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rogueshadeaux · 1 year

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Chapter Two - False Hopes

He was immediately recognizable; one of the two dudes that were window shopping, in an Adiad tracksuit that seemed way too thin for the middle of winter. He had black hair, a scar running along his forehead, and a fucking gun in his hand.

4k Words | 13 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: guns, assault.

Getting home was an event in itself, Dad taking unnecessary loops through neighborhoods and avoiding main roads as we left Portland in our wake, headed home. Home was Chapman, on a 5 acre lot hidden behind some comfortable, unclaimed woods. The only sign anyone lived at all on this road was our mailbox, bricked in after an accident involving a moped and a wild turkey. Our gravel driveway jerked the truck around, making me drop my phone as I browsed Reddit and causing Brent’s head to smack rather hard against the window he was napping on. “Wakey wakey,” I joked as he groaned, massaging his temple.

He tried to punch my leg in retaliation.

Dad shook his head in the driver’s seat, chuckling to himself as he said, “Alrighty, kids, school night, so I want you both to start headed to bed when we get in there, okay?”

“Thought we didn’t have to listen to you anymore?” I teased.

Dad rolled his eyes, meeting mine in the rear view mirror. “You’ve got a month till then, ma’am. And I’m still gonna make you two sleep at a decent time after that. I’ll turn off the Wi-Fi,” he threatened.

“You monster.”

Sleep, though, was hard that night. My mind just couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. The brick. The bomb. Was the world really that full of hate? These Conduits couldn’t help what they were. Who they were. Just like people couldn’t control skin tone, or height or something.

But those protestors…that was hate. Enough hate to get someone charged with destruction of property. Enough for them to not care that there were kids.

Enough to threaten to kill my Dad.

Losing him…that was one of my biggest fears. It was hard enough, growing up without Mom there. We had no remaining family; grandparents, uncles, all gone before we were even thoughts in Mom and Dad’s relationship. If we lost Dad, that’d be it. I’d only have Brent.

The thought terrifies me.

Thankfully, though, he was there as we woke early the next morning, pulling a waffle from our waffle iron when I stumbled into the kitchen, yawning and in the middle of a French braid. “Good morning my dear Jeanie!” He chirped.

“Dad, please. It’s 6 am.” I groaned. “Why are you happy?”

“Because, my dear. My love. My shining star,” he exaggerated, pirouetting with the plate high above his head and spinning towards me. “I get to see you two off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He offered the plate to me. “Sounds terrible,” I teased, taking it. “But if it comes with breakfast every day, then sure.”

“I knew you only loved me for my cooking.”

“Dad, you can barely cook.”

Brent was next in the room, immediately bolting for the coffee pot and starting the brew. That was his job; coffee making. Didn’t know how, but he could make a delicious, albeit strong, cup of joe. Plus I don’t think either of us were going to function today without it; winter exams were in full swing, and being Seniors, they carried so much more weight. Especially with FAFSA looming in the new year, and college applications due just as soon.

I finished plaiting my braid, letting it fall to my back as I absolutely smothered the food in syrup. Maybe these waffles held the secrets to memorizing pre-cal. Lord knew I needed it.

Brent plopped beside me with his own stack of waffles, skipping the syrup and just digging straight in like a heathen. “I was also thinking,” Dad paused, pouring more batter into the iron and closing it, “That this will be the first Christmas break I’m off. Ever. I haven’t bought you two presents yet, so what would you say to a vacation?”

I couldn’t say anything at all. Brent, however, elected to choke on his waffle.

“Vacation?” I finally worked out, my eagerness barely audible over Brent’s coughs. We haven’t been on vacation since 8th grade, when Dad took us to Disneyland out in Cali. It’s just been too crazy for all of us; Brent was caught up in sports, I had started my art portfolio and gymnastics. Dad began his activism around that time too.

And after a hellish time like exam season, I was ready for a getaway.

“Yep!” Dad said, filling a glass with water and passing it to Brent. “Not sure where. But I can do my work from a hotel just as easy as from the den. Figured you two are old enough to tell me where you want to go. I will say,” he opened the waffle iron, “This may count as your birthday gift too — I’ll still get you both something small, sure, but everything would go to a vacay.”

Oh, that word sounded weird coming out of his mouth.

Brent, throat now lubricated, asked “But we get to decide?”

“Sure,” Dad shrugged. “Within reason. Not taking you two to the Red Light District in Amsterdam or anything—“

“Damn, there goes my choice,” I sighed, giggling as Dad rolled his eyes.

“And keep it local, we wont be able to update your passports in time. But you two talk it out, and tell me before break. I have so many miles from work I can easily book us cheap tickets.”

That made it so much easier to get to school.

Brent and I immediately started debating on a place when we entered the courtyard of Linus Pauling High School, finding a tree to shelter under and nurse our coffees. “MOMA? Really?” Brent scoffed. “You want to go to New York to visit an art museum?”

“Hey, I’ve heard it’s cool!” I threw my empty hand up defensively. “Besides, they’re doing a showcase of all of Delsin Rowe’s tags he left in Seattle.”

That got his attention. Delsin Rowe, the Conduit’s Abraham Lincoln. The man that stormed Seattle for a week, changed the entire landscape of the world, and then ran off never to be seen again. He was like a real life Batman, freeing people from tyranny and then disappearing into the night.

I loved his art. Brent loved the story.

But apparently, not enough to get him to consider NYC. “I can look up the pics for free,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Besides, New York City is the East Coast’s Hollywood.”

I grimaced at that. Hollywood was a part of our Cali vacation I’d love to forget, and yet be forced to forever remember.

“Yo, Brent!”

Our heads turned, looking at the group that was coming close. Tommy, Brent’s best friend, was leading the pack, arm wrapped around Theresa, my bestie. Had to admit, they were a cute couple; I just hoped it would last, because the nuke of their breakup would cause irreversible damage to our friend group. Cat followed close behind her cousin, the dinosaur hat she chose to go with today pulled down close to her skull, shielding her from the cold. Dominic lagged behind, scuffing his boots in the snow, off in another world where you’d always find him running away to. Mei was nowhere to be seen.

I didn’t miss how Brent deflated a bit beside me at that.

Nonetheless, Brent recovered, getting up to dap up Tommy, Theresa escaping his grasp and coming to sit beside me, snatching my coffee from my hands and taking a sip. “Wh-, give that back!” I laughed indignantly, swiping for my tumbler that she kept just out of reach.

“Give me back my black dress then we’ll talk,” she teased, taking another sip.

I blushed slightly, “Shit, I keep forgetting about that. Why don’t you come over and get it today?”

Tommy heard, chiming in with, “Aren’t you two grounded still?”

Brent went on to explain what happened, how Dad benevolently released us from punishment in exchange for being able to keep a close eye on us.

Explaining why he was working from home, though, was less exciting.

