faster, stronger, etc than the average human, but because he has all those innate skills and talents, he owes it to the world to use them for good. I don't know, maybe I'm taking it too far with this XD

Anyway. He will certainly be questioning how the very ship he happened to travel on just happened to have a ton of bombs on it to make it sink. That's another thing that will make total sense post-identity reveals when Yor tells him why she was really on that ship XD

Loid doesn't even get to start coming up with ideas for where to leave Anya, and Anya already very conveniently offers the probably best solution: a kids play room XD

Like, again, this show is comedy at its core, so even when there's action and tension going on, things will conveniently happen without making the most sense because it's how comedy works XD Endo knew what he was doing when he started it XD

But also, another thing that will make more sense to Loid after identity reveals. Because he wanted to focus on the bomb, Anya said she wanted to play and he was like "Please for the love of god not now" and she somehow went like "Imma go play on my own and have supervision so you go do your thing" and he should know this isn't common at all. He does say it's lucky but he has no idea XD

The anime added a bit more in this small section, as in the manga the daycare worker doesn't even get to speak to Anya, because she escapes immediately. In the anime Anya plays with a ball for a bit, then asks to draw, and as the woman starts picking up drawing supplies, Anya takes her chance and she's off!

"Hello, I am most definitely not voiced by Takuya Eguchi"

I just love how he just dropped his voice a few pitches instead of putting on a fake voice. And just as I wrote a meta about how Twilight uses a different timbre of his voice when he speaks as Loid, huh XD

Again, we get a mention of "Western extremists". Loid mentioned at the start of the cruise that Princess Lorelei is "the pride and joy of Ostania", so it would make sense to take it down as a fuck-you to Ostania from a rival country. However, without relevant intel, Twilight also considers the possibility that it was simply rigged to spark the fire of war between the two countries, without swearing on it. That's some pretty good deduction without passionately taking sides.

I just think it's very interesting that despite being from Westalis, he never takes the side of its government. He's only on the side of peace and he'll protect both or either West and East interests if it means peace can remain.

It's amazing how Anya's involvement helped things! And how it was even set up!

I was just thinking, a little before I watched the episode, that indeed Yor was missing her weapons. The first dagger was left in the crow's nest where the sniper was, the second was broken by the guy with the mace, and the third slipped from her hand when katana guy first fought her. Which means all this time she's managed to bruise and tire out Katana Guy with her bare hands, while he had his katana on O_O

Ok listen.

First of all, consider the muscle strength a five-year-old would need to throw that dagger that far. And it's not a simple, light dagger, it's strong and massive enough to break through a wooden door and a human skull at once, it's gotta carry some weight. And Anya was able to throw it up an entire story above her and then some more.

But then, it's also the placement of where the dagger ended up - in front of the pipes so that the other guys wouldn't see it immediately upon turning the corner.

Like, they would see the pipes, and prepare to jump over them as they turned the corner, but it would be easy to not spot it and slip on it - and again, because of its position, the guy who slipped on it had the pipes on the right height to first hit his head on them before his back could land on the ground. If it was a little closer he would hit his legs or hips on the pipes, and his body would bend over backwards, and if it was further he would first land on his back and probably not hit his head and lose control of his weapon.

But as it was, he did hit his head, he did lose control of his weapon, and he did shoot the other assassin.

Okay, it was a little ridiculous that the dagger had so much velocity from being slipped on to jump around and land with its pointy end right on the ass-assin (sorry), but it's funny so I don't mind at all.

Just according to keikaku.

Watch out, she's armed!

I love how Katana Guy had been fighting her bare arms and was still exhausted and bruised, and yet when she picked up the weapon she's proficient in he went like "Hmph! I will finish this" like my dude where do you find the confidence, she's been mauling you bare-handed and you think you'll handle her armed??

McMahon coming to at the very right moment to kick Sniff Jobs' ass and I breathe a sigh of relief. (Thanks to tare-anime for sharing the fandom's chosen nickname for that guy! It's funnier than calling him "Turtleneck Guy" XD)

Gotta love how she goes from "demonic assassin" to "sweet cinnamon roll too good for this world" in a single blink.

Katana Guy is down and I breathe another sigh of relief! That was intense!

Anya was so happy she helped her Mama! I still don't know if she grasps the actual gravity of the situation, she should normally be having nightmares about it XD

Twilight is more stressed of being surrounded by SSS agents than having to diffuse a bomb and I think that says a lot about him XD

And then Yor used too much power fighting all those assassins that she couldn't even wonder properly how her weapon ended up in the butt of a guy she wasn't even fighting. The family braincell was being thoroughly used by Twilight in that moment, it couldn't multi-task XD

I saw the blood on the ground from Sniff Jobs and immediately went like "O_O Where did that guy go!"

And then, even in the midst of a very important and dangerous situation, the SSS agent is being a dick and bossy. In the manga Twilight wonders it the SSS are trying to save face and that actually would make a ton of sense.

I like how in the manga, when Anya walks next to Sniff Jobs, his thoughts are shown in bubbles with a black background.

Dark thoughts, dark background. It's happened before.

Then he puts his nose at work and actually becomes the reason the ship is saved. He smells the explosives in the clock, Anya hears his thoughts, then casually transfers the info to someone who can take care of it.

I love how the security guy was so worried about how to find the bombs that he yelped when Anya said a simple "Excuse me" XD

The guy dismissed Anya's request at first, which got her to cry, and I wonder how real that crying was. She was, after all, facing the threat of a bombing attack. But it got the guy to check the clock in the end! And also because Anya is such a small kid that he wouldn't suspect something's up with her.

Sniff Jobs was right - the assassin profession is one built on trust, yet he didn't follow his own advice. The informant didn't trust the assassins and put bugs on them, they didn't trust him and planned to betray him, and because of that they all died. The informant planted the bombs, and the guy followed him to kill him, and one of those bombs ended up being the death of both of them.

That said, I kinda love how that story ended. I have a weakness for a felled villain trying to reach out in despair and anger, even while they're heavily wounded and in pain, and then just getting their comeuppance for good. There's some sort of humanity shown there, but that they use to such wrong lengths that you can't feel sorry for them. But it is interesting to me, in a way :D

I guess Informant Guy didn't expect an elite spy to be on board who'd want to stop his plans. Twilight wonders what purpose the bomb in the clock had and I'm a bit confused. The bombs in the lower decks were there to create holes to make the ship sink. Wouldn't the bomb in the clock cause commotion in the upper decks, making it harder for people to escape as much as it's possible?

If anything, Informant Guy was counting on the devices being retrievable so that the Ostanian government would blame the bombs on Westalis and start another war. It's creepy, too, how lightly he was taking the whole thing.

Knowing how it goes it's actually pretty funny to see Twilight just rip the clock off and go like "Imma throw this into the sea bye" and then just run for it.

Rip I guess, whatever that was.

THIS WAS SO SWEET AAAAAAHHHH

AND THEN THIS

And what Olka says to her too! It's practically the realization Yor had on her own about her job. That she gets her hands bloody and risks her life to provide a better world for her loved ones, but she doesn't see those hands as worthy of affection. And yet Olka shows her that, and an innocent child does as well!

This is what she coats her hands in blood for, and this is a moment of someone recognizing her for that, giving her physical affection and affirmation as a thanks for her sacrifice.

Yor reached that point on her own, but Olka and Gram giving them their affection reassured her of it. It's worth it. She is worth it.

Just let her work under a less abusive boss please I beg

Olka actually wishes for Yor and her family to find happiness. Yor was there simply to provide protection, but they both gave each other hope for the future. And that ties back to the main theme of the entire story. Hope. Humanity. Connection. We're not meant to fight. We're meant to love.

Excuse me while I ponder over this for the next three to five days and probably my entire life T_T

As others have mentioned, McMahon reminds Yor to not become sentimental, that they're merely foot soldiers on the trenches of the cold war, yet he gives her the last day off to relax with her family. And he actually says that is a reward for her doing her job well. The music even turns hopeful and sweet.

I just realized that it looks like Yor hasn't sleep at all during the trip? The first night she stayed vigilant while the others slept (though Olka was awake for some time, too), then she had a long fight with a bunch of assassins, and now McMahon told her to stay on alert until dawn breaks. So she's pulling two all-nighters with an extended fight in between where she got injured and hit her head. Is my girl okay???

And a bunch of steps back on the acceptance front stands Twilight.

He worries about having left Anya on her own, not because he might look suspicious, but because he's spent most of the trip focusing on her emotions and trying to help her have fun. And in the midst of that, he had to pass her off to a daycare to go be a responsible spy saving the world. The fact that Anya had the time of her life and was excited that he was saving the ship is irrelevant, since he doesn't know she was, and he only sees that as a failure of his as a pretend father.

And then catches himself, but even then! He can't even fully justify it to himself!

Boy is starting to slip majorly and he's starting to lose his footing on his denial. His "for the mission" excuse is starting to not suffice... and he's starting to see that.

That's a big step both Yor and Loid have made in their progress of accepting their place in the family, though Yor has a huge head start and Loid will probably still hang onto his denial as much as he can. I'm really curious to see how their dynamic will develop now that they'll meet on the island, and how it will continue once they return home!

As I said this was sweet af but it's also funny how there's so much inconsistency on Anya's size. Like! She legit looks like a baby here! I know Loid is supposed to be bigger than you'd expect but Anya isn't that small XD

The music that played in this scene was a soft variation of the theme playing when they board the ship, as well as during the fight in the previous episode after Yor secures the trio. It's very subtle cause it's mostly a piano playing the harmonies instead of the melody.

Yor put her earring back on! As in the manga, in the end of the fight with Katana Guy she's still missing the earring that she threw at Sniff Jobs and probably ripped her earlobe with. But when she met up with Olka and helped them off, she had put it back on. So she did an absolutely insane thing and put the earring back on even though her earlobe was wounded. This woman eats hot coals for breakfast.

And off we go! Three episodes left in the season and this anime only is trying to not lose her mind 🤪 it's been a wild ride and I've loved every second of it but I am really trying to not despair over the fact that it's three weeks left and then another year of waiting 🥲

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

found out that someone blocked me for no reason I know of in a server for my specific queer identity that I have grown to love talking in, and felt 100% like myself there. and I KNOW that I should take it better, but my rejection sensitivity is like nope

And it gets me because we talk a lot about our queerness and sometimes social justice issues. I have never said or believed anything bigoted or condoning of genocide/atrocities, or talked over experiences I don't have, and have always tried my best to be nice... But I know im not perfect

I have autism, and if I had been unintentionally making them feel unsafe, I would've liked to be respectfully let known about that. Come to think of it, I might have made a few social faux pas looking back (but I can't definitively say that they were, because brain is mean and will criticise me even if it isn't valid), and doing what I can to improve on my areas of improvement is something I'm more than happy to do

But due to trauma from my past ex "friend", I sort of hate it when I implicitly get the hint I'm probably doing something wrong without being told explicitly why and a chance to apologize and be better, which MAY or may NOT be this persons intentions

since a block could mean many things. or if they don't feel safe around me because I'm the only cis person? As someone who has been hurt by cis people as much, I can say I understand. Or if they just don't like me or who I am, or just seriously disagree with my perspectives. Which I'm also very ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ about.

But I don't know if it's because I majorly fucked up without knowing (in which case other server members would also call out my BS, which hasn't happened) and I should change a lot, or if it's just who I am and I'm free to continue being myself. I don't know, and don't k ow what to do. I'm considering leaving because if I'm really making someone unsafe just by my existence, someone has to go, and it certainly shouldn't be the more marginalized person (which isn't me.) I have only been made to feel at home by all the other members, and haven't got warned or called out yet, because I try my best not to fuck up.

I have a thing of assuming the worst about what people think of me and what I've done due to a hefty amount of past trauma. And since circumventing the block via an alt account is absolutely no option, this has just been sitting on my mind heavily...

I don't necessarily think this has much to do with you or your actions, especially not if you generally enjoy the group and haven't run into similar issues and confrontations with anyone else.

So this isn't necessarily about YOU doing something really bad and making this person unsafe with specific objectively harmful actions.

Of course there's a chance they may feel that way, but we can't actually know that - and facts are that sometimes our choice to not engage with something/someone is based more so in ourselves and our own specific context, background and experiences than in anything THEY actually said or did to us.

So while I absolutely get why this is upsetting and triggering, I really don't think you're morally obligated to leave a community because one member decided to quietly block you for unknown reasons.

If you're generally careful with your behavior, open for constructive criticism and able to apologize and correct yourself if necessary, I would assume that you're doing just fine.

[laiosonhisperiod]

dum dum

Chapter tree of my Caseytello fic! I really want to post my next chapter tomorrow for Friday the 13th so, here this one is!

3rd person P.O.V.

Casey reluctantly followed the mutant rat-man back into the dojo, which at this point seemed more like a crime scene and that Casey was going to be interrogated for murder. Leo gave him a weak smile as they passed, leaving Casey both confused and utterly terrified.

Casey stood in the doorway, slightly leaning on the screen.

“Come in Casey.” Splinter instructed and Casey did, sitting in front of him on the matted floor. 

“So uh, am I in trouble or somethin’? ‘Cause I will easily apologize but-”

The human was cut off.

“No my child, I certainly do not believe so.”

“Great, well it is getting late and-”

“No. I do think however that you should stay here tonight.”

Casey looked at him in disbelief, sure he had stayed the night before, and it would be no problem with his dad if he did stay but Splinter had never really thought Casey should stay over.

“Um okay, but, why?”

“Because you and Donatello should have a conversation.” Splinter sighed, “you are both going through similar things but are both dumb dumbs.”

That was another thing that the boy would have never expected the older one to say, dumb dumb. A slight red flag went off in his mind.

“Donnie and I talk all the time though.” Casey protested, slightly weary of the situation.

“Casey, I know.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“I know what you are, how you feel.”

“S-sir?”

Splinter chuckled, “Michelangelo and I have talked about it before, therefore I know. You have a crush on Donatello.” He finished matter-of-factly.

Of course Mikey had something to do with it. The sudden slang and meme references made sense. But that didn’t stop the human from turning completely red.

“Splinter-uh, you don’t understand. It’s not like that, it's more like- OW!”

Casey rubbed his head from where Splinter had hit him with his staff, effectively shutting up the stuttering and blushing mess of a teenager.

“Shush, go with the others, I wish to talk to Donatello now.”

Raph laughed his ass off as Casey relayed his interaction with the rat to him. 

“He, really said that?” The turtle choked out between his outburst of giggles.

“That’s what I’m saying dude,” the latter didn’t look up from his bowl of cornflakes, out of fear of how red his face might be. “Quit laughing man.”

After Casey had left the dojo he had an awkward run in with a certain purple clad turtle, well awkward for Casey at least, no one could really read what Donnie was thinking. Raph caught Casey and now they were eating shity cereal in the kitchen. 

“YOOOO!” Mikey entered, very loudly. “So, sleepover.”

He motioned toward Casey who just frowned deeper at the mutant.

“C’mon man, I told him like,” Mikey paused to take a bite of some cold pizza he found. “Like a week ago now!”

“How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I never said it would!” The turtle raised his hands in defense.

The two continued to bicker as Raph just rolled his eyes before yelling to a different room.

“Leo! The girls are fighting!” 

He snickered, this was the Raph Casey was more fond of.

Leo walked into the kitchen. “C’mon guys, I can’t even hear space heroes over you.” She said, sounding sad about not being able to hear favorite show.

“You guys know what tonight calls for? Movie night!” Mikey answered his own question before anyone else could even try to answer. “I got dibs!” And like that, The brother in orange was gone, shortly followed by the blue sister exclaiming something about how she was already using it. Raph gave Casey a not-so light punch and followed his siblings to the living room.

Plopping down onto the couch Casey felt like he was being watched. You know that funky feeling from your extra sense that you only acknowledge when someone might be looking at you? Yeah that one where the hair on the back of your neck stands up and everything.

So the mentioned boy hesitantly looked around.

April was with her dad so it couldn’t be her.

Raph, Leo, and Mikey were in front of him, fighting over what to watch.

And the alarm system Donnie added would’ve gone off if there was an intruder. But just as Casey could have thought about excluding the missing turtle and their rat father from who it could be, Splinter walked out of the dojo.

To everyone's surprise however, he was not followed by Donnie. But before anyone could question it the purple turtle came out from a shadowed corner, holding a few containers of popcorn, walking over and sitting on the floor. 

Much to their families disappointment. 

The disappointment however, took Casey by surprise.

This was the longest chapter yet! And also had the most references to the song it was inspired by. Hopefully I can finish and post the 4th chapter tomorrow for the spookies. Love ya'll bye!

[sangelune]

"Listen, I was just joking about the money thing. I don't actually have any use for money here." Actually, do any of them even need money, if they are all eternally trapped in a never ending hell of hide and seek? All because some overgrown spider, instead of playing with actual dolls, decided to pluck them all out of their miserable lives, because it too has no life?

More than likely.

"Somebody in this place taught me English and I thought it would be funny to say." (for alucard. vampire friends let's go)

   “i…”  well  -  he  certainly  feels…  hoodwinked  to  put  it  lightly.  a  sigh  passes,  and  he  raises  a  hand  up  to  his  face.  more  to  cover  the  internal  embarrassment  he  feels. 

   he  recalls  his  fathers  stinging  words  in  his  head,  calling  him  an  embarrassment  for  screaming  of  all  things.  with  a  rusted  hook  through  his  sternum.  porcelain  lips  tug  into  an  unsightly  scowl,  before  he  exhales  softly.  no  -  clear  the  mind.  no  need  to  think  too  hard  of  father  and  his…  eccentricities.

   “if  my  father  ever  owes  you  anything,  please  do  take  my  apology  here  and  now.”  he  lowers  his  hand  from  his  face,  shaking  his  head  with  clear  disdain  over  his  features.  “i  highly  doubt  he  will  ever  return  or  pay  anything  back  to  anyone.  it  is…  not  in  his  nature.”  as  much  as  it  is  not  alucard's  to  cover  for  dracula. 

   “and  please  -  do  not  ask  me  to  make  a  payment  for  him.  his  business  is  decidedly  not  my  business.  in  case  our  roles  here  aren't  clear  enough.  were  i  to  stand  with  him,  i  would  not  be  being  hunted.”  a  pause.  “or  have  most  all  of  my  abilities  somehow  locked  away.”  he  allows  himself  to  sound  particular  bitter  about  that  one.

[whentranslatorscry]

Chapter 2: Kakushidate Yakusuke Commissioning (2/2)

"Y-yes, that's right."

"What she wrote is very detrimental for my client, so confirming its authenticity, that's what this is about, correct?"

"...Mhm, right."

She's right that she's right, but the way she said it made it sound like Kondou-san and I were conspiring to cover up that will, and I was starting to feel guilty.

Sure she could interpret it like that—why should anyone be looking for some sort of "truth" beyond the handwritten will she left behind? Wanting to find some other truth could easily be seen as shirking responsibility, as shameful behavior.

"Responsibility… hm?"

Kyouko-san smiled meaningfully.  

Meaningfully, and shrewdly.

"She may have been moved by manga to attempt suicide, but I do not think the author bears any responsibility."

"Huh?"

"Apologies, just my personal opinion. I'm a detective, I only think in legal terms. If a reader really did commit suicide because of a manga, the charge would probably be incitement to suicide, but there's almost no chance of such a prosecution succeeding."

"......"

Kyouko-san said that this was her "opinion"...but I feel such a firm and steadfast opinion could just as well be called a "viewpoint". At least it's different from my "impressions". 

What she said may be salvation for Kondou-san, but for me it's still not that clear-cut.

Legal liability aside, the question of moral responsibility was another matter entirely. Even just the example Kyouko-san cited earlier, of using the law to assign blame, could itself provoke an emotional backlash.

"Ahaha. If you put it that way, the term 'moral responsibility' is quite strange, isn't it— oh, come to think of it, maybe there's already a law like that and I've just forgotten it. Book burnings and censorship is nothing new in history after all."

Regardless, the forgetful detective of today alone clearly isn't equipped to resolve the issue of regulating creative freedom. 

Kyouko-san shrugged her shoulders, bringing the derailed conversation back on track. 

"All I can resolve is this particular case."

That's of course enough— debating over "laws that restrict creative freedom" or "an atmosphere that suppresses creative freedom" here would be pointless. 

Still, on the topic of creative freedom, I expect that by this afternoon, Kyouko-san will be discussing it with the key man, Fumoto... 

I do hope she doesn't say anything too sharp— I'm worried enough as it is. 

Kyouko-san's appearance being as composed as you see, perhaps owing to her attitude of "I'll forget it tomorrow anyway", she can be completely oblivious to propriety when conversing or debating. 

I don't think it would be ideal at all for her to take that approach with Fumoto-sensei who's driven himself into a corner thinking of withdrawing from the world entirely...

To someone self-blaming, saying "You are not to blame at all"— this kind of total denial of their feelings may cause them to shut their heart even more and go "You don't understand me at all".

There's no telling how things will develop.

"I hope you can promise me first that the task I'm about to take on is still an investigation after all, and even if the results are not what Kondou-san hoped for, I will not distort the contents of the report. This one point, please be sure to understand."  

"Ah, okay. I can certainly understand that. I don't mean to ask you to fabricate investigation results either."  

Some detectives have claimed that making things up is part of the job (known as "fabricating detectives"), but I know well that Kyouko-san was not that kind of detective— moreover, Kondou-san would be the last person to want such despicable conduct.

Regarding how to respond from the standpoint of the editorial department and publishing company, that's another thing. If the cause of a middle school girl's suicide attempt really is related to works previously published by them, he wouldn't evade that fact either—

Just the kind of guy he is.

Therefore— what needed to be faced was the malaise he felt.

Something didn't felt quite right— everything felt too right.

Somehow deliberate…

Recalling Kondou-san's words again, I still don't understand his implication, or perhaps what he wants Kyouko-san to investigate is not just the truth behind the incident, but also to find out through her investigation what exactly is the malaise he senses.

"Aha, I've got it all figured out already."

Out of the blue, Kyouko-san casually said this.

"Really? So you've already figured it out… Wait, what?"

Because she spoke so casually, I almost let her words go in one ear and out the other.

Say what?

"Wha..what do you mean you've got it all figured out?"

"Just what I said, I've got a theory. I figured out what Kondou-san was saying during my previewing. Yes, I agree with him, that the whole thing is full of malaise. It's truly worthy of a professional editor to pick up on that, his sensibilities are rich."

"……"

If such is the case, the sensibilities of professional detectives should also be very rich—it seems that she had already grasped what Kondou-san's malaise was before meeting him in person. 

With this previewing, won’t class be dismissed early? The fastest detective has indeed performed her knack to the fullest.

"That kind of discomfort, can it be clearly articulated in words? Not just based on feeling.." 

"Because it's a feeling that something is not right, it's a senses problem, but it can still be described quite clearly with words! I believe it can be cogently explained to a certain extent."

To really explain the 'offness' that Kondou-san was unable to articulate so clearly herself—I don't believe it.

"Hmm...how should I put this. I don't exactly know Kondou-san's character very well, but I guess he probably has some idea. As I speculate, it's not that he can't describe it with words, it's more that he's struggling to describe it."

"Is that so...?"

I don't quite understand the subtle difference between "can't describe" and "struggling to describe."...If Kondou-san had already noticed what that malaise was, he wouldn't have entrusted her, right?

...Incidentally, Kyouko-san said she didn't exactly know Kondou-san's character, but they have actually met several times before.  

She just forgot.  

"Could you please tell me? What exactly is that malaise?"

"If I answered your question now I would be forced to explain the same reasoning twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, so please allow me to clarify in the afternoon." 

She firmly refused me with a sweet smile.  

It seemed that for a detective who values efficiency, having to waste time presenting the same reasoning twice would be insufferable to the point of being "forcing", as she put it.

Clarify it when meeting Kondou-san and Fumoto-sensei in the afternoon. Certainly a reasonable approach. So what about wasting time playing with my plaster cast... 

"Since you have the opportunity, why don't you try reasoning too, Yakusuke-san? Because with just the information at your disposal, you can already establish a certain degree of conjecture."

She said.

"O-okay...I'll try my best." 

I didn't think I could get anywhere just by trying my best, but since she'd proposed it, I had no choice but to go along.

"However, as a detective, merely grasping that something feels off is hardly considered getting the job done. Therefore, now that the details of the request have been clarified, it's about time to take action, Yakusuke-san."

"Huh? Take what action..."

"Since I'm a woman of action and not some armchair detective, shall we walk and talk?"

If anyone was an armchair detective, it would be me, crippled as I was.

That being said, I was well aware Kyouko-san was an action type. She was the type who can't sit still, and who knows where she'll run off to if I take my eyes off her.

It was a cruel request to make of a man with a fractured leg, 'Shall we walk and talk?', but I decided not to make a fuss about it. If we were heading to the Sakusousha, wasn't it a bit early?

We were to meet with Kondou-san at one in the afternoon— it wasn't even eleven yet. From the hospital to the publishing company, it wouldn't take more than half an hour, even with delays. Even if we wanted to have lunch on the way, this was too early to start.

If that's the case, wouldn't it be better to stay in that hospital room and clarify some details first, instead of chatting while walking? No matter how much you value speed, there is no point in wasteful rushing around.

Kyouko-san should understand this better than anyone.

"No no, we're not heading directly to the publishing company.I want to do an on site investigation first. That is, the place where you had the fortune... oops, misfortune to break a bone. We're heading to the mixed residential-commercial building where the middle school girl—Sakasaka Masaka-chan—jumped from."

"......!"

Detectives are amazing. She already knew the full name of the middle school girl even though it hadn't been publicly announced. But, I hadn't considered visiting the scene.

Although the attempted suicide of a child, a very severe case indeed. It lacked the "eventfulness" typical of mystery novels, so generally, there was no need for an on-site investigation.

However, Kyouko-san seemed to think otherwise.

I wasn't sure how necessary it was, but she, who wasn't keen on wasting time explaining the same reasoning twice, must have had her reasons for wanting to go.

If she wanted me to guide her, I had no reason to refuse.

"But, Kyouko-san, before we go to the publishing company, um... if we make a detour to where the girl jumped, we'll be pressed for time. Because the direction is just opposite…"

"Oh, that's simple,"

Kyouko-san said, nonchalantly. 

"We just have to skip lunch."

Prev | Next

[offdxty]

There are a lot of interesting things happening all of a sudden - things that catch William's attention, have him look back at her as soon as she's pushing those poker chips closer for a second time.

However, her insistence isn't what's truly fascinating about it all - but rather the whole thing that happens after, an interaction between her and the barkeeper, serving her a glass of Whiskey; While that guy is talking to her, using actual words to express what he won't do for her, the lady is... well.

Not speaking. Not a single syllable leaves her mouth, gestures following instead, and despite the lack of a spoken language, it's easy to understand that she wonders about the fact that her drink is less than half-full. That, by the way, is another little detail that has Will's brows knit, head tilting as he shifts a bit to face her better - taking in the sight of that barkeeper telling her no, she cannot have the glass filled to the top, wondering why she's so persistent about it.

Frustration sets in on both sides as dark eyes continue to watch, to take in the sight, with money being slapped onto the counter moments after. Too much money that is, even for that rather expensive kind of Whiskey she's going to enjoy there - or, well, not enjoy, as shown mere seconds after in the wrinkle of her nose, the squint to her eyes, disgust shaking her body from the very core.

... And Will begins to put some pieces together there, allows another moment to pass, thoughtful; Blinking, his attention is on the barkeeper again---

"...You owe her change.", is what he says finally, voice flat, firm. It takes said barkeeper a moment to even understand what he means - and he throws a rather confused expression at him, to which William arches a brow, expectant. "---You gonna tell me you think she gave that bill to you out of generosity? She obviously doesn't know how much it is, so get a move on and be a decent guy."

A hint of a threat, perhaps, but wrapped into something formal - something not necessarily unkind, yet pushing at the edges; He's not asking that man nicely here - Will's speaking out a command, military-style.

It works out, has said barkeeper folding to the pressure; He mumbles out a few words of what might be an apology, an explanation, but honestly, William gives a flying fuck. His piercing, yet lidded gaze remains lingering on that fella until he's putting money back on top of the counter, pushing it toward the woman who's clearly struggling to speak, to articulate herself with words, and might be inexperienced in some ways. The barkeeper apologizes to her as well, his whole demeanor changed to something akin to a dog with its tail tucked in, before he turns around to hurry away and serve other customers...

"...That is definitely yours. You handed him too much money."

A nod toward that money, with Will's gaze now focusing back on the lady who's so deeply displeased with him - his expression softens a bit, but there's an obvious glint of curiosity lingering within dark brown irises now.

He isn't too sure if she's even understanding him - seemingly having been unable to truly get what that asshole-bartender had tried to tell her minutes ago - but he wants to treat her like anyone else despite wondering what exactly is going on here.

---She's certainly a foreigner, of asian descent; Is that why she's struggling...?

"You also bought yourself a quite strong kind of Whiskey there."

Eyes on her glass, then back on her features - a simple gesture without using his actual hands.

"---Not sure if you can, or should, handle that one. It requires a bit of an...sophisticated taste."

Despite his confusion towards her actions, he is…amused. He does not understand why she is unhappy, but he still laughs quietly on the inside about it. Her scowl deepens.

Yours, he says, expecting her to take the discs back. Instead, she shakes her head. Pushes the pile of them even closer to him. Insistent. Refusing to accept something she did not fairly win.

It would be different if he had been doubting himself and his cards, back at the table. But he had believed himself to have the better hand. He had believed he would win—maybe he would have—if he had continued to play, and instead he stopped playing altogether. For no reason but to let her win.

She refuses to accept that.

The compliments he gives, that she does not understand, seem to be sincere, but that does not make her appreciate them more, given the context in which they are given.

Her attention is taken away from him when the man behind the counter returns and sets a glass in front of her. A glass that barely has anything in it. It is not even half full. Her displeased frown morphs into one of confusion, eyes darting back up to the drink-maker and down again. There is barely more in her glass than there is in her opponent’s.

She taps the lip of the glass, before placing her finger against the side of it, only as high as the liquid in it. Then, she slides her finger up to the top, giving the drink-maker a meaningful look.

No, his body and voice respond. Her brows pull together. He says no to giving her a full drink? Cass does not understand. Not when others at this counter have full drinks in their hands. She taps near the top of the glass again, a bit more insistently, but the man only argues with her. Gets annoyed, frustrated. Looks at her and speaks to her in a tone of voice that means he thinks she is stupid.

Her jaw tightens. Those near them have begun to pay attention. She does not want attention.

Fine. She will accept the not-full drink, then. Places one of the money slips from her pocket onto the counter and hopes it is enough. Given the surprise and satisfaction she receives from the man in return, it is.

Not worth it, she decides the moment she takes a gulp. Cass pulls a face, nose wrinkling as the liquid burns its way down her throat. It is only years of conditioning to not make a sound that keeps her from coughing. It is like drinking fire. She stares at the cup in her hand for a moment in shock and disgust, before casting the man beside her a disbelieving look. Why in the world would he want to drink something like that?

[the-arctic-commune]

Belief and Activism in Media

Or, why Technoblade is the villain.

Before we get started, I want to acknowledge my debts. I owe the seed of this post to.... someone. Probably at least a year and a half ago, a post in Techno’s tags about this topic is what got me thinking about it. I particularly owe that poster for linking this wonderful article [x], which dives into the topic with more detail and broader scope. I highly recommend reading it if you’re interested. However, that was, as I say, many months ago, and I have no idea who the poster was. So if this topic seems familiar to you, please let me know so I can give credit where it’s due!

Now, let’s set the stage. I brought this up in relation to the Red Festival. In particular to the climax of the Festival, in which Technoblade, under threat by Schlatt and his administration, was forced to kill his ally Tubbo.

This was, shall we say.... controversial.

Both within the server and without. Tommy fought with Techno over the murder/execution multiple times (strangely, perhaps, Tommy was much more distraught than Tubbo in the immediate aftermath, but that’s a different post), and it was still being brought up as late as the “Rescuing Michael” streams, when Technoblade apologized to Tubbo for the incident. The fandom, meanwhile, has spilled a great deal of ink discussing whether this was an acceptable or even justified action on Technoblade’s part.

In relation to this incident, and more broadly to the often-controversial actions of Technoblade and his fellow anarchists on the server, I think there’s a very interesting way to understand why many people were (/are) so vehemently adamant that Techno made the wrong decision.

Anarchy, you see, is villain-coded.