“You sure Lifeline left that behind?” Tommy inquired. “Y’know, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bomb-making Bioterrorist—“

“Tommy, they threw a brick at us,” I interjected before he could continue on with his bullshit. The token Devil's Advocate. Didn’t help his Grandfather was ex-DUP.

Dominic finally entered the stratosphere, repeating, “They threw a brick at you?”

It was my turn to narrate, explaining the day we had yesterday — minus all the cleaning. How Lifeliners spit at Dad, how they targeted us and didn’t even care we were still kids. Not for long, but still.

At least Tommy had the sense to look ashamed for being their advocate.

I finally got my tumbler back from Theresa, throwing back the little bit of coffee she left me and gulping hard. Coming down, my eyes caught flying hands, Cat trying to convey something getting lost in the boy’s banter.

My ASL was getting better — especially now that Linus Pauling offered sign language as an elective. But Cat, being so proficient, flew with those fingers so fast that I only caught one word: ‘safe.’ “Hey, Tommy, what’s Cat saying?” I asked, breaking up guy time.

Tommy hummed, turning to his little cousin. Cat was our designated baby, a sophomore we all guarded with our life because of her mutism. She was sweet, full of spirit, eccentric — but entirely silent. Which of course, caught her a bunch of shit with the bullies: caused some arguments from me and Theresa, with some reinforcement punches from Brent and Tommy.

“Oh, she asked if you guys will be safe? After everything,” Tommy translated, leaning over to whisper, “Remember to go a bit slower, these noobs can’t keep up,” in her ear.

I shrugged. “We should be? But…after yesterday,” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

“We will be,” Brent interjected. “Dad knows what to do,”

The bell rang, signaling for all its little livestock to mosey on to their first stop of slaughter. Meaning, for me, Pre-Cal.

Yay.

We all dispersed on promises to catch up at lunch, submitting ourselves to the torture of final exams. I wasn’t made for math. Formulas and number crunching just didn’t compute in my mind, like I was a computer using dial up. I finished my exam early, probably more a sign of my lacking knowledge than utter genius, being excused to the library by Mr. Emerson.

I found a comfortable corner to hide away in, pulling my sketchbook out of my backpack and opening to my last page; a partially done practice session of drawing realistic looking hands that, honestly, weren’t looking too realistic.

Realism wasn’t my attraction, though. I wanted to be a comic book author. Write my own stories, draw the art. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to expand my arsenal and become well versed in everything I could to grow my portfolio. Realism, abstract — hell, even did a few furry things for Cat. It all had to go towards building the life I wanted. Especially since the art school I wanted to go to, Giverny Institute of the Arts, was very competitive.

That big dream, comic books? Wasn’t gonna be easy, though. Comics died out in popularity after the Empire City Catastrophe, and haven’t really made a solid comeback since. Superheroes that were all the rave back then seemed taboo after The Beast, and were all but discontinued. Nearly every big name franchise went bankrupt save for a comic adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, and Manga — which wasn’t really my deal.

‘Course, there was also rule34, but…no. Just no.

I’d probably have to enter animation or something, which was fine. I could deal with that. It was way more secure than comics, at least. My last semester was predominantly electives, since my summer classes put me ahead of schedule, and I planned on taking every Rendering and Animation class Giverny sponsored through the school district. Maybe one day, I’d be one of the lucky ones. The type of person to beat all odds and achieve my dreams, to have a rather lucrative career as a comic artist. Maybe.

But for now, I’d have to hock away at these stupid hands. Why are hands always so hard?

I wasn’t alone for long, though, the familiar thump of heeled boots announcing another friend. “Hey Jean,” Mei greeted.

“Hey, didn’t see you this morning,” I looked up, sheepishly closing my sketchbook. Just ‘cause I wanted to be an artist didn’t mean I wanted anyone to see the work when it was still under construction.

Mei shrugged off her messenger bag, setting it on the floor and plopping beside me. “I was studying. Was going to in a minute, too. Just wanted to stop and say hi.”

“So then why did you sit down?”

“Cause I’m tired of studying.” Mei reached into her backpack, pulling out a ziplock bag. “Rice cake?”

I’ll always say yes to food.

Taking a bite out of the rice cake, I said, “Hey, by the way, thanks for talking to Dad. He ungrounded us and it’s all thanks to you, Mei-flower.”

Mei grimaced, “Oh god, I hate that you heard Sobo call me that. But, you’re welcome. It was good practice for my Debate exam, too.”

“Had nothing to do with him still wanting to rat you guys out?”

“Only partially,”

I laughed, taking another bite and exercising my bad manners by speaking with my mouth full. “Y’know, now that we’re ungrounded, maybe you and Brent could quit with the gross puppy eyes and go on a date. He’s free for the rest of the month. Rest of his life, if you’re willing.”

Mei rolled her eyes, muttering, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But there was no lying with her face that red.

“Oh please, if I have to sit through one more muttering mess of a convo—“

“Stop.” Mei giggled, accepting defeat. Sighing, she became crestfallen. “Besides, I don’t know if Brent is all that into me.”

“You’re kidding, right? Smooth talking, bad boy Brent that can’t even talk without st-st-stuttering around you?” I scoffed.

“You don’t know for sure if he likes me,”

“You’re saying you know him better than his twin?” She didn’t retort. “Just — give it a chance. Maybe winter formal? Since we can go to that now,”

That struck something in Mei. She wandered away in her mind, nibbling on her rice cake absentmindedly. “Hmm. Maybe. But that’s, what, this Friday? Would he be ready for a dance by then? He said he wasn’t going,”

“Please,” I shook my head, smiling. “You ask him out, he’s gonna demand we go to the mall today.”

“Hey so, Dad,” Brent started from the backseat of the truck after losing a round of rock-paper-scissors for shotgun. “You think we can go to the mall?”

Looking in his rear view mirror and waiting for a car to pass before he backed out, Dad cocked his head slightly. “The mall? Why—“

“Oh my God, did she ask you?” I interrupted, spinning to look at him. God, he was so pink.

No will to pretend, he simply asked, “You knew?”

“Pfft — knew? I told her to.”

“May I please be clued in, dear children?” Dad interjected. “Especially if it demands my money.”

“Mei asked Brent to the formal,” I spurted, ignoring Brent’s protests behind me. “About time too, hopefully you two will stop being so weird around each other.”

Dad now spun in place to look back at Brent. “Did she, son?” Brent nodded. “Well,” Dad shrugged, putting the truck in reverse, “You’ll need a suit, then,”

“Oh, can I have Theresa come hang out?” I begged Dad.

Brent, finally deciding to buckle in, added, “Tommy too? I wanted to get his opinion on outfits.”

Dad pulled forward, joining the terribly long queue out of the parking lot. “My God, do you guys not want to hang out with me? I’m cool. Hip, groovy, based or whatever the kids say—“

“Dad, literally no one says that,” I laughed.