(This post is going to be heavily discussing mainstream media in the US, particularly media produced by Hollywood, Disney, and related giants. If you go to smaller producers or other cultures, you will certainly find plenty of counter-examples to what I’m about to say, but hopefully we can all agree that Hollywood has a big impact on what many English speaking audiences expect from stories and media, and that this is a big portion of the Dream SMP audience.)

.

Part 1: Activism Is Evil

The article I linked above is “Outlaw Kings and Rebellion Chic,” by Alister MacQuarrie for the New Socialist on March 27, 2019. It discusses the phenomenon of the non-ideological hero.

Mainstream media loves rebellion, but it doesn’t want to discuss why we rebel. Heroes rarely have a defined cause, ideology, or even plan for the future once tyranny is overthrown. Instead their motivations are vague notions of “freedom” and “justice,” defined mostly by how the villain is preventing them, and their greatest victory is a promise of return to “normalcy,” a presumably-democratic and prosperous society but we don’t have to get into the details.

Villains, in contrast, often do have a defined ideology. In common storytelling wisdom, heroes only react; it’s the villains who provoke them by acting, and thus the villains who need a cause to fight for or an ideology to drive them.

Ideology, then - the simple fact of having beliefs about the society and politics around you - becomes a feature of villains, while heroes promote an artificially constructed non-ideology, a vague liberal-centrist position which licenses reaction but not action and tolerates change only insofar as it doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable.

You see this in the trope of the activist who goes too far - a side character who the hero must prevent from causing harm, because they care too much about their cause and, depending on the story, may be willing to sacrifice life or morality to get it. You also see it more prominently in the trope of the villain who has a completely rational reason to want to tear the system down - and also is totally ok with murdering babies and kicking dogs, so the story doesn’t have to engage with their philosophy and it’s fine to just kill ‘em and leave things the way they are. To “engage” with current activist movements, issues of climate change are filtered through the ecoterrorist; issues of racial justice are filtered through the extremist or separatist; and so on and so forth.

“The Legend of Korra” is possibly the most absurd example of this trope in popular media. Multiple season villains in this TV show are activists whose ideology is then twisted into cartoonish evil in order to avoid actually engaging with the critiques they present.

The Season 1 villain is Amon, leader of the Equalist movement. He and his followers critique their society’s prioritization of benders (in-universe magic users); benders preferentially control the government and military and even, due to their unique skills, have access to job opportunities that non-benders are barred from. This leads to non-benders having little say in society and being more likely to live in poverty; the Equalists want to change this.

Also they commit multiple acts of terrorism and kidnap benders to forcibly strip them of their powers. And Amon is actually secretly a water bender which means he’s a hypocrite and we don’t have to listen to him anyways. The Equalists are defeated and the problem of non-bender inequality is never mentioned again.

Season 3 introduces Zaheer and his fellow anarchists. They fight for freedom and wish to tear down the governments of their world; they assassinate at least one major world leader. Also they want to brutally torture the protagonist Korra to death. For, uh, reasons. Anarchy! Once they’re defeated discussions of freedom and tyranny are completely dropped; oppressive empires are good because anarchists are worse.

So hopefully you see what I mean. In mainstream media, belief and activism are the domain of villains, and thus they are villainized.

A character who comes onscreen speaking of tyranny and revolution is not to be trusted. If someone cares enough about their ideology to become an activist and fight for it, they’re almost certainly the bad guy.

And, to the vague change-averse liberalism that Hollywood likes to project, few ideologies are quite so ideological as that of the radical anarchist.

.

Part 2: Compromise Is Never An Option

Ok, so you can probably see the seeds of what I’m arguing here, but there is one slightly tangential point that’s important to bring in. Because there are things that the “non-ideological” hero is allowed to fight for: life and friendship.

These are usually supposed to be the highest priorities of the hero, and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing! Heroes fight to keep people safe, especially their friends, and they don’t compromise. One for all and all for one; we don’t trade lives.

No matter how hopeless the odds, heroes are supposed to keep fighting, and they must refuse to sacrifice for their victory (unless it’s self-sacrifice, which is usually ok). This is what motivates them in absence of any more sophisticated ideology; the villain kills or threatens people, so the hero defends them.

In “Star Trek,” Spock repeatedly insists on the Vulcan adage that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. This is treated as cold and alien, and is something he’s supposed to give up as he learns to value and rely on his friends. It’s all right when it’s self-sacrifice (Spock subjects himself to lethal radiation to save the ship), but it’s not all right when it sacrifices others (the rest of the crew rejects Spock’s concerns when they decide to risk their entire ship for the sake of a few crew members).

In “Star Wars,” Lando Calrissian betrays the heroes to Darth Vader. He does this because he’s responsible for an entire city. Darth Vader and his Empire have threatened Cloud City if he doesn’t comply, and they are far too powerful for Cloud City to fight off on its own. Lando can betray his friends, or he can let millions of his citizens die. The choice, though hard, seems obvious, but the narrative still treats it as an unconscionable betrayal. It’s only once he seems to truly regret his actions - and thus to, at least tacitly, admit that he should have let his city die rather than betray his friends - that he can be redeemed.

So: heroes don’t sacrifice, and they don’t compromise. They’re supposed to always keep fighting, no matter the odds. After all, they’re in a story. Victory will come, no matter how improbable.

Right?

.

Part 3: Technoblade’s an Anarchist

When he first logged onto the Dream SMP, Techno (IRL) had a plan. He needed a way to fit himself into the narrative, distinguish his character, and explain his presence in the story. So he decided that he would play an anarchist, someone who had come to support his friends in their fight against Manburg’s tyranny.

This started out as a pretty media-typical portrayal of anarchy as an unprincipled “the strong survive” approach (see his pitch to BBH), but quickly evolved into an actual, principled, self-consistent ideology, as IRL Technoblade seems to have taken an interest in the philosophy.

Genuinely, Technoblade’s portrayal is probably one of the best depictions of anarchist politics I’ve ever seen in popular media. But most people’s expectations are based on the caricature of the philosophy that is usually presented, and the one he started with.

So I argue that many people were simply primed to assume that Techno was, narratively speaking, a bad guy. He wasn’t solely fighting for Wilbur or Tommy - he was fighting for their cause. He had beliefs to fight for outside of his loyalty. And in the tropes of popular media, that made him suspicious.

(Of course, in one sense this is correct! He did end up abandoning the Pogtopians when their victory put them in power, and thus in conflict with his ideals.)

At the Red Festival, killing Tubbo a was an indefensible act not because killing in general is wrong (that would be pacifism and thus ideological and suspicious), but because it wasn’t the act of a hero. A hero would have found a different way. No one ever seems to be able to say what that “different way” should have actually been, but it doesn’t matter: our sense of narrative justice says that there must have been one because it’s what a hero would do. It doesn’t matter that, in-character, Technoblade has no idea he’s a hero; he should operate like one, and he’ll make an incredible last-minute escape because that’s how stories go. How the story does go is replaced with how the story should go. Never mind that in MCRP a single misclick could completely upend such a story.

.

So Technoblade gets double strikes. First, he’s an “activist,” which is narratively suspicious. Second, he doesn’t operate as a hero (at least early on), placing no trust in deus ex machina to save him and his friends.

In the language of narrative tropes, Technoblade is “villain-coded,” especially prior to his “retirement arc.” His actions at the Red Festival are particularly villainous, both because he, essentially, gives up and because he expects his friends to share his dedication to their cause.

That makes it quite easy to end the analysis with Techno as the bad guy!

.

To be clear, though it’s probably been clear throughout, I’ll end by saying that this isn’t a perspective I agree with. The media’s vilification of activism is something I greatly dislike. Technoblade as a hero with a radical cause is an enormous part of why I liked his DSMP story so much.

[hyuganejiswife]

Overload | Megumi Fushiguro X GNReader

Masterlist

| REQUESTED, sensory overload, overstimulated, partner could be on the spectrum or just have sensory issues, panic, angst, fluff

Word Count: 613

Note: I’m sorry if this isn’t accurate, I’m writing the overstim part based on my own experiences. I get overstimulated by sounds pretty easily, and I’ve had to step away from doing my job at a previous job from nearly having a panic attack due to it. So I’m drawing from that. As far as I know, I’m not on the spectrum. Also, do not take anything I write as a generalization. Everyone who is affected by overstimulation experiences these things differently. I also do not have a service animal so my deep pressure explanation may not be accurate. I have a dog who loves to lay on me when I’m anxious, but she’s not trained for that and it’s my only experience.

You wanted to shrink away from the world. There was far too much going on all at once. Everyone was branched off in their own conversations. The TV was on, playing some movie that your friends and classmates had all but forgotten, and there was music playing from a speaker in the corner of the room because Yuji wanted to show Panda one of the songs he liked.

You could hear the faint sounds of some video game coming from Toge’s phone and it was driving you insane. You felt like you were being overloaded. Your mind couldn’t process everything that was happening. You could hear everything and nothing at all, all at once.

You stand and leave the room abruptly, half of your friends barely even noticing. Before Maki has even had a chance to stand from her seat, Megumi has made his way out after you, already summoning one of his hounds for you.

It was like he already knew what was wrong. And in fact, maybe he did. He’d been observing you quietly since you started to become more reserved about halfway through the evening. He knew it was only a matter of time before you were far too overstimulated, but he knew better than to ask you to leave or to even insist that you needed to go back to your dorm. He did that once and it led to an argument about you knowing your own limits. Still, it never makes him feel any better to watch you suffer in silence until you’ve decided you had enough.

As he pushes your door open, the demon dog slips past him and makes its home on your bed with you, laying its rather large head over your chest. Your eyes are closed and Megumi decides against saying anything, instead letting you have a moment to decompress and to decide when you are ready to hear his voice. He chooses instead to close and lock your door to prevent an intrusion, afterwards walking around and unplugging any electronics that may cause any type of noise. Once he’s done with that, he sits on the floor against your bed and waits, listening to the sounds of your sniffles filling the room as you start to come down.

A smile reaches his face when your hand finds his hair and he hears a small “thank you” leave your lips. He turns to look up at you, humming and tilting his head. “How are you feeling?” He whispers, still very careful not to be too loud for your sake.

“Bad.”

“That’s okay.” He waits, letting you go at your own pace as you look for the words to say. And if you chose to say none, that was okay too.

“I don’t know why it happens. And I feel bad for leaving every time. Like I’m offending someone or upsetting you and making you leave too.” You tear your gaze away from him, worried.

“I don't do anything that I don't want to do. I only go to those groups for you and because Gojo thinks it’s good for me. And when I leave, I’m relieved. You’re my favorite person. I’d rather be with you over anyone else. And forget about them, they understand, but you don’t owe them anything and certainly not an explanation or an apology. You can’t help it. That’s okay. I’m always going to be here for you, even if you only use me for my demon dogs.”

At his last remark, you find yourself laughing, fresh tears falling. This time though, your tears are filled with relief. Megumi, your wonderful partner, always knew how to make you feel better.

[miekasa]

NICE.

+ pairings: eren yeager + (fem) reader

+ genres: rich kid au, college au, friends to lovers au, fluff, light-ish angst, smut/nsfw content (everybody gets a piece)!

+ warnings: mentions of depression/anxiety, mentions and use of drugs and alcohol, some of the smut happens under the influence so be cautious if that’s something you don’t like, i swear this is all more idiots in love than angst tho i just wanna disclose everything fairly

+ notes: this is alternatively titled super rich kids and you can probably figure out why. some of this is based off of real life, some of it is straight out of gossip girl and i challenge you to separate the facts from the fiction :’) anyways, i hope we all remember the lyrics to in my feelings

+ more notes: one quick reference for ages in this fic—all the vets are older but not by that much, think various stages of grad school. armin, connie, sasha, annie, and bertholdt are all college sophomores. eren, the reader, and pretty much everybody else are college seniors, so they’re about a year or two older. also here is a playlist for your reading pleasures, shoutout to ryn for letting me mooch of their spotify account :’)

+ word count: 19k. i’m sorry.

+ summary: fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you.; or the story of notorious rich kid and self-proclaimed bad boy eren yeager, and his not so goody two-shoes best friend.

“So you’re saying that you don’t love me? That you’re not riding? That you’ll actually leave from beside me?”

“I’m saying that it’s ass o’clock in the morning and I’m not driving in the rain to Brooklyn to pick your sorry ass up.”

“But… but I want you, and I need you, and I’m down for you.”

You check the time on your phone screen and groan. 3:57am. Far too early to be dealing with the likes of Eren Jaeger. “Just get an Uber or something. I don’t know what you and your idiot friends were up to this time, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“First, they’re our idiot friends. Second, I don’t think they let you take Ubers from jail, and even if they did, it’s, like, four in the morning, so I don’t think there are any Ubers driving around, so could you pretty please come pick me up? I promise I’ll make it up to—”

“From where?” you cut him off, slowly sitting upright in your bed. You hold your phone closer to your ear, ready to listen again; because, certainly, you must have misheard him the first time. You wait, but the line is silent, save for Eren’s awkward chuckling. “Eren Asher Jaeger, tell me that that was another stupid lyric from that stupid song, and that you are not in prison right now.”

Eren makes a sad attempt at laughing. “Technically, it’s a holding cell, not really prison… and I would leave, but they suspended my license for a month, and Min can’t drive yet, so we kind of need you,” he explains, “Uh, no pun intended.”

“Min?” you pull your eyebrows together at the mention of the younger’s name, “Is Armin with you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

With a frown and a heavy sigh, you push yourself out of bed, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you grab the nearest pair of sweatpants.

“Why did you get him caught up in whatever stupid shit you were doing tonight?” you complain, scanning your dark bedroom for a shirt to wear, “Erwin’s going to castrate you when he finds out.”

You curse as you stub your toe against the edge of your bed on your way out of the room. Given the time, weather, and the fact that you have several exams to start studying for, hanging up and leaving Eren in the middle of god knows where Brooklyn doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, but you couldn’t go back to sleep knowing that Armin would have to suffer with him.

“Relax,” Eren breathes in a tone all too nonchalant for the situation at hand, “He didn’t get charged with anything, and nothing’s going on his record.”

“You don’t know that,” you retort, sliding your raincoat over your free arm, as you paddle down the stairs of your apartment, “The NYPD suck.”

“True,” he hums, “But I paid off the cop, so it’ll be fine.”

You pause in your steps, but really, you shouldn’t be surprised. “Of course you did,” you mumble, moving again and grabbing your car keys off of the kitchen island.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he questions. His tone is actually genuine and it tempts you to roll your eyes.

“What it always means, Eren,” you sigh, stepping into the elevator, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Get off my line.”

He doesn’t have time to throw in another pitiful “I love you” before the line goes dead and he’s met with static silence. He hangs up the station telephone with a silent chuckle, turning around to face Armin and Officer Hannes.

“Someone’s coming to pick us up,” he says, trying to focus on Armin’s sigh of relief and not the warmth creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, “I’ll, uh, call a tow for the car in the morning.”

The cop, too tired to care, only shrugs, and pays them no further attention. He hands Eren a plastic bag with his car keys and newly suspended license, escorts him back into the cell, and returns to his desk. Eren gives Hannes the finger while his back is turned.

Beside him, Armin is still quivering; bouncing his leg up and down, fiddling with his fingers, gnawing on his bottom lip. Eren frowns, a heavy wave of guilt washing over him as he takes in the younger’s anxiety ridden state. It wasn’t fair that Armin could have potentially suffered legal consequences because of his stupidity.

Eren’s lucky that Hannes was sleazy enough to accept his bribe and let him off with minimal punishment. With that they were doing, things could have ended up far worse for the both of them tonight.

“I’m sorry, man,” he apologizes, hands stuffed in his front pockets, “About tonight, I mean. We—I shouldn’t have done that, not with you there.”

Armin looks up at him with sparkling, doe eyes and Eren wants to punch himself in the gut for making him go through all of this, even if it didn’t amount to an actual arrest. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

“I could have prevented it,” he says. Because it’s what you would have said, too.

“It’s not your fault, I wanted to come, remember?” Armin tells him, redirecting his gaze to the grey floor of the precinct cell. He takes a deep breath, almost calming down completely when a sudden thought reignites his nervous ticks, “You… they’re not gonna tell my parents, right?”

“No, no—of course not.”

Armin was legally an adult; he, nor Eren, nor the police had to tell his parents anything. Sure, Hannes could rat them out, but honestly that sounded like way more work than he was cut out for; not to mention he’d be bound to reveal that he let them off easy for a couple thousand bucks.

Armin nods, “And… that wasn’t Erwin on the phone, right?”

“Are you kidding me? He’d murder me on the spot,” Eren says. He pauses before tacking on, “I, uh… I called (_____).”

“Oh,” the younger gapes, “She’ll kill you, too.”

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, scratching the back of his neck in nervous anticipation, “Trust me, I know.”

“You have your access card on you, right, Armin?” you ask. He nods sheepishly, hand on the car door handle.

“Thanks again for coming to get us,” he says meekly, “I’m sorry about waking you up and everything.”

You offer him a warm smile through the rear view mirror, “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re safe. Text me when you get up tomorrow, okay? We can get brunch, my treat.”

His face lights up at the prospect of free food, and he nods once more, enthusiastically, but his expression falls again when he speaks, “Okay, and I’ll, um, pay you back for the tickets and stuff as soon as I can—”

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it,” you repeat.

“It was almost three thou—”

“You forget who you’re friends with,” you cut him off with a smile, “Don’t worry about it, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

Armin’s eyes dart to Eren quickly, before clearing his throat, a light pink tint to his cheeks. You know that the prospect of money can be a sensitive subject for Armin, one easily triggered by his very environment, but this wasn’t negotiable on your end. You know that Armin doesn’t like the feeling of owing anyone anything, but he knows he won’t get you to budge; so, he quietly nods, appreciative of your generosity, before bidding you and Eren a final goodnight and sprinting towards the dorm. Once you see that he’s safely inside, you wave one last time, and wait for the door to shut behind him.

Slowly, Eren turns to the driver’s seat to look at you. You were eerily calm when you came to pick him and Armin up from the station. You didn’t yell, cuss, or punch him in the face like he expected. You politely talked to the officer, thanked him for his service, paid their fees, and up until now, you’ve shown no signs of being angry with him at all.

The two of you drive back to your shared apartment in complete silence, Eren too confused, and borderline scared, of initiating a conversation. He wonders if you’re too tired, or if you really don’t give a damn anymore, but when you pull into the underground lot of your building and put the car in park, he finds out the silence was simply the calm before the storm.

You take your hand off of the gear shift and turn towards him. It’s a quiet stare down for nearly a full minute before you break the mime act with a slap to his thigh.

“Drag racing? Are you out of your fucking mind? Of all the stupid shit you’ve done—and you’ve done a lot of stupid shit—this has got to take the cake. Just what the actual fuck were you thinking?”

“Ouch!” he inhales sharply, rubbing over where you’d hit him, “We were just having fun! Then these other guys showed up and started talking shit so—”

“Having fun?” you echo, “You couldn’t think of anything fun to do that’s not illegal in every borough of New York City?”

Eren feels his cheek flush, but he only huffs with the illusion of disinterest, “I don’t know why you’re freaking out so bad. I’m a good driver, it was those other squids that got us into shit, I’m telling you. They showed up looking for a fight, then ran like a bunch of pussies when the cops came.”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head in disbelief. You seem to have no other words to say to him, choosing to step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Eren quickly follows, slamming his door equally as hard, and hot on your trail as you march towards the elevator.

“(_____), come on, enough with the silent treatment,” he whines when you stick yourself in a corner of the elevator after pushing the button to the penthouse, “I told you I didn’t start shit, Armin and I got ratted on.”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not they started it, Eren. You’re still the problem here.”

“Me? How am I the problem?” he pulls back, eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion, “I just told you I didn’t do shit.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and shifting your left leg, “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Doing what with me?” he presses, tone growing icy.

“This, Eren!” you reiterate, “I’m too tired to hear your bullshit right now.”

The elevator dings and opens into your apartment. You push past him, continuing your deliberate strides through the living area, and to the stairs, but Eren catches you with a hand on your wrist before you can go any further.

“Will you fucking stop that,” he growls, “If you’ve got something to say, then stop running away from me, and just say it.”

“Funny,” you sneer, pulling your wrist away from him and settling both your feet on the bottom step, “You’re one to talk about running away from things.”

He takes a step back, standing just a notch below you, perfectly frozen in place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your little drag racing episode was not only dangerous and immature, it was you running away from your problems like a spoiled child, yet again.”

Eren’s features narrow at your accusations; eyes fading into hooded slits, lips curving downwards, and voice bobbing low, “I’m not running away from anything.”

“Oh, please, Eren,” you roll your eyes, arms retreating to their crossed position in front of your chest, “Cut the bullshit.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he bets that even in the dim lighting of the apartment, you can see the tips of his ears growing red, just like they always do when he’s lying.

“Oh, really?” you ask, eyes widening in mock surprise, “You don’t think I don’t know this whole thing has something to do with the fact that your mom came home on Friday?”

Another pause. “Who told you that?” He asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

“Nobody had to,” you snap, “Jean said he caught you with a sack of coke over the weekend, and I knew something was up.”

“It wasn’t mine, I was—”

“I said cut the shit, Eren. If I went up into your room right now I bet your ass I’d find more than enough of it in a shoebox somewhere.”

He retreats, almost bashful, but unapologetic all the same. “Fine, whatever, I did a few lines. Big deal.”

“The big deal is that you think this is fucking normal, and now you’ve upgraded from coke to getting yourself arrested! It’d be one thing if you were acting like a misfit on your own, but to drag Armin into it because you—”

“Drag him into it?” he echoes with the snare of sarcasm dripping from each syllable, “You talk about Armin like he’s six. I don’t know why you think he’s some helpless little baby, but you have no goddamn responsibility over him. He’s not your fucking charity case.”

“I never fucking said he’s my charity case—don’t you ever fucking say that,” you say, “Having some basic respect and concern for my friends isn’t charity.”

“Wake the fuck up! You baby Armin when he’s a grown ass man. I didn’t force him into the fucking car to get sympathy points from you.”

“Grown? Armin is barely nineteen, disowned by his parents, is on a full fucking ride to an insanely expensive university, and you got him arrested tonight! Do you know what could happen if NYU found out? They could fucking kick him out, take his scholarship away—and then what, huh? Or were you just gonna buy off the headmaster, too?”

“You’re acting like I fucking planned for it!”

He’s screaming now, voice bellowing throughout the apartment, face red—and he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean it at all; but it’s late, and he’s tired, and those shouldn’t be excuses, but he’s too prideful to back down.

“Of course you didn’t! You didn’t plan for anything, you were just being a reckless, irresponsible asshole like always,” you tell him, too blind-sighted by anger and the need to chide him that you miss the teary undertones in his words.

“And what’s it matter to you?”

“It fucking matters to me when you call at some godforsaken hour asking me to pick you up from prison!”

He takes a step forward, right leg elevated by the same step that both your feet rest on. “Well, what else am I supposed to fucking do!” He shouts even though he’s mere inches from your face, “Tell me just what the fuck I’m supposed to do instead!”

“You’re supposed to act like an adult and fucking talk to someone!”

“Who the hell am I supposed to talk to, huh?” he presses, taking a step forward and forcing you to retreat backwards, and up a step, “My mother who’s never home or her bastard boyfriend?”—another step forward for him, another step backwards for you—“The step-brother I can’t get in contact with?”—one step forward; one step backwards—“Or maybe the dad I never had, right?”

“Me, Eren!” you yell back with equal vigor, throwing your hands up at your sides, and planting your feet firmly. “Armin, Mikasa, Jean—anyone! You have people who fucking care about you! Stop treating us like correction officers, we’re your fucking friends!”

There’s silence for a while, just you and Eren staring at each other, heavy breathing, waiting for the other to make the next move. He opens his mouth, but when he tries to speak, his resolve washes away, his throat tightens and the words get sucked back in.

It would be easy to keep yelling, screaming, blaming you for blowing up on him. He used to think the scolding he got from you after pulling some stupid stunt was the worst part; but now, he thinks it might be his favorite part. He hates to hear you scream, and it hurts to see you cry, but if you’re yelling, you’re angry that he hurt himself; you care that he’s okay.

“I—” he stutters, words quiet and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to get like this tonight, it was an accident I—”

“You never mean for any of it to happen, yet it always does,” you interrupt, voice soft yet strained, “I know you have your own shit to deal with, but so does everybody else.”

“(_____), please, you’re right, okay? I should have said something before,” he admits, mouth small as he voices his confessions, “I should have talked to you or one of the boys, but I—I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

He’s groveling now. Mouth in pout, eyes wide, voice small, and honestly, he thinks he might cry. At this point he doesn’t care if he does.

“I want you to mean it,” you finally say, and when he looks up, he hates the look he sees in your eyes. It’s something between sad and hurt and empty and it’s awful. Someone like you shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t make you feel that way.

“I—”

“When you’re ready to tell me exactly what’s going on with you—what’s happening that made you think going to jail would be better than facing your issues—I’ll be here to talk,” you continue, eyes watering, “But until then, goodnight, Eren.”

Eren winces when you turn around and ascend up the remaining stairs. He flirts with the idea of following you, going to your room to finish talking, but you’re probably angry enough to have it locked. His room is up there, too, but he opts for part of the sectional, laying down with the palms of his hands kneading against his closed eyelids.

For as long as he can remember, you’ve been there for him. Your friendship, at times, was like a game of tag—Eren always on the run with you loyally chasing after him; he’d always run amuck, and you’d always be there to catch him in the act. Now, it’s five in the morning, there’s no more yelling, no more chasing, no more racing, but he’s still running.

The following morning, you take Armin out to brunch, as promised. Jean tags along too, something about hanging out with the two of you being infinitely more entertaining than his genetics lecture. It doesn’t seem like Jean knows anything about Armin and Eren’s late night antics, so you don’t bring it up yourself.

Oblivious, Jean chats your ears off as if nothing is awry. Whether he knows it or not, he does a great job of distracting Armin from his own thoughts. They both eat to their heart’s content when you remind them you’ll foot the bill; and you don’t bat an eye when Jean convinces Armin to order his third round of pancakes. He deserves it.

Afterwards, Jean convinces the three of you to go window shopping with him in SoHo, claiming that he needed inspiration for his latest fashion assignment (you don’t question why he’s taking a fashion class as a biology major, but you suspect it has something to do with Mikasa). Window shopping soon turns into actual shopping, so almost completely unprompted, and with little effort on his part, Armin gets a few pieces of clothing on your behalf, while you try to ignore Eren’s words itching at the back of your mind.

Armin’s not a baby, but he certainly is a kid with a rough past and rough relationship with his parents at a time in his life where he arguably needs them the most. A little extra support from his friends wouldn’t harm him.

It’s nearing six when the three of you are wedged in a small booth inside a café, indulging in overpriced hot chocolate. Three sips into his second cup, Jean excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you sitting across from Armin.

“You know, you don’t have to keep buying me stuff to make up for Eren,” Armin says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m not trying to make up for him,” you sputter, careful not to spill your drink over your lap, “You had a rough night. Just accept my gifts, don’t be a brat.”

“I do accept them. Erwin’s been eyeing that Off White sweater for, like, three weeks now. He’s gonna have a hissy fit when he sees me wearing it.” You chuckle, and he continues, “But you know, as much I love spending time with you, you can’t use me to avoid Eren forever.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” you frown.

“You said you were going to take us to brunch, and then spent the whole day with us.”

“Funny, I recall you saying something about how much you love my company about thirty seconds ago.”

“He’s called you at least ten times today.”

“I was spending the day with my favorite NYU student… and Jean,” you bat your lashes, “I see you maybe once a week. I live with Eren, I have to see him every day.”

Armin calls your name with a pout, “He’s sorry, you know.”

“Not sorry enough,” you mumble. Armin opens his mouth to say something again, but then Jean’s sliding back into the booth, chatting about how he’s finally come up with the perfect anniversary date for Mikasa.

Armin doesn’t notice your sigh of relief, but he does take note of the way you wipe away your notifications when a text rings through. If Eren could spend his days running away from his problems, then you could, too.

Despite being arguably the greediest of you all, Jean loves company, so he doesn’t hesitate to say yes when you ask to crash at his place after your shopping escapades. You expect to be welcomed with sounds of screaming, laughter, and loud music, but to your surprise his apartment is completely silent upon your entering.

“Bertholdt has class and Marco has a meeting,” he prompts, as if he could read your thoughts. He shimmies his coat off his shoulders and tosses it over the bar in the foyer.

Their apartment has the same amount of rooms as yours and Eren’s, but is all stretched along a single floor. It’s more of a maze, really, with intricate turns, and hallways, that all more or less open up into the expanse of the foyer and bar. Their living room is your favorite part. A dark, brown leather sectional wraps around the back three walls and an oversized flatscreen encased in an ebony frame takes center stage. A collection of vinyl records litters the walls above the couch; each of the boys contributing their favorite discs as décor.

“If he has class, shouldn’t you have class?” you question, fingers dragging over the ridges of the closest record.

“I’ve had class all day, but that doesn’t mean I go,” Jean shrugs, walking up behind you and taking your jacket off your shoulders and your bag from your hand, “Besides, Bertholdt will probably cut half-way to go see Reiner, if he can even stay awake that long. Going with him is just as productive as staying home.”

“You’re all a mess,” you scoff, turning around as a cheesy grin grows on Jean’s lips. His smile is infectious, and soon you catch yourself grinning just because.

“You want something to drink?” he offers, throwing your coat over his elbow and tilting his head in the direction of the bar.

“You’re bad at mixing drinks,” you remind him, but follow him anyway.  

Jean laughs, not bothering to deny the jab. He doesn’t try his hand at anything mixed or complicated this time; simply offering you a glass of your favorite red, and pouring himself a smaller amount.

He puts the album you were gawking at earlier on the record player, the two of you sinking into the couch as lovely melodies radiate throughout the apartment.

He spends the first hour bitching about how Marco’s supposed to become a CEO in less than a year, yet has the attention span of a squirrel; but the playful lilt in the brunette’s voice, and the begrudging smile on his face lets you know that it’s all love. He gushes about Mikasa for a good half hour, cramming you with stories about his girlfriend’s talent for sewing and fashion. You also learn that Bertholdt’s been busier than usual these days, and Jean suspects it has something to do with a secret lover.

You pinch your eyebrows at his hunch. Bertholdt’s never been one for dating. He’s had many friends with benefits in the past, but they weren’t relationships, nor were they secrets. In fact, you don’t think that he could keep a secret to save his life.

“Why would he be hiding it if he were seeing someone?” you question, swirling your newly refilled glass.

“Dunno,” Jean shrugs, “But it’s sus, I’m telling you. He’s been oddly busy for someone with a 2.3 GPA. Either way, I’ll pry it out of him eventually.”

“You’re so fucking nosey,” you chuckle, watching the mischievous, satisfied grin settle onto his features.

“I kinda think it’s Armin,” Jean says after a while, downing the remaining wine in his cup, while you choke on your own drink.

“Why on Earth do you think if Bertholdt had a secret lover that it’d be Armin?”

“Because he was in love with him for, like, two years in high school,” Jean says, as if the information should be painfully obvious.

“Yeah, and Bert also hooked up with a million different people in high school.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t still in love with Armin.”

“I don’t think Armin’s kissed another human, let alone is in a secret relationship with one.”

“Hm, true. I forget he’s still a virgin.”

“Hey—there’s nothing wrong with Armin being a virgin, leave him be.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” Jean whines, “But it’s so—he doesn’t have to be. Armin’s cute! And very attractive—dare I even say sexy. He could go outside and get laid right now if he just tried.”

“Stay humble, Jean boy. If I remember correctly, you only started breaking hearts a year ago,” you tut. Jean’s nose goes pink as he shoves you away when you continue, “But, if you’re so concerned with Armin’s virginity, why don’t you go help him out with it.”

“Actually, if I remember correctly, I think that’s more your gig,” he shoots back, a smug smile tugging on his lips. “Not to mention, I’m not trying to get beat up by Annie. Though, I wonder how much longer it’ll take before she finally snaps. Hey, maybe the both of you can tag team him, I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind, and it might even make Armin less nervous to have you—”

It’s your turn to shove him now, throwing in an extra punch when his head bobs back with laughter. You’re very certain Annie would mind; you would mind if someone inserted themself in your kind of, sort of, not really relationship, and ruined your four years of pining.

“Speaking of lovers,” Jean prompts, once his laughter dies down, bending his knee and turning closer to you. “Why are you and lover boy fighting? Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum, sipping your drink in between words. Jean’s eyes pinch together. “Marco and I would never fight.”

“My god, will you let your Marco fantasies go already? You’ve already caused him one sexuality crisis,” Jean groans, “You know I mean Eren.”