But Dad, not one to miss my lack of denial, whined, “You don’t! I’m just chauffeur for you guys, aren’t I?”

“Don’t forget bank.” Brent joked.

“Hey, you want that new suit or not?” But sighing, Dad relented. “Fine. Invite them. I needed to get some new stuff since I’m working from home now, anyways.”

We were on our phones texting before he finished the sentence.

Unfortunately, that meant a 45 minute ride into the city — which easily turned into an hour and some change, with rush hour traffic. Wasn’t too bad, though; it was fun being able to see Dad immediately after school instead of waiting for him to stumble home from the office at, like, 9 PM. It did mean we were subjected to his playlist — and worse, his singing.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that bad a singer, but if I told him that, he’d sing more often. And he always got way too into it.

We were finishing up a hilarious and passionate rendition of ‘Dear Maria, Count Me In’ when we pulled into the mall parking lot. “Alright, I’m going to Office Depot. You guys message me when you’re done. And Brent?”

“Yeah?”

“Send me pics. I’m the one that has to wear those monkey suits for work every day,” Dad pulled his phone out of his back pocket, along with his wallet. “I’m gonna send you $150 — suits can be so expensive. Jeanie, do me a favor and take this,” he continued, yanking a crumpled $50 out of his wallet. “Hate carrying cash.”

Well I loved it, especially if it was free.

We separated, Dad going off to buy office supplies while Brent and I headed for the food court. “What about Miami?” Brent randomly asked.

I snorted. “What, the coke capital of America? Dad would not take us there,”

“I just really want to have a summer Christmas,” Brent sighed. “White Christmas’ get old.”

Like a lightbulb, an idea popped up in my head. “Do you think Dad would do Hawaii?”

“Hawaii?” Brent thought about it, a smile growing wide on his face with every second that passed. “That would be so cool.”

“Right?” I spun to face him, walking backwards. “Sandy beaches, good weather,”

“Probably a couple good trails,” Brent added. “I could try surfing again,”

“Volcanoes! That’d be awesome!”

He nodded. Hawaii. The best Christmas present. “We’ll talk to Dad about it, yeah. I like that idea.”

And knowing Dad, he would say yes. Man loved the beach.

We met up with Theresa and Tommy, managing to pull the two lovebirds apart for a while to go our separate ways. Theresa was quickly informed of our Christmas gift, the possibility of spending it in the ocean breeze, and immediately insisted we try to find a good few dresses for it — which I’d be down for, if it wasn’t the middle of December.

But goddamn, if the woman wasn’t a magician. Swear her New Marais roots came with some voodoo magic. She pulled me into a Booker’s, finding a sundress in their clearance rack that I immediately fell in love with; it was peach, with white flowers, an asymmetrical skirt flowing down to my ankles.

Or it would, if I put it on. But it was 32 degrees and I liked being warm. Couldn’t help but imagine how beautiful it’d look though.

“So, do you want it?” She asked, curls bouncing in excitement. “I swear if you don’t get it I will,”

I laughed, “Yeah, I’ll get it, jeez.”

Post-register, Theresa dragged me from the Booker’s to a hair care stall, talking to the vendor about their options for moisturizing dreads overnight since she was thinking about getting them back in. I scuffed my shoe and looked around a bit before breaking in boredom, telling her I’d be back after grabbing a snack. They had a Cinnabon in here somewhere, I know they did. I could smell ‘em.

Like a leopard on the hunt, I followed my nose, the prize surprisingly far from where I left Theresa. Either the batch was fresh, its aroma floating freely through the near-abandoned mall, or I was a fatass. It was more than likely the latter, though. It’s a wonder how I stayed a decent weight, to be honest.

The mall was huge, two stories and multiple wings — meaning they also had more than one food court. At least, they had a few pseudo ones, a stall selling pretzels or those little ice cream dots right next to a specialty food store. Like the Cinnabon I was after. I ordered my own treat and drink, with enough cash left over from Theresa’s deal hunting to get her her own stuff, messaging her to meet me at the seating by the stall in the mall’s walkway so we could chow down.

‘K, almost done’ she messaged back.

So that meant I probably had 15 minutes.

I shed my jacket and hung it on my chair, hopping on my phone to watch some videos as I waited. I loved Theresa, but her perception of time absolutely sucked; the only reason she got here at a decent time was because Tommy drove. She had a chronic issue with being fashionably late, which meant I was often left to my own devices.

So I was well versed in passing time on my own, watching some VClipz of people’s realistic speed drawings and hoping that I’d absorb their talent through some wild form of osmosis. I’d glance up on occasion, looking around for Theresa and hoping that maybe this’d be one of those times she actually was timely accurate — but no dice. It was just me, the Cinnabon worker, and these two dudes in all black tracksuits sort of meandering about, taking window-shopping very seriously by not stepping into a single store.

15 minutes had already passed with no signs of Theresa, and I sighed, opening my Cinnabon. No use in letting it get cold. I ate away absentmindedly, watching more VClipz and biting on the food, moving to pick up my drink and take a gulp.

And of course, in my reasonably clumsy ways, I managed to set my drink down on the stack of napkins, it immediately keeling over and spilling onto my lap.

“Son of a—“ I groaned, scooping up my phone before the soda could soak it. Of course I’d spill food on myself. Could never eat without making a mess. The Cinnabon worker, an absolute saint, rushed over with her mop, a spray bottle in the other hand and a dish rag over her shoulder. “I can clean this, why don’t you go clean off? I can watch your things.”

“You sure? I don’t want to be a bother—“

“It’s fine,” she assured me. “If you go around this corner, there’s a restroom along this wall,” she said, pointing past the Cinnabon and to the junction of the next breezeway.

I thanked her, waddling my cold crotch to the bathroom and trying my best to sop up the mess with paper towels. That did nothing for the stickiness, though, and I absolutely hated being sticky. Did I have enough money left to maybe get some new pants? I pulled out my wallet, partially to count my cash and also to make sure my stuff was salvaged from my Diet Coke when the door to the women's restroom opened.

And in walked a man.

I spun around, dropping my wallet on the ground and lifting my hands to show there was nothing. All I had, every bit of the $17 and some change left over, was scattered across the tile of the restroom, a quarter running away from the confrontation. “Please,” I begged, my blood running ice cold as he raised the hand with the gun. This was it. I was going to die over $17 fucking dollars.

But instead, he swung the gun at me, the butt of it slamming against the top of my head and making my vision swim.

I stumbled into the sink counter, slamming my lower back against it. The pain in my spine joined the pain in my head as both throbbed, forcing me to brace myself against the counter so I didn’t collapse on the spot.

And I admit it; I began crying. Why wouldn’t I? There was a random guy in here beating me with a fucking gun. He raised his hand again, swinging the gun down to hit me in my head once more.

And this time, my vision faded out.