You sigh, lowering your glass and reaching forward to pinch his cheek. “It’s nothing you have to worry your pretty little head over.”

“Please,” he scoffs, flicking your offending hand back, “He’s been texting us nonstop since this morning at, like, nine. I didn’t even know he was capable of waking up before noon.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Jean continues, “Why he would ask us for advice on you is beyond me. He knows you better than all of us combined.”

“And why you’re saying all of this is beyond me.”

“Oh, come on, what’d he do,” Jean pushes, borderline whines, as he puts his empty glass down in a cup holder embedded in the couch. He’s always been the most prone to gossip, but you forget that wine makes him even more of a nosey prick. “Must have been pretty bad. Or stupid.”

“Try both,” you mumble, “Well—I don’t know, it wasn’t… the worst thing anyone could do, but it was really fucking reckless—and why he did it, I couldn’t even tell you. I don’t know what goes through his mind half the time, but I swear he must have been on crack last night.”

“He probably was. On crack, I mean. I told you, I took an ounce from him over the weekend, but that was after Eren and Ymir did, like, five lines.”

“Do they really do that regularly?” you nearly cry, a hand massaging your temple, “Fucking Christ, if he really was high while driving, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Well, I don’t know if regular is the right word,” Jean ponders, “Maybe for Ymir, but god knows what she’s on half the time, anyways. Besides, coke isn’t the worst thing they could do.”

“You sound like you speak from personal experience.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, pausing when you shoot him a disapproving look, “Oh, come on! You’re no angel, either—if memory serves, you were high as shit at Moblit’s birthday party, and kept singing the star spangled banner all night.”

“Yeah, on weed! One time! It was on a rooftop and the stars were out and it has the same rhythm as the happy birthday song, cut me some slack!”

He finds laughing at your expense to be much more fun, however, as he continues to chuckle while you throw a fit. He’s also not one to let a topic of gossip go undiscussed, and has no problem bringing the conversation back to Eren.

“It’s because you two don’t talk, you know,” Jean tuts, “That’s why you fight like this.”

For the second time, the younger’s words have your eyebrows growing close together. “I mean, I guess—but it’s more than that. Eren and I live together, we obviously talk, but—”

“I know, I know, but just hear me out, okay? You and Eren talk about a lot of things, yeah, but you also… don’t. And sometimes you don’t have to, because you guys, like… get each other.”

“Wow. What a way with words you have, Jean Kirstein. You should write a self-help book.”

“What I mean,” he sneers, unhappy with the sarcasm being thrown his way, “Is that you guys understand each other in weird ways. It’s actually kind of cute—sometimes a little freaky, in all honesty. It’s why you don’t always have to talk about serious things. But you take it for granted and let shit bottle up, and then get in denial about it until you blow up in each other’s faces.”

“Please, you barely passed one philosophy class and now you think you’re Plato.”

“You’re doing the in denial thing right now!” he taunts, “Come one, when you two fight like this, what’s it usually about?”

You sigh, sinking back into the plush leather of the couch, and wrapping your hands around a fluffy throw pillow. Thinking about arguing with Eren isn’t particularly something you like to do, and truthfully, you don’t really get pissed at each other that often. Not to the point of ignoring each other, at least.

“I don’t know,” you drawl, “Drugs, me forgetting things, him doing stupid shit, him thinking Mikasa could do better than you, school, drinking, the fact that he leaves his big ass shoes at the top of the stairs for me to trip over and fall to my death every morning, when—”

“His parents?” Jean cuts you off.

“I—we don’t really… it’s not so much fighting over his parents, it’s all the stuff he does to deal with his parents. He never gives his mom’s boyfriends a chance, and he never really talks about why, either. I know he’s secretly just angry and insecure about his dad, but… I don’t know. That doesn’t really make it better.”

“True,” he nods, “See—he doesn’t talk about it.”

“I know, and I told him that last night, too, but… it’s a sensitive subject for him—his dad, I mean,” you sigh, “And you’re right, he shouldn’t bottle his feelings up, but, on the other hand he’s watched his mom get married five times. I don’t always blame him for not wanting to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but just because it’s hard to talk about doesn’t mean he shouldn’t,” Jean lolls, “Wouldn’t you have rather he said something than have done whatever stupid shit he did to make you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Okay, Socrates, I get it,” you lighten up, “I’ll talk to him—or get him to talk to me. Are you happy?”

“Quite,” he says, annoyingly chipper as he rises from the couch. “I hate seeing my favorite power couple fighting.”

Jean knows his words would elicit a slap to his arm, so he takes off just before you can reach him, prompting you to chase him out of the living room and down the hall. The brunette cackles ridiculously loudly as you scream his name with profanities sprinkled in-between. You catch a hold of the bottom of his shirt and pull him back, finally flicking him on the forehead.

He accepts his punishment with pride, offering you a signature smile in return while you both catch your breaths. It’s a sweet moment, the two of you looking at each other with stupid smiles on your face, exhalations tickling your cheeks.

Jean’s eyes break the gaze first, as he looks down the remainder of your face, and back up to your eyes again. His words could get caught in his throat, but he doesn’t let them—he shakes his head, and swiftly turns around, beckoning for you to follow him.

“Come on, we can steal Marco’s clothes for your pajamas this time.”

Jean spends all of three minutes pulling apart Marco’s dresser before swiping a t-shirt and Christmas themed pajama bottoms from his room. He tosses them in your direction before leading you back down the hall and to the left, opening the door to the guest bedroom for you, before leaving you to change.

They have more than one guest bedroom, but this one is unofficially yours. Little pieces of you can be found littered throughout the room, from spare jewelry to mismatched makeup. You spot a single, gold, teardrop shaped earring on the vanity and sigh as you run your fingers over it.

You swear you’d lost it a few months ago. Trust Jean to put it away for safekeeping without telling you he’d found it. The boy in question returns moments later, knocking while walking through the door with your purse in hand.

“How’d you know I was about to ask you to get that?” you question, a smile on your face as you retrieve the small bag from his hands.

Jean offers you a cocky grin, “Cause I’m the best.”

“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” you tease, “Or, well, an even bigger head.”

Jean ignores your insult, as you take a seat at the edge of the bed, fishing through your bag for your phone to plug it in for the night. He’s about to turn around and bid you goodnight, when the flash of something orange peeping out of your purse prompts his next thought.

“Hey, you picked up your refill, right?” he asks innocently, “It should have been ready last Thursday.”

You sigh, head falling slightly when you close your bag and place it on the vanity. “Uh… no.”

Jean’s mouth is already open, ready with equally friendly and scolding words, but you cut him off before he can talk. “I was going to on Thursday, but I had class late, and then I forgot on Friday and I haven’t really had time since then. But I have a few left-overs from the last two months, so I’ve been taking those!”

Jean’s mouth closes, but his eyes narrow as he begins to walk towards you. You know he’s putting two and two together, so you speak ahead of him again.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have any left over, but it’s only five, I promise! I’ve been really good, lately.”

Jean’s eyes remain in concentrated slits, but his resolve is waning when he reads over your expression. His facade fades as he takes the final steps towards you to stand directly in front of your body.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft through his smile, “I’ll go with you to pick them up tomorrow before I drop you home, yeah?”

It elates him more than it should to see the smile you flash his way. Unfortunately, it’s short-lived, as his next question leaves your face twisted with guilt.

“Have you… told Eren yet?”

You consider lying and saying yes, but something tells you Jean won’t buy it. Your silence seems to speak loud enough, as his shoulders drop with a quiet sigh.

“I want to, I just… well I’m mad at him right now, and even when I’m not… I don’t know why it’s so hard,” you confess.

“He’d wanna know, you know,” Jean says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it to you, either. “You know he wouldn’t judge you or anything.”

“I know that. But, truthfully, if I had things my way, not even you would know, Jean.”

It was an accident that Jean found out that you’d been taking anxiety medication.

It was at somebody’s house party where the majority of your friends and their guests had gotten piss drunk. Reiner’s date had suggested mixing their alcohol with molly she’d supposedly had in her bag. In her drunken stupor, she’d mistaken your purse for her own, but luckily, a not so drunk Jean had noticed the label didn’t match her name, and snagged the bottle before the worst could happen.

They ended up not finding her molly, anyway, but it’s a moot point. Jean had cornered you about the bottle later in the week with honest intentions; he’d been concerned that might be another kind of drug disguised by a prescription veil. However, you’d assured him that it was indeed your prescribed Lexapro, and not a shady mixture of black market substances.

And, he’d been more than understanding in the aftermath. Quite frankly, he had somewhat made it his business to ensure that you got and took your medication on time and felt comfortable getting to and from your therapy appointments.

It’s endearing in a way that made you pause and count your blessings sometimes. Jean had been nothing but unequivocally supportive in his understanding about anxiety and had gone the extra mile to comfort you where need be. It made you wonder why you hesitated to tell Eren on several occasions.

It was probably the very nature of anxiety itself that had you doubting your trust in Eren. You wanted to tell him—of course you did—but, you couldn’t. You know that Eren would do everything in his power to make it better, even if that was just being. You know that he’d want to know and he’d kill to understand. But you couldn’t possibly burden him with your problems, not when he has a million of his own.

The one person in the world you wanted to tell, you were terrified of talking to. And you know it’s irrational to be afraid of him, but you can’t seem to control those thoughts. It’s a tiring, consuming, endless cycle.

Jean watches the way your gaze lowers to the floor. He knows exactly what you’re thinking, and, god, he swears if he could take that train of thought away from you, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

With a heavy heart and tired eyes, he takes a final step forward and wraps his arms around your body. He counts three, four seconds before you hug him back. He raises a hand to the back to your head, cradling your face into his shoulder and squeezing you tightly.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, you know that,” he speaks, just a notch above a whisper, “I know you’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you murmur into the fabric of his shirt. You hug him back a little tighter and close your eyes, “Thank you, Jean.”

And Jean holds on, and hopes you know that he wouldn’t let you go, “You’re welcome, (_____).”

You come home to find your entire apartment littered with flowers; in the hallway, on the sectional, atop the counter, up the stairs.

There are several boxes of your favorite macarons stacked in a small pyramid on the kitchen island, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you checked the labels to find that they were shipped straight from the south of France this morning. There’s too many bottles of Ace on the coffee table, sparkling next to a basket of what looks like your regular skincare products. A pretty, gold bow rests atop an even prettier pair of red-bottomed heels, and if you’re not mistaken, that’s a limited edition, vintage YSL clutch on the sectional, resting against your favorite throw pillow.

You sigh, making your way to the couch to pick up the orange envelope sticking out of the handbag. Just as you’re about to open it, you hear footsteps, and a voice that follows.

“You’re back,” Eren chirps from mid-way on the staircase, “I, uh, there’s catering coming from Butter coming soon. I know it’s your favorite,” he continues as he descends the stairs.

He has his hand on the back of his neck and there’s a faint, pink tint to his cheeks as he slowly makes his way towards you. You cross your arms, looking him up and down when he stands in front of you.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a tweed sweater with patches at the elbow. His hair is split down the middle, longer than usual, so the ends of sweep over his eyelashes; and there are telltale signs that he’d been toying with it.

“Eren, what is all of this?” you finally ask, shifting your weight to your right leg.

“Part one of my apology and explanation,” he replies, a hopeful timbre to his voice. You roll your eyes, but he continues anyway, “Actually, part two is in that envelope.”

Skeptical, you unfold your arms and open the envelope. You don’t know what you were expecting—a card, maybe tickets to a musical or something; but what you definitely weren’t expecting were two tickets to Paris.

“France?” you look up, tickets in hand, “You don’t get it do you? You can’t just buy all of this shit, jet us off to Europe and expect everything to be okay.”

“No, no it’s not like that—I swear!” he interjects, hands moving sporadically, “It’s just, well… Can we sit? Then I can explain everything.”

Eren looks at you with those big green eyes and that sad pout to his lips, and you find yourself sighing and taking a seat on the couch against your better judgement. There’s a small smile to his lips when you do—a little victory—and he sits next to you, your knees resting against each other as you face him.

He’s shaking, and your resolve to punish him with whatever solid exterior and half-assed silent treatment dissolves as you take his left hand in your right, and recall your conversation with Jean. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, Eren. You can talk to me.”

When he feels your smaller hand envelop his, the shaking stops, and for a moment, it feels like he can do this, like everything is okay. He smiles, and takes a deep breath.

“The other night, you were right, about my mom and her boyfriend coming home,” he starts, words slow and heavy, “I didn’t even know she was coming—I knew she was visiting this month, but she didn’t tell me when, and I thought it was going to be just her, you know? But then she showed up with him, and, well, I don’t know. I was upset. She’s been home for a week now, and we haven’t even gone to dinner or anything.”

He pauses, and you squeeze his hand for reassurance, “We were supposed to get lunch on Thursday, but she cancelled. Had some meeting or something, I don’t know, I don’t care. Friday comes and she says she wants to have dinner, right?”

You nod, he continues. “I thought it was just going to be us, but he was there. That’s when she told me that… that they’re…” he squeezes his eyes shut, “They’re engaged.”

Your mouth falls into a small o-shape. Everything made perfect sense now.

It’s not that Eren didn’t love his mother, quite the opposite actually. He’s a mama’s boy through and through; she’s his role model, his everything, he adores her. Her career as a designer often takes her on long business trips, most frequently as prolonged stays in Paris, so much so that she relocated her primary office there shortly after Eren graduated high school.

Now, she only visits home for one or two weeks at a time, sometimes only for the weekend. Upon her decision to permanently relocate, she planned to leave Eren under the unofficial supervision of Mikasa. Instead, Eren bought Mikasa her own three-bedroom apartment in Midtown (according to his logic, it was better for her to have her own place than to move in with Jean), and a shared two-story penthouse for the both of you that overlooks Central Park.

Eren misses her more than he cares to admit, but he puts on the same facade every time she comes home because he hates the company she brings.

Paris is where she met her newest boyfriend, Mitchell, and Eren swears he hates that man with every fiber of his being. It’s not saying much, though, not when Eren’s hated every single one of his mother’s past romantic partners, right down to his own father.

“Is… is that why you—”

“Rented a brand new Corvette and went drag racing at one in the morning?” he chuckles, “Yeah. It was stupid, I know, but I was just angry, I guess. I dunno what I was feeling, but it wasn’t good.”

You nod, wrapping both of your hands around his now and offering him a warm smile. He smiles back, just for a moment. “That’s what the tickets are for, actually. The wedding.”

“They’re getting married in France?” you question, to which he nods, “On the first? Isn’t that a little short notice to plan a wedding?”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of Carla Jaeger,” he chuckles, “Apparently, it’s been in the works for a few months now. He proposed with fireworks or some shit. Said she wanted to tell me in person, though.”

“This ticket is for next week,” you say, rereading the dates on the papers. “The wedding is three weeks from now.”

“Well, I kind of figured we could take a little vacation before then,” he grins, “I texted most of the boys earlier, and they can probably come to the wedding, but I want to spend some time with you before it gets hectic, you know? Consider it an end of the semester present.”

Your eyes flicker down to your hand, still wrapped around Eren’s, when he starts to trace circles into your skin, “I thought I just told you, you can’t jet us off to Europe to fix things.”

“You did,” he hums, “And I know I can’t—I’m not trying to, I just… Truthfully, I reserved the plane and the hotel a few weeks back and it really was just going to be a surprise for us—well, more like a gift for you because I know you’ve been busting your ass in chem—but then… everything else happened, and I think a break sounds perfect before I watch my mom get married for the sixth time.”

You watch him continue to toy with your hands for a while, processing your conversation. It was typical of Eren to surprise you like this, so you can’t figure out why this particular present leaves you feeling warmer than usual.

“You sure you don’t need a break from me?”

Eren beams and takes the opportunity to lace your fingers together. “Nah, you’re annoying, but not Jean level annoying.”

You scoff, “I’m telling him you said that.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you, anyway,” he shrugs, “Besides, I might just murder Mitchell if you’re not there with me.”

You chuckle, on the verge of accepting his proposal, but the mention of Jean prompts another thought to cross through your mind. “I’d love to, but I… I don’t know. I don’t want Armin to spend the first few weeks of winter break here all alone.”

This Christmas would mark one year since Armin had seen, or even talked to, any of his immediate family members, with the exception of Erwin.

Last year, you all tried to salvage the damage by sticking around so, at the very least, he didn’t have to feel alone. You and your friends decided that Armin ought to be celebrated, not ostracized for any aspect of himself, so you all chipped in for a cute, impromptu trip to the Catskills so that everyone could be together and close to home.