#inFAMOUS Erosion #infamous erosion #infamous #infamous 2 #infamous first light #infamous second son #delsin rowe #abigail walker #cole macgrath #zeke dunbar #eugene sims #sucker punch productions

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meiishu · 2 years

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just finished the newest episode and my thoughts on hsmtmts episode 5 under the cut

- elton john caswell

- im glad that instead of making ej cause deliberate drama, it turned into the entire group trying to fake drama only for real drama to surface. i was really worried for a hot minute there they were gonna make ej do something dramatic for cloudt or whatever

- ricky feelings reveal i saw it coming but also i like how it was unwittingly recorded. thats going to come back to bite ricky in the ass later

- LET CARLOS SAY BITCH SLAP

- carlos’ reaction to finding out maddox and jet were together absolutely sent me. also maddox going along with his crazy story instead of explaining they were actually siblings cracked me up. especially when she had her ”dramatic outburst”

- LOVED RICKYS REACTION TO JET AND MADDOX SIBLING REVEAL LMAO

- still gunning for eventual jet/ricky even though with every episode i feel my chances of it slipping farther and farther away

- LOVING the backstory we got on jet and maddox. so it seems like they’ve been siblings since they were kids and used to be super close! i think that maddox might be older since her younger self looked bigger than jet? but i could be wrong. also jet’s musical ballad was sweet. im glad maddox overheard it. i wonder why he got in the way of maddox and madison? was he being protective or felt threatened by someone else being close to his sister? also jet was EXPELLED? BACKSTORY TIME PLS??? why did jet get expelled? i hope that he will open up to ricky at some point next episode.

- also carlos and ricky’s friendship is everything to me

- i feel bad for EJ i know that he shouldve talked to gina about the letter but hes been going through so much. EJ is getting so much shit the season, like forced to be a director, forced to be the frontman on this project with CORBIN BLEU in charge, his father trying to send him to that school. all he wanted was to spend a fun summer with his friends and with gina. really, really hoping EJ and gina get a chance to TALK.

- also speaking of i wonder who EJ was speaking to on the phone??? my gut wants to say ms jenn. i hope he calls her and she comes and takes over as director and gives my poor boy a break lmao. its unlikely, but i can dream cant i? i doubt it’s nini. i think it’s either his father, or ms jenn. it could be corbin i guess, but i doubt corbin would have even answered the phone, lmao. i think whoever he’s on the phone with is going to help him in regards to the letter drama, so i lean towards it being his father

- maddox saying ashlyn had romantic tension with val just had me shook i didnt expect her to say that. also jet’s comment too was interesting -- “can you stop telling people how they feel for once” or something to that effect? i wonder what the history is there. to be hoenst to me, it doesn’t seem as much like ashlyn is going through a crisis, but with how muck maddox is insisting that ashlyn must like val, im getting the feeling that maddox may be projecting and she might be the one with a crush on ashlyn here... interesting. also the pan to carlos and EJ’s faces after maddox’s comment definitely makes me thinks carlos and or EJ are going to have a convo with her about that which i’m excited for

- also my thoughts on gina and ricky lowkey sofia and joshua have really good romantic chemistry together their entire dance number was so good. reminded me of why i shipped them in season 2 for sure. i dont dislike them together, i do think theyd be a good pair, it’s just so messy for them right now with all this drama.

- i am sick of the love triangle cliche though, i would love to see ricky have some development that doesn’t relate to romance (a friendship with jet, him and carlos bonding more, ect ect). like the original high school musical wasn’t love triangle either, but this show has def turned into more love triangle just with it being gina instead of nini caught in the middle. i dont dislike portwell or rina though, just interested to see where the story takes them!

- also lowkey bummed that it seems like any comments about a “possible queer storyline” for ricky which was kind of blowing up around the primer of this season is kinda moot. i get they cant spoil anything but it feels like they got my hopes up for the potential. there’s still more season to go, and who’s to say ricky might have a bisexual reveal that doesn’t end in ricky/jet or even ricky/anyone at all? i can still hope.

- RICKY SLAPPING EJ MOMENT WAS ICONIC

- love kourtney this episode, too. i wonder if her worry about gina telling carlos about her anxiety will cause tension/a fight between kourtney and gina?? i hope not, i love kourtney and gina and dont want things to be tense there. but it may also make their roles as anna and elsa have a double meaning too (anna helping elsa come out of her shell, gina helping kourtney deal with her anxiety?)

- i did like that ricky went to talk to jet and jet said “i’m not you”. i think that ricky has been thinking about jet as a “ricky 1.0″ ever since they moment when he said “aw he’s like a little ricky”, so i think that moment made ricky realize that jet isn’t actually as similar to season 1 him as he thought.

#hsmtmts #mac speaks #hsmtmts conversations #look i watch this show every week religiously i may as well share me emotions #my emotions i became a pirate #not tagging any ships because im not looking for ship war dramatics but my ask box is always open for comments

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miekasa · 3 years

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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!

#attack on titan #aot x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #aot imagines #snk imagines #eren smut #eren fluff #levi x reader #I DONT WANNA TALK ABOUT IT

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twistedmusings · 3 years

Text

Petting Dorm

A/N: I petted my cat for a good thirty minutes yesterday while I was watching the translation for the camp event and...surely the Savannaclaw members must like at least some pets, right? Like they must really want some pets after a good long hard day. Warnings: None, just descriptions of petting and three very happy boys u wu

The Savannaclaw members watch on as Grim gets the petting of a lifetime, wondering when the hell it is going to be their turn.

“Grim you are acting so spoiled.”

“Nyaha~! I deserve to be spoiled today! I aced my test while Ace and Deuce failed and me and Epel got a good grade in the potions assignment today!”

Grim leans back into your touch as you rub all the way to the tip of his ears before going right back down again. He lets out a happy grunt as his little foot starts to twitch, your hands now massaging right under his ears and near his cheeks before scratching right near the nape of his neck.

“Fgnaa...go a little lower!”

“Here?”

“Ah~! I really needed this. This is the reason I made you my henchman, [Y/N]”

“Because of how much I’m petting you?”

You press a kiss to Grim’s face, the other complaining for a moment before smiling as your finger rubs right on the top of his head. The two Ramshackle residents keep talking as they sit in the middle of the Savannaclaw lounge, many eyes staring at them but three sets of eyes in particular glaring at the cat currently laying his entire body on one of their pillows.

“[Y/N]-san...” Jack speaks up first as he watches Grim’s leg give another twitch, his eyes not even looking at you but focusing entirely on your hands.

“Hm?”

“Did you…” the wolf man can practically feel a shiver down his spine as you rub right under Grim’s ears, “Did you...uh...did you bring the assignment?”

“I did.” you play with Grim’s tail before running your hand up and down his back, “I thought you said you wanted to start when Ace and Deuce got here though.”

Leona growls when Grim lets out another satisfied sigh, watching your hands go right back up to play with his ears as you press the tips of them together and then watch them go back to their normal place.

“What is even keeping them so long?”

You shrug and rub a little circle right on Grim’s forehead, Ruggie following the movement with his head as he closed his eyes.

He could almost feel it--

Another slow and agonizing five minutes later and you sigh, shaking the shivers out of your hands as Grim is finally asleep, leg up in the air as you pull away from him and pull out your phone.

“Knowing those two they probably forgot…” you shake your head and stand up, “I’ll go get them--”

“NO!”

All Savanna claw members stand up as they lean towards you, eyes wide with different emotions as you do your best to understand their sudden outburst.

“What’s...what’s wrong?”

“You’re not leaving.”

You blink and point to the exit.

“I’ll only be gone for a couple of minutes, I’m not going to take long--”

“Sit down.”

It was frustrating that you couldn’t disobey this man even if you wanted to. The way he did anything was just so annoyingly confident that you weren’t even surprised when you simply sat down on whatever chair was available before Leona plopped himself in front of you and put his head on your lap.

“You have a lot of nerve petting that raccoon in front of me.” he glares at you before closing his eyes and leaning further back, ears twitching expectantly as you look down at him in, well, rather justified confusion.

“I’m...sorry?” you put your hands up and look at Jack and Ruggie, “I honestly do not know what to do, what is he talking about?”

You can practically feel Leona’s growl against you as he grabs your hands and puts them on his hair, letting your fingers reach deep into the dark waves as he visibly relaxes and lets you go.

“Whatever the hell you did to that cat monstrosity you better do for me...and if it isn’t as good that it makes me fall asleep in five minutes then I’ll be using you as one of my pillows.”

What...the hell?

Your eyes look over at Ruggie and Jack but they don’t even seem to be paying attention to you, simply looking on as you start to do some of the things you remembered doing for Grim.

He smiles as the petting finally starts, his ears being played with gently before your hands rub the tips and press them flat on his head. They give a solid twitch as they pop back up, twitching once again as they pick up your slight chuckling.

Now he understood why the raccoon had been so vocal about this treatment. Feeling your hands reach right under his ears and scratch made him let out a happy groan, tilting his head back as he gave you more room to play with.

You scratch the back of his head with one hand while the other does little cross shapes on his forehead, Leona opening his eyes to watch you work so diligently on putting him to sleep.

“Is this something you do every day for that thing?”

“His name is Grim.” you say and go back to playing with his ears, “And no, not all days. Only when he does really good.”

Leona closes his eyes as he moves his head to the right as your fingers scratch one spot in particular.

“Is that all it takes?”

“Yeah...I mean it keeps him motivated.”

He stays quiet for a few seconds before speaking up again.

“I stayed awake during one of Crewel’s lectures.”

You stop scratching to look down at him, amazed at what he just told you.

There was no way that was true.

“Awake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“As in fully awake? Listening to the lecture awake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“...what was the lecture about?”

Leona yawns and opens one eye to look at you.

“Advanced Magical History.”

You frown knowing for a fact that you cannot quiz him on anything since you still weren’t in that class. The reason for him telling you this was lost on you for a moment before you looked down in surprise and realized what this really was about.

No way...

Had he told you about that...just to justify you petting him?

“That’s really good Leona-senpai” you test the waters carefully, running your hand through his hair as he tilted his head back so he could feel the pull of your hands a bit more. Your eyes widen when the dorm leader nods along to the rather shallow praises you were sending his way.

“I didn’t know you were such a hard worker.”

“Mmmhm.”

“Or able to stay awake for so long.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I always thought you were just a lazy lion who liked to sleep all day.”

“Mmmmmm.”

It takes your entire will of strength to not laugh at Leona’s face. This man usually had his guard up so much that no one could ever get a read on him but give him some scratches and he opened up like a kitten to a new owner?

You knew you had blackmail material in your hands but the prospect of using it was still rather terrifying.

Leona’s threats should never be taken lightly.

You finish by rubbing his ears and letting go, the dorm leader’s head lolling forward as you stand up and grab whatever cushion you can get your hands on and putting it under his head so that you can lay him on the ground softly.

That was...weird.

“...I’m going to get Ace and Deuce now. If we don’t finish this assignment we are going to be screwed."

“[Y/N]!”

What should he say? He had just called your name out randomly and put himself in danger of waking up Leona. Dammit think of something, Ruggie!

He seems to come up with an answer as his usual playful smile comes back, standing up and walking over to you as his tail wags slightly.

“I can go get them for you.”

You smile and take his hands, shaking them twice before plopping yourself down on another available seat.

“Ruggie-senpai you are so nice! I think they might be at Heartslabyul? Ace might have dragged Deuce in on a game of cards or they most likely got caught doing something they shouldn’t. If you have any problems just text--Ruggie-senpai?”

Blue gray eyes look up at you, Ruggie’s trademark smile shining up at you as he giggles.

“Shishishi...you really think I wouldn’t do this without a price, [Y/N]-san?”

He grins and grabs your hands again, putting them right under his ears as he closes his eyes.

“Ruggie-senpai our assignment--!”

“Five minutes! That’s plenty of payment for the walk I’m about to do all the way to Heartslabyul!”

“It isn’t that long of a walk!?”

Ruggie shrugs as moves his head so that it is at the most comfortable position on your lap.

“Hm, but I also will have to walk all the way back to Savannaclaw so maybe it should be ten…”

You should stop talking at this point or else the times were going to go up higher, your hands getting to work as you scratch right in between his ears, Ruggie’s grin melting into a satisfied smile as you dug your fingers into his hair and started to scratch right under his scalp which earned you a giggle.

This sort of petting was so different than the ones he would use to get in the Afterglow. Just some slum kids trying to give each other love and affection because in the end, they all needed it after a hard day. Petting someone like this was a sign of close friendship and even romance, if done with that intent, but Ruggie never thought humans would be any good at it.

Yet the way your hands rubbed small circles right on his forehead, the very action you had done to Grim, he was still surprised he was half awake and not falling asleep on your lap.

“Mmm...is there anything else that needs to get done, [Y/N]?”

You smile when you see him so relaxed, surprised at how comfortable he looked. This hyena ran around the school doing errand after errand and getting buck after buck. It was almost inspiring if it wasn’t for the fact that some of his dealing weren't necessarily...legal?

Not like you knew about law in Twisted Wonderland so you let it pass.

“Not really, not for me anyway.”

Ruggie pouts but still melts when you run your fingers through his hair, starting right at his forehead and working all the way to the back. His ears twitched as you rubbed the tips before pressing both of them together.

“Well I am not charging for the walk back but if you want me to wrangle up those two first years I should charge a bit more, so when I come back I want what Leona-san got--”

“Ruggie-senpai it’s been five minutes.”

Jack’s tail is curled around him while he looks away, his eyes only barely making contact with yours as he looked at Ruggie and then back at, well, nothing.