This year, however, there seemed to be quite a few conflicts of interest. Even if Armin was one of the boys who was planning on attending the wedding, you doubt he had plans leading up to it. You know that Marco, Bertholdt, Mikasa, and Jean had invited him to go to Aspen with them, but Armin declined the offer. Similarly, Connie, Sasha, Annie, Reiner, and Ymir would be off to Dubai as soon as classes ended; an invitation Armin had also turned down.

You weren’t sure what Erwin’s plans were, though you’re certain they involved his own friends in some way or another. At the very least, it was unlikely that he would leave his younger brother completely stranded over the break; but you didn’t want to make plans without knowing Armin wouldn’t be alone.

“He won’t, actually he’ll be closer than you think,” Eren reassures you, “Hange and Moblit wanted to go skiing anyways, so Erwin is taking all of them to the Alps instead of Aspen. Armin doesn’t know yet, but he’s going with them.”

“Shouldn’t Erwin spend his break campaigning, and not skiing? Last I checked, he wasn’t too popular in Queens”

“Ah, you know Erwin,” Eren shrugs, “He has a way of making people devote themselves to him. He’ll win the election with or without campaigning, trust me—the point is, that little baby Armin will be safe and sound under Erwin’s protection, and you don’t have to worry about him.”

“How come you get to call him a baby?”

“Because I’m a hypocritical asshole who doesn’t deserve you, but is hoping you’ll come with me anyway.”

Eren smirks, but there’s a genuine undertone to his words as he moves his fingers to toy with the ring around your pointer finger. The same one he gave to you two Christmases ago. Well, kind of.

The ring he originally gifted you was a Harry Winston piece, with an encrusted band that wrapped into two sunflowers, both made of classic, white diamonds with emeralds sparkling in the center. After seeing the design, and the price tag, you demanded that he take it back, or at the very least, get it sized to fit on your index finger or thumb so that people didn’t get the wrong idea.

Instead, he came back with a simple, silver chain for the original ring to hang from, and the current ring on your finger; a rose gold band with tiny diamonds studded around it. Likely equally as expensive, but more appropriate according to you.

“Fine. But you have to be on your best behavior,” you agree, paying no mind to Eren’s thumb twirling your jewelry, “Do you promise me no drag racing or antics of any sort while we’re there?”

Eren shakes his head at the memory, eyeing the first ring that sits against your chest.

He smiles. “I do.”

The afternoon after your last exam, you bid the remainder of your friends goodbye, grab your bags, and hop on a plane with Eren. It arrives in Paris, but you’re rerouted off to Nice before you can so much as blink at the Eiffel tower; you’d be staying there for the two and half weeks leading up to the wedding, in a small villa.

You had to hand it to him, Eren really outdid himself. It’s dark and nearing three in the morning when you arrive, but even in your sleepy stupor you can admire your accommodations. The villa is secluded, the perfect distance from the water, and decorated lavishly almost to your exact liking. You wouldn’t be surprised if Eren sprung it on you that he’d bought the place, and wasn’t merely renting it for this vacation.

Every day after that, Eren proves he was honest in his intentions of this being a getaway gift to you. He’s planned every activity under the sun—from hot air balloon rides, to helicopter tours, to jet-skiing. The days are certainly fun and filled with beautiful memories, but there’s something special about Nice at sunset; something about the sound of gentle waves brushing up against the beach, and the spotlights carved from sun-cast shadows on the buildings.

It’s just after dinner time, bordering on your eighth night here, when you and Eren are walking along the cobblestone streets that border the beach, the length of your sundress flowing every which way with the breeze, and the tail of Eren’s blazer flailing like a cape behind him.

He looks nice tonight, but, truthfully, he always does. He claimed he hadn’t put on the casual green suit because of your outfit, but you swear he was wearing khakis before he saw your dress. The tips of his ears go red when you tease him about it at dinner, but it doesn’t really matter to you; he would have looked good, regardless. Those suits are made for him, after all; tailored to fit perfectly, and designed by his own mother.

The streets tend to settle down after six, locals and tourists retreating indoors or heading to the beach to relax and draw in the evening. Tonight, however, there’s much more commotion than usual on your route.

“Maybe we should take the long way,” you suggest. On the tips of your toes, you realize that there’s some kind of special event happening in the square, filled with lights and music that grows louder with every step you take.

But the crowd and the lights and the smell of food only piques Eren’s interest. “No way—let’s check it out!”

You don’t have the time to refute before his long legs surpass your own stride, headfirst into the sea of people. You can only follow with a smile and a shake of your head. The soft green of his suit jacket serves as your guide as he navigates through the crowd, but the closer you get to the center, the more people there are.

You can feel palms of your hands growing uncomfortably warm as you become hyperaware of just how many people there are. You clutch the end of your dress in your hand, for both practicality and as a sort of comfort mechanism, as you try your best to calm the anxious wave threatening to crash against you.

With a deep breath, you begin to walk again, unaware of Eren’s actions until you physically walk into his hand, long fingers poking at your belly. You hadn’t realized he stopped walking, or that you’d caught up with him, and your eyebrows crinkle when you look down to see Eren’s left hand extended behind him and towards you, palm facing upwards.

He doesn’t say anything, or look back at you at all. Only wraps his larger fingers around yours when he feels the weight of your hand in his, and continues to guide you through the crowd, his pace slower, and hand firm around yours.

The mass of people becomes more spread out when you approach what appears to be the center of the event; and it looks like a party, maybe a wedding of some sort. There’s food and champagne galore, and more than enough happy guests dancing along to upbeat music in the streets.

Eren’s eyes light up as he takes in the scene, “You wanna dance?”

“What—Eren, no!” you refuse, “We cannot crash these people’s party!”

“Why not?” he counters, without a care in the world, “Seems like an open invitation to me! Come on!”

And for the second time that evening, you find yourself being pulled into his schemes; this time in the direction of the open space dubbed dance floor.

You’re both terrible and ostentatious and people start to watch, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling too wide and laughing too hard to care. Eren has a way of moving both with and against the music, forcing your body to follow his lead.

He shouts something over the noise, but you don’t have time to register his words before he laces your right hand with his left, and places his right hand on your waist. There’s a blink of confusion for a moment before you’re being swept off your feet and into a dramatic dip. You don’t have time to secure yourself against his shoulders, but Eren does a fine job of supporting you with a single arm against your back.

From what you can tell the song is far from over and the dramatic pose is completely unwarranted, but you and the crowd alike are victim to his charm. You indulge yourself, looking up at him with eyes too fond to memorize every feature of his face in this moment; the way he’s laughing with that big, dumb, wide smile of his that makes his nose crinkle and his eyes light up.

You’re too busy looking at him to hear Eren’s voice calling out to you, or even realize that he’s moved you from your pose to standing back upright. He’s equal parts amused and concerned at the glazed over look in your eyes.

“Hello? Anybody home up there?” he teases, elongating the vowels and squeezing your waist to alert you.

The reminder of his hands on your hips pulls you back to reality, your eyes fluttering down to his arms, then back to his face. It feels stuffy suddenly, too close to function.

“Yea—yeah! Do you wanna get a drink? Yeah, let’s get a drink!” you exclaim, haphazardly pointing and walking towards the food.

You don’t see it, but Eren looks on with glittering eyes, his verbal agreement heard only by himself as you veer towards the buffet. He can still feel your body in his grip, still see the specks of gold in your pupils as he lingers on the back of your silhouette lovingly. And before you can realize, he snaps himself out of it—an out of body experience similar to yours a few moments ago—before catching up with you.

You end up socializing for much longer than intended. Eren makes friends with everyone, to no surprise, and, uncharacteristically, you feel influenced by his actions, and converse with a few people yourself. You let him take the lead, though. Partially because he’s better at it, and partially because you just like listening to him speak French.

“Hey, we should probably get out of here,” he whispers into your ear after waving goodbye to a lovely couple you’d just met, “Before the host of this party realizes we’re miles better than his actual guests.”

You nod with a smile, more than happy to play by his rules for the evening. He offers you his hand again, that same, dopey smile on his face when you take it.

He leads you out of the crowd and back on to the path to your villa, the smell of warm food and sounds of vibrant music growing dull as you venture further from the celebration. It’s much darker than it was when you began your trek back from the restaurant, but beautiful all the same.

Your sandals pad against the wooden dock that leads up the villa, and Eren unlocks the door silently, ushering you inside before entering behind you.

“I know I said I wanted to leave, but I’m not really tired yet,” Eren confesses, pulling his blazer off of his shoulders.

“Me neither,” you say, placing your small wristlet on the table with a shrug, “What do you wanna do though, I’m not—”

“Great!” he cuts you off, smile too big. You narrow your own in suspicion. That tone of voice with that look on his face usually meant something mischievous, at best. “Remember when you said the first time you’d smoke would be with me, and then pranced away and took a bowl from Hange and got high as shit at Moblit’s party?”

“Why does everyone remember Moblit’s party but me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, waving the topic away, “Anyway… Do you wanna smoke now?”

You blink. “I… did you… smuggle weed all the way to France?”

“No, of course not!” he refutes, “…I got it here.”

You scoff, but don’t have the time to question him further before Eren’s tugging on your wrist and pulling you into the bedroom. You take to sitting on your bed while he rummages through his suitcase to retrieve a small, clear jar with several rolled joints inside and a lighter to match.

He shuffles next to you in the bed, mindlessly handing you the lighter while he unscrews the top off the jar. He takes out two of the joints, places one next to the jar on the nightstand, and tucks the other between his teeth. He asks you to hand him the lighter, and you do so wordlessly, distracted by the sight of Eren’s gaze and the blunt poking out his mouth.

“This’ll be fun, yeah?” He reassures you, “Technically, you let Hange take your weed virginity, but I’ll be better.”

“Can you not phrase it like that,” you roll your eyes, “You already took my virginity virginity, don’t be bitter.”

An all too smug grin settles on his features as he recounts the fact. “Besides,” you tack on, “I’ve never done it like this before. So, it’s still a first, kind of.”

Eren cups one hand around the joint, sparking the lighter with the other until it catches fire. He inhales, slow and deliberate, as if he were putting on a show, or a lesson, of sorts, taking the smoke into his lungs and out through his mouth.

You’d gravely miscalculated how attractive Eren would look doing this. Sure, he’s hot, you knew that, but the pronunciation of his jawline when he exhales, and the confidence with which he drags on the blunt is a stark reminder to you. He takes a few more hits, just as slow and sensual as the first, and the room begins to feel warmer.

“Come closer,” be beckons, smoke rolling off of his tongue with every syllable.

You snap yourself out of the haze of your imagination and scoot closer to him. He silently hands you the joint, and it feels heavy between your fingers. At the distance, you take in the smell—pungent and off-putting, but too familiar.

Eventually, you bring it to your lips, careful not to let your tongue press against the tip, and inhale slowly, like you’d seen Eren do before. You do your best to hold the smoke in your lungs for a bit, but seeing as the last time you did this you were amped up on adrenaline and drunk off your ass, the task proves to be much more difficult. It tickles before becoming uncomfortable and you exhale ungracefully, puffs of smoke punctuating your coughs.

Eren watches with a grin, amused at the sight of you fanning the excess smoke away with your nose scrunched in distaste. “You should have warned me you were gonna cough like a bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, trying to hide the hint of a smile creeping onto your face. You hand the blunt back to him, “You’re supposed to teach me, not tease me, asshole.”

Eren pauses his laughter, unsure of what to make of your tone; rushed, a bit embarrassed, but testy. It’s quiet while he stares at you, trying not to let the implication of your words run wild in his mind; but it’s futile when you’re pouting like that, the room is growing foggier, and he’s been semi-hard since you accepted his offer.

“Fine. Watch and learn,” he breathes, words coming out more jagged than he’d intended.

This time, he completely exaggerates every motion; he inhales at a tantalizing pace and flutters his eyes closed while he lets the smoke swish in his mouth, down his throat, and expand into his lungs. He cranes his neck upwards, and purses his lips to let the clouds exit in the streamline that follows the slope of his jaw.

Maybe it’s the drugs getting to you, but your mind is filled with nothing but sheer clouds that aren’t thick enough to block out thoughts of Eren. The weed is unattractive, potent in smell, and all kinds of wrong; yet, everything about him is soft, sultry, and pulls you in.

“Wanna try again, or do you need another lesson?”

You faintly mutter a profanity under your breath. His words end with giggles, a sign the drugs have already begun to take their effect on him, his expression is still smug. You forget Eren knows just how attractive he is. Motherfucker.

“Actually,” he cuts your train of thought, “I have a better idea, come ‘ere.”

Eren beckons you forward again, closing the gap between your legs so that your knees graze each other under the fabric of your clothing while you’re sat next to each other. He leans over, far too close into your personal space, as if to test something; he freezes when his nose is mere inches from your face, a dissatisfied scrunch taking over his features.

He reinstates his hold on your wrist, motioning your body backwards until your back is against the frame of the bed. He hums in approval, positioning himself next to you again, equally as close, but far more comfortable for what he has planned next.

“I’m—I’m gonna try somethin’, okay?” he stutters, the first word mistakenly coming out in broken German, “Just, don’t freak out on me. It’ll be good, promise.”

You nod, unsure of what you’ve just signed off on, but you don’t have time to ask questions. Eren takes another hit, then passes the blunt to his non-dominant hand. He turns to face you, leans forward, and places his free hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer; the expanse of his palm leaving room for his thumb to venture over the bottom half of your cheek.

Eren pulls you in until your lips are millimeters apart, and he can see the pattern of your eyes in beautiful detail. He shifts his hand now so that the majority of it covers your face, the pad of his thumb running across your bottom lip. He applies the perfect amount of pressure to pry your willing mouth open, and then, finally, exhales.

This time, you can taste it. It’s woodsy, and bitter, but the sweet undertones dance on your tongue. This time, there’s more to think about than just the smoke in your lungs; like the burn of Eren’s hand on your neck; the pressure of his thumb against your bottom lip; the proximity of his lips to yours; the look in his eyes.

“Feel good?” he doesn’t bother to pull away before asking, and the words ghost over your lips with the remaining smoke. You nod; he smiles. “Wanna try again?”

You let out a breathy note of affirmation, and then he’s inhaling and exhaling into you, and you welcome him with pried lips and a heavy thumping in your chest. The confidence with which he maneuvers his body and the drugs is nerve-wracking, yet comforting at the same time; he has an expertise and power that intimidates, but compels you to follow.

Together, you finish the first blunt, and Eren lights the second without missing a beat. His hands are more demanding this around; they guide you into submission, and he’s pleased to find that you’re willing to listen.

After the third exhale, you stop focusing on his hands, and more on his lips. After the fourth, you think you might be high—not to the stars as you infamously were during Moblit’s party—but with a comfortable, dull buzz in your head. Everything feels a little fuzzy, out of touch, but you host a burning want for something more, something tangible.

You don’t know it, but Eren feels the same.

After the fifth exhale, Eren pulls away, the blunt a simple stub as he flicks it away onto the night stand, and you miss him being too close. You miss his hands, you miss his warmth, you crave his touch.

“Eren,” you call, unable to think of or see anything but him in the haze. He answers with a strained, “Yeah?” keening towards the sound of your voice, wide eyes flitting all over your face.

It’s too much, too close, too hot. That’s when you cup his jaw, pull him forward, and meld your lips together.

Kissing Eren is painfully familiar, and unnervingly satisfying. It’s certainly not your first kiss with him; and, yet he has a way of making you feel like it is while reminding you of your history. His lips are soft, and they taste like smoke and the chapstick you swear by because he refuses to buy or test out his own.

You pull away too soon, gauging his reaction with blown-out eyes, before dipping forward to have him against you again. Then again, and again, and again, until Eren is tired of your leaving, and his hands are back on your neck.

This kiss is deeper, Eren searching to satisfy the hunger aching inside of him, and you’re happy to comply when his thumb is pressing at your lower lip again. You open your mouth for him and he doesn’t waste a moment, brushing his tongue against yours experimentally, and then flush into your mouth.

He groans when you rake your fingers into his hair, and pulls back with a hissing noise when you scratch at his nape. Large hands move to grip at your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a concentrated gaze—a brief second for him to admire the sight of you on top of him, before he resumes kissing you. He sucks on your tongue, rolls his past your teeth, and bites on your bottom lip.