Ruggie clicks his tongue before standing up and shrugging.

“Fine. I guess I will take that as a down payment.” he grins at you, “I will take the full payment later!”

You want to ask just what kind of payment he was talking about but you decide to keep quiet because that man would find some way to convince you that, yes, you do owe him something and that your payment was going to not be your money but your time.

And you didn’t have a lot of that to be spending it all in one place.

He walks off and you lean back, smiling as your hands finally get a break. Grim’s fur was always so silky and if you were to compare it you would say it was the same as Leona’s hair but Ruggie’s was definitely a bit more rough. It wasn’t a bad sort of rough but you figured this was the difference between long haired and short haired animals.

Although since Leona was a lion wouldn’t he also have short hair? Or was his hair more like his mane?

And what about Jack?

You turn towards your friend, tilting your head as you catch him staring.

“I don’t know why but I always feel like I have to apologize for Ace and Deuce, Jack. Maybe it’s because I met them first?”

He shakes his head, “You shouldn’t apologize for their actions.”

“Well they are also my friends so...I figured I could do this much for them.”

You wiggle your fingers in front of your face as you send Jack a teasing smile, “Want me to pet you too?”

The wolf’s tail goes right up before Jack pushes it back down with a growl, his cheeks burning a beautiful bright red as he answers back.

“We should just wait for Ace and Deuce, I want to get this assignment done already.”

“Me too. But it’s going to be a few minutes before they come back.”

“Oi!”

You are already standing up when Jack complains, telling you that you really didn’t need to do any sort of things like that for him and that he was perfectly fine and didn’t want to get distracted--!

“You’re the only one who didn’t force me to pet him, Jack. Just relax and unwind!” you smile and sit right behind him and open your legs so that you could pull him back and let his head rest on your stomach. His neck now burns bright red as you scratch right under his ears which only served to make his leg bounce slightly while he slowly got accustomed to your touches.

He wondered if you would pet him when he was using his unique magic as well, although knowing him he would get on his back and present his stomach if it started feeling this good and he didn’t want Ace, Deuce or even you teasing him about it! It wasn’t that his was enjoying this to that point--!

It’s just that somehow you knew just what spots to scratch and for how long to scratch them that he was starting to feel weak.

“Hm. So you would be a long hair…” you mutter to yourself as Jack closes his eyes, pressing his cheek against your palm as you rub circles right on his temples, “I think I like your hair the most...but maybe I’m just playing favourites here.”

The wolf wants to ask you a bit more about him being your possible favourite from the Savannaclaw dorm but his jaw snaps shut when he sees his dorm leader start to get up, glaring at the two of you with a dry smile.

“So you’re the favourite, huh?”

Jack blinks as he looks back at you and then at Leona.

“Leona-senpai--!”

The lion moves closer as he presses his body right against Jack’s shoulder, grabbing one of your legs and putting it over his own shoulder so that you would fit both of them in between.

“Ow--! Owowowowow--I’m not that flexible, Leona-senpai!!”

“He got his turn and now I want another one. Get to work, herbivore.”

“Hey!”

The three of you look to see Ruggie pointing an accusatory finger in your direction.

“What are you hogging [Y/N] for! They still owe me! Move over!”

He shoves at Jack’s unoccupied shoulder, trying to make his way into the little nest as you feel your other leg being raised up--!

“Stop! What in the world do you think I am--and where is Ace and Deuce!?”

Ruggie blinks before looking around.

“Oh right...I was supposed to go get them.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst imagines #twst scenarios #savannaclaw #leona kingscholar #ruggie bucchi #jack howl #twst mc #twst x reader #//also I think Im in love with Ruggie now?#//Is that a thing that happened?

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

One Night🌙10

Warnings: noncon sexual acts, angry Andy, hormones

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: One night changes your entire life.

for @kittykatlow‘s 200 Follower Celebration

Note: Another update? Who is this bitch actually trying?

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The bus chugged down the city streets as you sat closer to the back. You stared out the window and watched the grey sky of Nelson hanging overhead, a cloudy backdrop to the smoking city.

You sighed every now and then, trying to forget the beeping and when it stopped. You still felt Andy’s hand on your back and the suffocating silence of the drive home. The burden of the dead woman on your shoulders.

It was as if it had been years since you saw the slightly crooked pole that held the bright sign. The bus stop was as desolate as ever, the dirty bench marked with spray paint and the shelter glass cracked. You set off around the corner past the house. Each was familiar but not comforting.

Your hips hurt from the stiff ride and you rubbed your stomach. You wore one of Andy’s hoodies under your open jacket, the zipper of the latter no longer meeting. You stopped in front of your parents’ house. You hadn’t asked permission; not from your mother, your father, or Andy. There was no courtesy phone call so you hesitated, afraid you might be sent away.

It was noon. Your father would be in the garage. He always had some project going. That was his work. He was cheaper than any other mechanic in the city, he just did it all from home. He could recycle parts from the junkyard and charge half price. They usually did better than the newer parts sent away for down at the Jiffy.

You walked up the driveway, the garage door was only halfway open, the bite of the late autumn, rather the early winter, mingled with the warmth flowing under the metal. You tapped on it with your knuckles, “dad?” you called.

You stepped back as his oily hands gripped the bottom and he hauled it up entirely. He tilted his head at you but couldn’t hide his smile. He looked at your stomach and you dropped your hand. He drew you to him before you could react. He hugged you tight and rocked you.

“Your mother’s gonna be mad you didn’t call before you came,” he let go of you and looked you over again.

“Mad that I’m even here,” you remarked.

“No, she might act like it but…” he waved you into the garage and rolled over the little stool he sat on when he was working. He helped you sit and put his wrench on the plywood table against the wall, “she missed you. We both did.” he wiped his hands on his jeans, “you could have called us. You know how she is. She feels before she thinks.”

“She kicked me out,” you felt precarious on the little rolling stool, “you let her.”

“So why’d you come back?” he asked.

You hung your head and hugged your stomach, “well, I’m having your granddaughter. I didn’t want you to find out from anyone but me.”

“It’s a girl?” he grinned.

“Sorry, wish I could give you a boy to get all filthy in this place,” you shrugged.

“You never minded getting your hands dirty,” he neared and grasped your shoulder.

“Yeah, guess it doesn’t matter too much, she’ll be as curious as any kid,” you said.

You were quiet as you looked around. Your dad’s rolling chest of tools was dented and rusted, the same one he’d had your whole life. The place hadn’t changed, only the car sitting in it.

“That’s not the only reason you’re here,” he said. Your father was a simple man but he wasn’t dumb.

You frowned and felt a prick in your eyes. The hormones, you told yourself, they were getting to you.

“I need you guys,” you said quietly, “is that so bad?”

“I missed you, you’re mom did too, she’s just stubborn. Think that’s where you get it,” he turned his hand over and held it out to you, “but she won’t turn you away.”

“You sure?”

“I won’t let her. Not this time,” he bent and took your hand, “now come on.”

You let him help you to your feet and he led you through the side door into the house. You heard your mother’s old Patsy Cline CD droning from the box speakers on the shelf as she muttered to herself.

Your dad kicked the dirty off his boots and you slipped your own off. You followed him and peeked over his shoulder as he went to the living room. Your mother was wiping down the framed picture from your high school graduation.

“I got a surprise for you,” he announced as he stepped aside and beckoned you in alongside him, “and she’s got a surprise for you.”

Your mother turned and froze. Her lips formed a straight line and her eyes pierced you. She didn’t say anything as he stared at you then tossed the dusting cloth onto the table beside the lamp. She looked down at your feet.

“You remembered to take your shoes off,” she said.

Your lips parted and your chest gripped. She was still mad.

“You remembered us,” she swept over to you so quickly, you flinched. She hugged you and her middle met yours. She let go and looked down at your stomach. Her eyes were sad but not angry, “I’m…” she lifted her head and met your gaze, “I’m not good at saying it but I’m sorry.”

You watched her for a minute. She was still her mother as nasty as she’d been. You could see her regret and it coupled with your own. It didn’t fix everything but for her, it was a lot.

“I’m sorry too,” you breathed, “it was… me being stupid started all of this. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“You gotta tell her,” your dad intoned.

You glanced at him then back to your mom. You gulped, “we found out yesterday, it’s a girl.”

“We? And where is… he?” your mother bristled.

“Working,” you said.

“We went to the diner, they said you quit. The café too,” your mom batted away lashes, “please, sit.” She touched your stomach, “you’re so big.”

“Five months, I think,” you said as you let her take you to the old floral sofa, “and the doctor recommended I take it easy so I had to… leave.”

“Oh? Is something wrong with the baby?” she picked up her cloth again and resumed her dusting. Your father quietly excused himself.

��No, just me,” you leaned against the arm, “but they said my blood pressure is getting better, just have to check it now and again.”

“And that man? The least I can say is at least he’s taking responsibility, even if he is married,” your mom hung the picture back on the nail.

“It was a mistake,” you said, “but you know, I think it’s taught me a lot. Not that it was worth it.”

“I don’t mean to rag on you, but… it’s just not how it should be,” she went to the television stand and focused on the edges.

“You think I don’t know that. Mom, I didn’t come here to argue my morality. I came here…” you paused as you felt your phone buzz. You slid it from your jacket pocket and checked the ID; Andy. You ignored it and dropped it back inside, “I just wanted to see if you had any interest in your granddaughter.”

She spun back and her face wrinkled with sadness. She twisted the cloth and retreated to the rocking chair and sat. She chewed her lip and looked at the floor. When she looked at you again, her brows crinkled.

“I’m trying,” she said, “but what you did, I don’t know if I can’t get over that. That man, everyone knows him, and when it comes out, with his wife still in a coma, you don’t think about what that does to us.”

“Well,” your throat constricted and you held back the hot tears bubbling behind your eyes, “she’s not anymore.”

“What?”

“She… she passed last night,” you sniffed, “and I’ll admit that I came here as much for me as you. I just needed… needed to get away. Just for a little.”

Your phone went off again and you grunted as you pulled it out and swiped away the second call from Andy. You kept the phone in your hand and rested it against your thigh.

“I just need time,” your mom leaned back heavily.

“Well, it’s quickly running out,” you replied, “she’s gonna be here soon enough.”

“I know,” she said grimly, “I know.”

There was another silence and your phone twitched. You turned it over and checked the message on the screen; ‘why don’t you invite your parents for dinner if you’re not gonna answer me?’ You let the phone slip between your legs and slowly raised your eyes. How did he know?

“I can go, if it’s too much,” you said, “I didn’t expect to get past the front door, honestly.”

“It’s not-- you’re still my daughter,” she uttered, “and even if it’s not the best situation, you got my granddaughter too.”

Your phone began to shake between your legs and you huffed, “sorry,” you stood with effort as you snatched the phone up, “just a second.”

You went into the dining room and answered. You hissed into the phone, “what do you want, Andy?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” he asked sharply.

“How do you even know? You following me?” you kept your voice low.

“I know, that’s all,” he retorted, “it is… surprising.”

“They’re my parents,” you scowled at the tabletop as you leaned on a chair.

“Mine, too, right? Considering--”

“Andy,” you warned, “come on. Let’s cut this out--”

“Invite them for dinner. You’re right. Our kid will need her grandparents,” he interrupted, “I’ll get off early and help.”

“I don’t think--”

“Invite them,” he demanded, “and don’t take the bus back. I’ll send you the money for a cab.”

“Jesus, I can take care of myself--”

“No, you can’t, which is why you’re sleeping under my roof. And this isn’t about you, it’s about the baby,” he exhaled and you heard a squeak of metal, likely a chair, “Now I want you home by two. I’ll be there shortly after.”

He hung up before you could argue. You closed your eyes and forced down the angry bile in your chest. You shuttered and tucked the phone back in your jacket. How did he know you were there?

🌙

Your parents agreed to dinner. Your mother wasn’t subtle that she was curious to see Andy’s house. Her judgement was always her driving motivation and you were certain she could find something to hate, even in the suburban utopia.

You took the bus out of defiance and brewed with anger as you got off just outside the cul-de-sac. You walked the single block to Andy’s and paced like an angry lioness inside.

He arrived at three, just after. Your anxiety boiled with anger and you stopped to face him as he entered. You watched him put down his briefcase and hang his long black coat. Your nostrils flared as you braced yourself for the onslaught ready to spill forth.

“So, you weren’t following me?” you challenged.

“I was working,” he said quietly, “to pay for all of this…” he pointed to the ceiling, “and that,” he pointed to your bump.

“No, Andy, you don’t get to do that every time,” you snarled, “how did you know?”

He didn’t answer and brushed by you. You followed him into the kitchen as he went to the coffee machine and pressed the buttons bluntly. You watched him from a foot away, your hand on the cold marble.

“You can’t just ignore me. How did you know I was there?”

“Because…” he grabbed a mug and filled it with water. He poured it into the machine and snapped the lid shut, “because you have my baby and I have a right to make sure you don’t take it from me.”

“That’s not an answer,” you sneered, “Andy, I have done everything you’ve wanted. I have stayed here, I have quit my jobs, I have kept this baby for you, and you… you’re what? Tracking me like a dog?” You reached into your back pocket and slammed your phone on the counter. You slid it over to him, “when did you do it?”

His jaw ticked as he put a pod into the machine and hit start. He tapped his fingers on the counter and let out a long breath through his nose. He turned to you and crossed his arms.