You know he relishes in the sounds he elicits from you, and under any normal circumstance, you’re willing to put up a fight with him, but not now. Now, you let him unzip the back of your dress and snake his hands beneath the fabric. The rubbing motions of his hands turn into gripping, gripping into grinding, and eventually, an unfiltered moan slips past your lips when you feel Eren’s erection roll against you.

“Fuck,” he pulls back with a suck of your swollen lip, “You’re so hot.”

Eren quickly switches your positions so that he’s hovering over you. You chuckle lightly underneath him, taking the opportunity to run both your hands through his hair and cradle his head in your hold, “Haven’t done anything yet.”

“I know,” Eren murmurs, dipping his head down to press kisses into your neck, “Still so sexy. So pretty, always.”

Eren bites a hickey into your collar bone, and everywhere he can touch; your neck, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Your moaning serves as the spark to keep him going, but he’s barely coherent himself the way you keep pulling at his hair and grinding yourself against him. Even through his clothes, you can feel how painfully hard he is.

He barely catches your tongue between his lips when you moan again, sucking harshly before bruising his lips over yours again. His hands are grabby again, finally pulling your dress completely off of your body, leaving it to form a puddle on the ground. They’re back on your as soon as possible, massaging over your tits, and running his index finger over your nipples.

“Eren... Eren, please,” you whimper, chest heaving as you look down at him. He rolls his index finger over your right nipple, with his left hand teasing the other with his thumb. You can’t tell if the look in his eyes is a product of the weed, or just his glassy, borderline predatory stare, but it makes you shiver with pleasure when he wraps his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

“I want you.”

“Want you, too,” Eren hums, pulling back with a thin trail of spit from your breast, before moving to give your left nipple the same treatment, “More than you know.”

You keen to him when he teases his teeth against you, finally having had enough you force him off of you with a tug of his hair. “Then take off your clothes.”

Eren blinks, wide-eyed but glazed all the same. He chuckles lightly, a blush spreading over his cheeks as he nods. He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, forgoing undoing the buttons, and pauses briefly with his hands over the zipper of his pants.

“Please tell me you’re not that gone that you forgot how to undo your zipper,” you tease him, chest still heaving from his previous ministrations. Eren smiles, doe-eyed and hazy, and shakes his head.

“No,” he reassures you, finally undoing his zipper and shimmying his pants off his legs, “Was trying to remember what underwear I was wearing. Didn't want it to be embarrassing.”

His honesty makes you laugh, and Eren pauses for a moment to soak it in. Even like this, even with him stumbling over the steps to undress himself, and you almost completely naked in front of him, he can make you smile. There’s something equally sexy and endearing about your giggles; a juxtaposition that makes him want to hug you or kiss you or something in between. And you—you like the look in his eyes even through your giggling; the way he smiles back and blushes and tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “Don’t think mine are particularly sexy either.”

Eren hums, shuffling back on to the bed so that he’s between your legs, and leans forward to kiss you again. He still can’t seem to keep his hands off of you, his fingers immediately flying to your underwear and peeling them off your legs, pulling you closer despite the lack of space between your bodies.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter,” Eren echos, tossing the offending item to the side, before cupping your face in his hands, “I’d still wanna fuck you in your granny panties.”

“You wanna fuck me?” you question, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

“Yeah, I do,” Eren can’t help but to smile again, happy and high and drunk on you, too, “Will you let me?”

Your feverish nodding is all it takes for Eren’s mind to go hazy again; clouded with you, you, you. You pull him into a kiss, arching your body into his, and running your hands down the sides of his back. He moans at the feeling, punishing you by nipping at your lower lip and pressing your stomach back to the mattress with his palm.

Your eyes meet his as Eren lines himself up with your cunt, teasing your folds with the head; but it doesn’t take long before he finally pushes in, sheathing himself inside you completely without movement. He waits a minute, whether it’s to make you comfortable, or to gather his own bearings, you’re not sure; but when he’s ready, he flashes you a smile and waits for one in return, before he starts thrusting.

You know Eren’s not gentle; rough whether or not he intends to be by virtue of his size in comparison to you, but you seem to have forgotten just how capable he is of making you lose your senses. He has you gasping, grasping at him at him unintelligibly, feeling full with his cock inside of you.

Eren groans, borderline growls, when he feels you clench around him, when he sees you shaking beneath him. He could do this all; could watch you all day.

“So pretty, the prettiest. Prettiest girl, my favorite girl,” Eren praises, eyes raking up and down your thrashing body, “My favorite fucking girl.”

“You—you, too.”

“Yeah? I’m your favorite, too?” Eren coos, reaching out to guide your arms over your head, the force of his body pinning your hands down; you can hardly gasp before he lacess your fingers together, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Promised you, didn’t I? That I’d be good to you, be on my best behavior,” Eren reminds you, leaning forward.

He eyes your necklace—eyes glued to ring around it—bouncing with your body. He bends his head down to kiss it, bites at the skin near it; a possessive streak overcoming him as the diamonds shine against you. “I said I’d treat you good, always. Meant it.”

He stutters, when you squeeze him back; fingers tightening around his hold, your pussy clenching around his cock. Your whining is insistent, and mixes with Eren’s low moans and guttural noises. Eren doesn’t let up his pace, fucking you fast and deep, and it’s only a matter of time before you feel a knot twisting in your belly.

You attempt to move your arms, searching for a release of the feeling building up inside of you but Eren is strong; stronger than you, and he keeps you in your place. Keeps your arms pinned above you, keeps his palms pressed into yours, keeps his lips hovering above yours, just out of reach.

“Eren,” you call his name through shaky moans.

“Yeah? What, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, his lips needy and hungry over yours. Eren fucks you and kisses you through your orgasm, tasting your moans on his tongue in timing with him cumming inside of you. You don’t let up; kissing him lewdly while you both come down from your highs.

“So good,” Eren croons against your lips, down your jaw, into your skin, “So good for me.”

You both moan in chorus when he finally pulls out, Eren’s head laying on your collar, nose nuzzling into your neck. He lets your hands free, and immediately you wrap them around his back, holding him close as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, with Eren on top of you, and your thumb rubbing circles into his cheek while he sleeps soundly. Maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less; but the euphoria of your sex doesn’t quiet seem to fade.

It might last all night, maybe even for the rest of your trip but you don’t mind. You think back to earlier in the evening, when you’d caught his gaze after your dance. The feeling isn’t all that different; warm, and fuzzy, and too much and not enough all at once. It feels good, it feels like Eren.

You hum softly to yourself, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy on your chest, when you realize exactly what these two moments have in common: a rare event in which Eren is still in front of you, steady and stagnant, no running or chasing; and you don’t want to let him go.

Sometimes Eren thinks you act oblivious on purpose just to fuck with him, because there’s absolutely no way you—or any human with a functioning nervous system and social cues—can’t tell that he’s completely, stupidly, and embarrassingly in love with you.

Long gone are his days of trying to deny it or get over it. He realized that sophomore year of high school—almost eight years ago—that no matter where he went, what kind of drug he inhaled, or how hard he tried, you’d be permanently etched into his heart. That doesn’t make it any less exhausting, and, in fact, only makes it more astounding that you haven’t caught on yet. Honestly, Eren’s considered hiring a private psychiatrist just to make nothing’s wrong with you.

Amazingly, the remainder of your vacation continues just like the former half. The only exception being that now you’re in Paris. And that he’s shamelessly coerced you into letting him fuck your brains out on several occasions. But besides that, everything’s chill.

Just two best friends traveling through France together and stopping to fuck in any semi-private location they can find. Just two peas in a pod walking along the Champs Elysées at damn near midnight. Just two best buds with linked arms tasting (see: feeding each other) every macaron flavor they come across while violinists play stupidly romantic, classical music in the background.

He knows he should probably talk to you about it, but for some reason he can’t. Like telling you would make it all too real, and give it a meaning that could so easily be taken away from him; give you a reason to want to leave him. Right now, it’s just a fantasy, and he’s free to keep dreaming, believing that he’s special and worth enough for the affection you’ve shown him.

He doesn’t want to be one in a list of your boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands; he wants to be your only one, and if he can’t be, then he’d rather be stuck to your side as your best friend. At least that way, in someway, he could remain special to you; not a forgotten, ordinary ex of your past.

Though, a best friend who he’s sleeping with regularly and he’s in love with and will always be in love with is starting to sound a lot like a husband to him. At least, the kind of husband he would like to be to you.

You call his name, asking him if he wants to try another sweet. Eren rolls his eyes. What he wants is to fuck you, and marry you, and have you bless his stupid little existence with two runts for kids that look like him but act like you so his life savings don’t run out by the time they’re twelve. But sure, he’ll settle for having you feed him another macaron in the meantime.

“This one tastes just like the coconut one,” he mumbles, chewing his way through the pastry you’d stuffed into his mouth whole.

It’s the seventh bakery you’ve stopped at tonight, and even though Eren’s growing pretty sick of the sugary treats, he’ll walk with you to every damn bakery in Paris tonight if that’s what you want.

He blinks at the thought. He’s so lovesick it’s disgusting. And he wouldn’t do a damn thing to change it.

“That’s probably because it’s almond and coconut flavored,” you say, wiping the stickiness from your fingers onto a napkin.

“I didn’t taste any almonds.”

“I don’t even think you could spell almond, much less tell me what they taste like.”

Eren simply pouts in refute, leaving you giggling at his expression. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, but you seem even prettier in Paris than in Nice. But, that’s probably his rose-colored glasses speaking.

“You think there’ll be macarons at the reception?” you question, biting into yet another pistachio flavored treat, “And if not, would it be rude to bring my own?”

He chuckles. “Yes, babe, I’m sure there will be macarons there.”

He’s always loved Paris, even when his mom moved away here and left him in New York, and he’d always loved it more when you’re with him. He feared that having to attend another, what he considered to be wasteful, wedding in arguably one of his favorite places in the world would leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but, thankfully, he’s only fallen deeper in love since being here.

“You sure you won’t be sick of them by tomorrow?” he asks, watching you debate between taste testing another variation of vanilla bean or rosé.

“How could I get sick of them?” you answer offhandedly, not sparing him a glance away as you choose the pink snack. How could he get sick of you.

“By the time we get back to New York you’ll have forgotten all about them,” he scoffs.

“Don’t worry I’ll quit it soon. I’ll have to eat something solid if I wanna take my meds and go to bed,” you spew with a smile, unaware of what you’ve actually just said, “But they are delicious and I have no regrets.”

Eren pauses. Then so do you, mouth stuffed with sickly sweet.

“I mean—”

“I know, you know,” he cuts you off, “About the meds and stuff.”

You look like you could pass out, or scream, or cry, or everything in between. Eren figures saying more is better than saying less, so he continues.

“I saw a bottle in the bathroom a few months ago,” he admits shyly, but careful about his tone, “Didn’t understand half the words on the label, but it had your name on it so I just, uh… Googled it.”

Of course he knows. Eren’s always kind of known, just never had the words to express it. He imagines that’s what you’re feeling right now.

“Oh,” you finally gape, “Why didn’t you, um… you know, like, say… anything?”

“It seemed like your secret to tell,” Eren shrugs, features softening out, “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

Eren’s always been better at showing than saying, anyway. He hopes that his actions, small as they may seem, might have provided you with any sort of comfort in the past few months. Maybe even before that, too.

“Oh,” you repeat, continually blinking at him, “That’s… that’s it? You’re cool with it?”

Now it’s Eren’s turn to blink. “What do you mean am I cool with it? They’re your meds.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re not mad I didn’t tell—”

“Of course I’m not mad,” he cuts you off with a soft smile, “It’s not really my business. I mean, like, you’re my business because I care about you, but you have your own private stuff, too, which is cool. Besides, when I was, uh, researching it, I learned that it can be hard to tell people stuff like that even if—”

Eren shuts up when he feels your weight against him and your arms wrapped around him. Shell shocked, he takes a moment to hug you back, and slowly comes to rest his chin atop your head after leaving a flurry of kisses.

“You didn’t have to look it up or do any kind of research, you know,” you mumble softly into his jacket. Eren borderline chortles, but only hugs you more tightly.

“Of course I did. If not for you, then for myself, because I meant it when I said I’d never seen half the words on the prescription before in my life,” he replies, heart glowing at the sound of your small chuckles.

He’s expecting an equally witty response, but you surprise him when you pull back just enough to face him, a hazy smile on your face. “You’re amazing, Eren.”

Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush—fucking idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he boasts, leaning back into the coolest pose he could muster up while ignoring the growing heat creeping up his neck. It’s all in vain as you reach over to playfully tug at one of his ears.

He thinks you’re pretty like this. All the time, but most notably when he has you in his arms. So pretty, that he has to lean forward to kiss you; you don’t seem to mind, if the way you smile into the kiss is any indication of your feelings. Eren finds himself mirroring your grin; moving his arms from around your waist to the sides of your face.

The workers in this poor little café probably hate the two of you, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s got his favorite girl in his arms right now, and you taste like almonds and coconuts and like the love of his life.

And he should tell you. Eren wants to tell you, and he finds himself wondering if those same intrusive, fearful thoughts were part of the driving force behind your own reason to keep your secrets from him.

You pull away from him, hands lightly draped around his neck, and you smile like you’re shy—like he hasn’t known you your whole life. Still, Eren finds himself smiling back; and thinks that if you were brave enough to tell him how you were feeling, then he should do the same.

“(_____), I… I gotta tell you something,” he starts, voice soft as his fingers curl around your waist a little more tightly, “Though, I’m kind of hoping you already know.”

You blink at him, almost innocently. Eren bites the inside of his jaw; you’re going to have to stop doing that before he jumps you again.

Better now than never, he supposes. He tries to shake his nerves when he takes your hands in his, completely covering them with his palms, and closes his eyes. Despite that, you try to offer him comfort, squeezing his fingers as best you can; and Eren takes that moment to thank his lucky stars for whoever decided to put you in his life. Because he knows that no matter what, even if he royally fucks this up, you’ll find some way to be there for him.

He slowly blinks his eyes open again, gaze resting on the ring around your neck. A faded chuckle escapes his lips when looks at it. The only one who got the wrong idea about his gift was you. But, he supposes that’s his fault; he never did explain it, after all.

“It’s nothing… It’s just that, I’m in—”

But Eren’s startled by a voice that makes him freeze. He almost wants to believe he misheard it, but he can hear the telltale clacking of vintage heels on the floor of the bakery and he knows that he didn’t mishear a thing.

Eren turns his head, and sure enough, there is his mother, in all her five foot glory, adorned in designer clothing from her beret to her shoes. With a fucking street urchin on her arm.

“Well, well, well, what a lovely surprise,” Carla beams, red lipstick perfectly in place even after a long day of wear.

Eren’s eyebrows draw together, as he takes in his mother and her fiancé standing in front of him. He can just barely register you calling out towards her, carefully maneuvering yourself off of his lap, and into the neighboring chair; but still keeping your right hand wrapped around his left. He can feel you squeeze it—whether to give him comfort, or warning, he’s not sure yet; probably both.

“It’s so good to see you!” you beam, excitedly offering her and Mitchell a seat across from the two of you at the table. Eren opens his mouth to refute, but you squeeze his hand again; a warning.

Carla leans forward to encase you in a hug, exchanging cheek kisses, and leaving Eren to stare at the street rat across from him. Mitchell seems to know better than to make eye contact with him, irises scattering from Carla’s back to the décor of the bakery while the two girls catch up.

“We missed you at the rehearsal dinner on Sunday,” Carla recounts, eyes fluttering to Eren’s briefly. One look into her son’s eyes, and she understands why; one look into his mother’s eyes, and Eren knows she has him all figured out. “I was worried you might not show at all.”

Eren strategically averts your gaze when you turn your head towards him, choosing to look at his mother instead.

“I didn’t even know there was a rehearsal dinner,” you tell her, tone polite, but Eren can hear the clear jab directed towards him, “I’m sorry, I—we would have gone, otherwise.”

“No need to apologize, darling,” Carla smiles, “I’m sure you two were very busy.”

“We were,” Eren cuts in, words definite. He sees a hint of surprise flash in his mother’s eyes briefly, expertly covered up with her sweet demeanor. She only nods in understanding, sitting back a bit to wrap her arm around Mitchell’s.

“What are you even doing here, Ma?” Eren questions, even as you do the same with his hands under the table, “Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“After the third or fourth wedding, you grow tired of pleasantries and superstitions, my love,” she replies, “This place makes Mitchell’s favorite macarons, we thought we’d share a few before the big day. Maybe get some tea as a pre-celebration.”

The topic of sweets has you speaking up once again, engaging both his mother and Mitchell in a discussion about them, and your other findings from bakery hopping earlier. If Eren didn’t love you to pieces, he would have left the table a long time ago.

It carries on much longer than he can bear to endure; almost an hour of you, and his mother, and Mitchell making pleasant conversation while he tries his best not to brood beside you, but it’s futile. He feels like a little kid again. Stuck at the dinner table with his mother and a man he was being forced to get to know, only for him to become a stranger to him in a matter of months.

Eren grinds his teeth into each other when you laugh at something Mitchell says. He’s not going to sit through his any longer; or ever again.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eren says, voice blatantly monotonous as his cuts through the conversation, “But we should all probably head back go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Eren, we should—” but, he stands up quickly, hand wrapping around yours to force you upwards too.

He doesn’t care to look at you, knowing the dissatisfied expression he’ll be met with. He fishes for his wallet and pulls out too many Euros, neatly tucking them under an unused knife to pay for the meal.

Eren’s steps out from between his chair and the table. “We’ll see you guys tomorr—” But is stopped before he can take three steps away.

His mother’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She stands, significantly shorter than Eren’s full height. “Actually, Eren, could I borrow you for a bit?”

And he doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly the conversation waiting for him. But he looks down at her, lets his eyes flicker to you, and back to her, and he knows he doesn’t have the heart to walk away. Not even if he tried.

He sighs with a shallow nod. He can feel your hand on his shoulder, the proud smile on your lips when you tell him that you’ll meet him back at your hotel. Mitchell ensures him and Carla that he’ll make sure you get back safely, and Eren still can’t stand the guy, but he’s grateful that he can at least be of use for something.

Eren kisses you on the forehead briefly, a promise to you and himself that he’ll finish his confession later. After all, he probably should come to terms with the woman who taught him what love is before he vowed to love you for the rest of his life.

The walk to his mother’s hotel is silent, Eren choosing to keep to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent his mom from holding them. He’s probably acting like a child, but isn’t that what he is to her; isn’t that she treats him as.

“Look, Ma, you don’t need my approval to marry him,” Eren grumbles, when they finally exit the elevator into the hotel room, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Carla offers him a small grin, even if he won’t look at her directly, “But it matters to me.”

“Why does it matter now? It didn’t matter with Keith, or Henry, or Henri with an I, or any of the others,” Eren mumbles, reluctantly taking a seat on the stool opposite the vanity.

His mother tracks his movements with soft eyes and an amused grin as Eren absentmindedly bends a knee and begins to fiddle with the hem of his pants. Just like he used to when he was upset as a child.

“It mattered then, too, Eren,” she tells him, sitting on the stool and facing him.

He’s surprised by her words, his wide eyes giving him away even if he attempts to act unfazed. “It didn’t seem like it.”

Carla opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, words stuck in her throat. She watches Eren’s hunched figure, her tall son not even bothering to look her in the eyes. She exhales slowly; if he were five feet smaller, he’d have tucked himself under her arm, still refusing to look at her, but he’d have snuggled his head into her side while he pouted anyway.

“I suppose it didn’t,” she admits, “In the end, the love wasn’t enough to make it last, then.”

Eren is quiet for a bit at that, pulling at his pants leg. “And… and you love him enough, now?”

“It’s more than love, Eren. It’s... happiness—for yourself and another person—it’s being okay with somebody knowing you now, and forever. Whichever version of you that is.”

“Then why did you marry them before?” Eren asks, “If you knew it wasn’t enough, if you knew it was just going to end up as another big mistake.”

“Maybe the marriages were a mistake, and some of what came with them, but I don’t think the feelings were,” Carla muses, “Love is never wasted.”

“How can you say that?” Eren questions, disbelief and exasperation painted on his face, “Of course it is—you wasted your time, and your money, and your—your everything on those people who couldn’t care less about you now!”

“Eren—”

“You let them into our house,” Eren speaks over her, “You let them into your life, and they left. They always left—”

“Eren—”

“—And you even let some of them come back! Everyone, you let everyone have another chance, another anniversary, another wedding,” He’s ranting, crying, hot, irrational tears streaming down his face; hiccups interrupting his speech, “So—so, so if it’s not wasted and everyone gets another chance and another chance and another chance—why didn’t he come back, huh? For his?”

Eren’s standing now, arms flailing every which way during his breakdown, but his mother doesn’t try to stop him. She lets him continue, hears him out.

“If it’s love—if it’s not wasted, and it’s real—then why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t he want to? Why—why didn’t he want me? Why did I end up the bastard?”

Eren looks his mother in the eyes for the first time in the duration of their conversation with that final question; with his vision blurry, and chest heaving, and cheeks wet. Carla has no words to say; can only carefully open her arms, and wait for her son to come crashing into them. And he does; and it rains and pours, and Eren holds onto his mother for dear life, and onto the pieces of her breaking heart.

“Am I not good enough to have that kind of love?” Eren asks through tears, “Am I not special enough to want to know?”

“Eren,” she finally speaks, moving to cradle his head in her hands, “You don’t have to be special or good, to be known or loved. It’s enough that you were born. That’s enough to make you deserving of love.”

She doesn’t mind the tears against her palms or the hiccups of Eren’s breathing, “And you already have it.”

And Eren looks at her with eyes wide and wild like a child, staring at the first person to have ever loved someone as messed up, and plain, and ordinary as him; and he can feel more tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Ma, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, chin resting on her shoulder while his shake through his tears, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Carla hugs her son as close as she can, like he’s five years old and the apple of her eye and she can take all his pain away. “You don’t have to be. You’re my son, and I’ll love you always.”

It feels like they have all the time in the world like that, to hug and cry and apologize; but Carla hopes Eren knows that he was always forgiven; that he never had anything to apologize for in the first place.

“She loves you, too, baby,” she coos, holding Eren as tight as possible, “But you have to let her know that. That you accept it.”

“Do you think she knows?” Eren asks, words muffled into the fabric of her clothing, “That I love her, too?”

“I do,” Carla confirms, pulling away to look at Eren in the eyes; his beautiful, shining, green eyes, “But I don’t think that either of you really realized it. I mean, you did give her an engagement ring, darling.”

Eren huffs at the memory, “She thought it was a gift.”

“Because you gave it to her as a gift.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Love has a way of making people blind,” Carla muses, “Especially two lovesick semi-adults with too much money on their hands.”

Eren’s cheeks grow pink at the accusation, “It’s your money!”

“Yes, and I’m very happy to have it,” Carla chuckles, motioning for Eren to stand up. He does, and she looks up at him with glimmering, proud eyes. “Now, go, shoo. You have a girl to propose to, don’t you? There might be two Jaeger weddings this weekend.”

Eren nods, certain of himself for the first time in a while. He turns on his heel with a vigor igniting his footsteps, but pauses when he reaches the elevator. He makes a sharp turn, running back to his mom one last time, and squeezing her suddenly, and tightly against him.

“I love you, mom,” he says; the words too foreign on his tongue, and he vows to not let them be a stranger to his vocabulary from here on out.

“I love, you, too, Eren,” Carla calmly wraps her arms around her son one last time, “And I always will.”

You half-expected your walk back to your hotel with Mitchell to be painfully awkward, but he proves to be a pleasant conversationalist, even in Carla’s absence.

You know that Eren isn’t fond of him, but you wish that he would at least give him a chance. There’s no way to know if a marriage—if any relationship—will last forever, but, sometimes, you think it’s not about knowing about forever; but, rather about wanting it to make it there; about willing to go the distance with that person.

You can see that want, that willingness that works alongside love in Mitchell and Carla’s relationship, that stands out from her past marriages. You get the feeling they’re going to last; and that, most importantly, they both want it to, too.

It’s quiet out as you both walk the streets of Paris, Mitchell taking the time to point out small notes in architecture that interest you. You readjust your jacket as a gust of wind washes over you, careful to make sure your necklace doesn’t snag against your clothing.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” he calls to you gently.

“Thank you,” Surprised, you quickly let out an embarrassed cough, looking down to your left hand resting atop the uppermost button on your coat. “It was a gift.”

“I meant that one,” Mitchell corrects, carefully gesturing to his own neck to indicate that he was talking about the ring on your necklace, and not the one on your finger.

“Oh, thank you,” you repeat, “That one was actually a gift, too.”

The older man hums, continuing your walk to your hotel. “Must have been one hell of a gift. I don’t know many people who give out engagement rings as presents.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it wasn’t—it’s not an engagement ring,” you tell him, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks even in the chilly atmosphere of the night, “Eren gave it to me, actually, a few years ago—it was a Christmas gift.”

“Eren, huh?” Mitchell smiles fondly, “That makes sense. Carla tells me how much he cares about you.”

“You—she does?” you stutter. Mitchell nods. “I—I mean, I care about him, too.”

“Enough to accept an engagement ring from him, it seems,” Mitchell taunts, “I’m no specialist, but I know a Harry Winston piece when I see it. They’re not cheap.”

“Trust me, I know,” you scoff, “I almost killed him when I saw how much he spent on it.”

“And you took it, anyway?”

“Well, he—he was supposed to return it,” you defend yourself, “Because I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea! But he just, well, he gave me the other one instead, so I wear that one on my hand.”

Mitchell pauses, just as you both stand to the entrance of your hotel. “And what was the wrong idea you didn’t want people getting.”

“That... that...,” you pause, thinking back to that Christmas day.

Even though Eren is known for spending ludacris amounts of money, the ring came as a genuine surprise to you. A couple thousand on shoes, sure—you’re victim to that yourself; a couple hundred thousand on a lavish vacation wasn’t out of the ordinary, either; but a million, maybe even more, on a ring that you could have only ever asked of him in your dreams was another thing completely.

And, sure, even a few million didn’t mean much to you or Eren at the end of the day, but it wasn’t just the price; it was the object of the money, too. To accept a house, or a car, or a jet for that amount is something you could rationalize; but a ring seemed foreign, and far out of your league.

Then there was the display and value it held beyond money. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, but more than that, it’s tailored to your exact liking. The synthesis of your aesthetic and everything you could ask for, garnished with the memory of Eren in the very design; the diamonds you love, the flowers that remind him of you, and the way they stems wrap around each other and the petals meet in the middle.

A small gasp leaves your lips and instinctively, you reach to clutch the ring in your hold. There was no way this was an engagement ring... Eren hadn’t proposed to you when he gave it to you—in fact, he was so casual about it, that it had you stunned that he hadn’t thought to consider that other people might think it meant something more than what he intended it to be.

But, looking back, it seems like you’re the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Because Eren told you, even then, that he’d wanted you forever; you didn’t know how to hear him. It was all right there—not just in the ring, but in all his gifts, in the entirety of your friendship.

Eren loves you, more than you could ever know.

“It’s an engagement ring,” you say aloud, but more to yourself than to Mitchell, “Oh my god, it’s an engagement ring.”

Mitchell can’t do anything but smile at your revelation. You’re practically bouncing off the walls, connecting the puzzle pieces of your relationship in the middle of the street at damn near midnight, but you don’t care; because it finally feels right, and it finally, finally all makes sense.

“He, but he never pro—oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill him.”

You feel elated and confused and happy and murderous all at once. Eren wanted to marry you; Eren loved you. He wants you for the rest of his life, and you’ve been too blind to see it this entire time.

Still, you think that maybe a verbal proposal might have helped to open your eyes a bit.

“Mitchell, I have to—”

You’re cut off by the echo of your name coming from the opposite end of the street, and you can just barely make out of Eren’s figure in the faded lights of the street lamps. His name falls from your lips like a whisper, and you hardly register Mitchell’s amused, soft laughter from beside you.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, patting you on the shoulder, “I better get back to Carla. Something tells me you two have a bit to talk about.”

You can barely nod at him, eye still wide and stunned, but a smile on your face even in your fearful anticipation. You don’t have time to thank him before he turns away, bidding you goodnight; and then you have something else to focus on, as Eren’s footsteps grow louder, and his silhouette grows sharper the closer he gets to you.

He practically crashes into you, chest heaving, hair wind-swept and wild from his running. He puts his hands on your shoulders, to steady himself physically and mentally, labored breaths ghosting over the top of your head.

“Hi,” he finally squeaks; and that stupid, big, dopey grin is on his face.

It’s ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that you can’t help but greet him back. The two of you stand there, smiling like fools for god knows how long, before the realization strikes you for a second time.

Eren opens his mouth to finally speak, but a pained squeal leaves his lips instead as he feels the back of your hand slap his chest. “Ouch—hey, what was that for!”

“What the hell do you think you were doing proposing to me without telling me?” you screech, packing another punch to his chest for good measure, but it’s a poor barrier and does nothing to stop your tears from falling, “You’re an idiot, I should kill you for this, you know that, Eren Jaeger?”

Eren laughs softly, only to be heard by you in close proximity. He takes your offending hand in his, and reaches for your other, pulling both of them between your bodies. He can feel tears welling in his own eyes, as he looks down at the necklace, glimmering perfectly under the moonlight.  

“In my defense, the first thing you told me to do when I gave it to you was to return it.”

“I might not have said that if you told me what it meant,” you can hardly choke out a laugh through your tears; and Eren can’t stop his from falling either, “It’s insane, you know. This whole thing—to ask me to marry you at 19. For me to not realize until we’re 21.”

“I know,” Eren agrees, inching closer even though there’s barely any room between you, “I know. But I know I love you, every version of you. I always have, I always will.”

You close your eyes as Eren’s hands move to your face, gingerly sweeping your tears away from your cheeks. He feels too close, it feels like too much; but you don’t want him to move.

“You know... if you had asked me, then,” you start, blinking your eyes open with a sniffle; you’re met with Eren’s emerald greens one with far too much hope and love glimmering in them, “I—I don’t even know what I would have said.”

“And if I asked you now?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, slowly raising your hands to wrap around Eren’s wrist, and lower them to your neck, before looking at him again, “Ask me.”

Eren blinks, carefully trailing his hands up and around your neck, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your necklace. He hardly lets the chain pool into his hand before it’s tossed aside, and the ring is still between his thumbs and index fingers as he lowers himself on to one knee.

“You are the love of my life, and there’s not a single version of life—a single version of you, or me—where I don’t want to be with you forever,” Eren says, “And you know how shit I am with my words, but I fucking mean it. I swear to you, that I’ll do my best every day to show you how much you mean to me; marry me, and I’ll prove it to you, I swear, I will.”  

Your lips are wobbling at Eren’s confession below you, and you can just barely beckon him upwards in your state. He’s hardly back on two feet before you’re pulling him against you, ghosting the word “yes” on his lips before you kiss him.

You both melt into the kiss, Eren’s hands skillfully cupping your cheeks, while he keeps the ring in his hold and bruises your lips together.

“You don’t have to prove it to me, Eren,” you assure him, hand shaking when you pull apart and let him slip the ring onto your finger—where it belongs, “You already have.”

For his first birthday as a married man, Eren requested something intimate. He wanted just a small celebration with all of your mutual friends, some good food, alcohol, and lots of fun.

Supposedly simple and intimate for him entailed renting out the top floor of the Whitney, which was currently encasing an exhibit portraying some kind of abstract modern art that allowed for a very drunk Eren and Armin have to entertain themselves by trying their best to recreate the paintings using very flawed couples aerial yoga.

The art, paired with the dimmed lighting, Jean’s choice selection of overtly sexual music, and Eren’s pick of overpriced champagne also meant that Marco, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha found everything ten times funnier than they were—which meant they were a million times louder than usual.

Jean stands next to you by the bar, watching as Eren attempts to hold Armin above his head by holding on to just his waist. They’re unsuccessful, of course, resulting in both boys toppling onto the ground as the majority of their older friends laugh along.

“Lucky me, I get to take him home at the end of the night,” you drawl, turning to the bartender to order another drink.

She smiles, easily preparing your martini and sliding it you with an inquiry. “That’s your boyfriend? The tall one with the brown hair?”

“No,” you sigh, eyes closed for a moment before taking the glass between your fingers. “That’s my husband, unfortunately.”

× even more notes: this fic. is my baby. it’s been a draft of mine for over two years at this point. it’s gone through various fandoms but i’ve never quite been able to complete and post it, so i’m very happy that it’s finally here! i hope you all enjoyed, and i just wanted to say that i’m glad to finally have been able to share this with you all!