“After you stayed out that night. I couldn’t worry like that again. I had to know,” he said staunchly, “because I’ve had a wife go out and not come back. A child--”

“I’m not your wife and I won’t ever be. This child is all we have in common,” you rebuffed, “even after last night. What you did, that doesn’t change things.”

You nearly tripped as he marched towards you. He had you against the far wall, his hand planted on either side of your head as his anger rippled across his forehead and set his jaw square. You pressed yourself against the pure white wall and tried not to wither.

“I did that for you,” he breathed, “I’ve done everything for you. Don’t act like you’re the only one doing shit.”

“Andy, get away--”

“No,” he punched the wall and you gasped, “my wife is gone. Jacob is gone! This is all I have; you, my daughter…that’s everything and I will be damned if I’m going to let you take any of it away from me.”

“You’re scaring me,” you wisped, “Andy, please--”

“No, you shut up and you listen. This is the last time we have this conversation. Your parents are coming and you’re going to be good. You’re going to wear something nice, you’re going to cook something good, and you’re going to smile. You don’t let them see you crack, not once.”

“You can’t--”

“Enough!” he hit the wall again and you heard it crumple under the force, “if you don’t, they won’t be around. Ever. Do you understand me?” you gaped up at him and trembled, you shook your head in disbelief. He leaned in and spoke softly to you, “Understand that I will make sure you and no one else ever sees them again.”

“You… wouldn’t…”

“I could. I will. You’re fucking bitch of a mom deserves it,” he hissed, “so, honey,” he growled the second word, “what’s it gonna be?”

Your lip quivered and you searched his face. The rage had his blue eyes alight and his breath rasped out like animalistic snarls. You thought of Laurie, of how blank he’d been when they stopped the machines. And that smile, after. What was that?

“I’ll… be good,” you murmured, “I will.”

His lips twitched and he shoved himself away from you. He stomped over to the fridge and took out the light cream. He added it to his mug of fresh coffee and stirred. You stood straight shakily and looked up at the hole beside your head.

“Well,” he said, “better figure out what you’re making for dinner. Our guests won’t be long.”

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #fic #series #one night #dark fic #dark!fic #defending jacob

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bumblesimagines · 3 years

Text

Imagine:

Being John B's cousin and meeting the Pogues

Request: Yes or No

What I need from season 2 of Outer banks is Karah/Siara and JJPope/Mayward. John B can have an enemies to friends to lovers with Topper ig. The Pogues are the embodiment of chaotic bi lmao. If i remember correctly, JJ and JB have been friends since like elementary or middle school or something like that.

Pope parked the van, letting out a soft sigh. JJ turned towards him, resting his sunglasses on the top of his head.

"Pope, man, I love you but you drive like a grandpa." JJ told him, earning a playful eye roll from his friend.

"And you drive like a maniac." Pope replied, opening the door and hopping out. He grabbed the handle of the back door, sliding it open for the girls.

"Such a gentleman." Sarah cooed, giggling softly as she climbed out. Kiara followed, chuckling softly. Pope closed the door, making sure the doors were locked. As they approached The Chateau, noticing a young man around their age smoking outside. JJ frowned, holding his head high in case he meant trouble. Once they got closer, JJ blinked and relaced.

"(Y/N)! Bro! Why didn't you tell me you were here?!" JJ called, jogging towards him. (Y/N) chuckled, fistbumping him and shrugging lightly.

"My old man wanted me to keep an eye on Johnny and I had nothing better to do." (Y/N) explained, head tilting up as he blew out smoke.

"Uhm, who's this?" Kiara asked, arms crossing as she eyed the guy. He was handsome, that was for sure, but he screamed trouble and Kiara already had to keep JJ in line. Sarah was much more relaxed and interested than her, giving him a friendly smile.

"Remember John B's uncle who was supposed to be his guardian until Big John came back but then he dipped to like build houses? This is (Y/N), his son." JJ explained.

"Nice to meet you, man. I'm Pope Heyward." Pope smiled, shaking his hand. (Y/N) hummed, giving him a nod.

"The brains of the group, right? John B's always talking about his little group of friends." (Y/N) shifted his gaze onto the girls.

"I'm Sarah Cameron." Sarah stepped forward, shaking his head with a big smile. "And this is Kiara Carrera."

"Hey." Kiara greeted dryly, earning a small nudge from Pope. John B stepped out of the house, grinning widely. He greeted his friends, glancing at his cousin.

"I see you've all met (Y/N) the babysitter-"

"Babysitters get paid." (Y/N) said, dropping his cigarette on the floor and stepping on it. Kiara scoffed softly, shaking her head.

"Well, your payment is being in my presence." John B replied playfully. (Y/N) rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the wall and sighing. He took out his phone, looking over the instructions his father had left him.

"Don't get into trouble." (Y/N) said, looking up. John B chuckled, looking at his friends.

"I love Uncle Teddy sometimes." John B took the keys from Pope, looking at his cousin.

"You coming?"

"I'd rather not but the old man would have my head if he found out I let the kids run around unsupervised."

"You don't look much older than us." Pope said, brows furrowing slightly as he looked him over.

"I'm about to turn eighteen in a few weeks which means I'm the oldest one here. I'm only in charge of John B so as long as he survives until one of our incredibly responsible fathers return, I'll be fine." (Y/N) shrugged, reaching out and ruffling up John B's locks.

"You're an temporary Pogue now." JJ swung an arm around (Y/N)'s shoulders, pulling him towards the van. (Y/N) let JJ drag him along, entering the van and watching the others get in. JJ turned towards (Y/N), leaning in.

"The girls totally have the hots for you." He whispered, wiggling his brows. Before (Y/N) could reply, everyone had already settled in apart from Sarah. She gave a slight pout when she couldn't find an actual seat. She hummed lightly, plopping down on (Y/N)'s lap with a grin. JJ shot (Y/N) a subtle look, looking forward again. Pope glanced into the rearview mirror, having sat in the passenger seat beside John B.

"Welcome to your first Pogue adventure."

Gifs aren't mine.

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comfortwriting · 3 years

Text

When I Say So - G.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompts

George Weasley x Fem Reader

Requested/About: George loves to tease his girlfriend until she can’t take it anymore, driving her insane, until one morning he wakes her up, giving her exactly what she deserves.

Warnings: 18+, smut, swearing, squirting, fingering, female receiving oral, George being a tease, overstimulation, rough sex, dives straight into smut.

“Fuck!” you panted, looking down at George between your legs “don’t stop!”

George looked up at you and smirked, his brown eyes piercing into yours, his index and middle finger fucking you fast, whilst his sharp and pointy tongue kept swirling around your clit.

You felt as if you could burst at any moment, the pressure in your lower stomach continued to rise up, your walls tightening around his fingers, and your legs shaking against him, closer and closer, until -

George quickly withdrew his juice coated fingers, and pulled himself away from in between your legs, sucking your juices and smirking up at you, leaving you feeling empty and cheated. He laughed lightly, pressing his lips against your forehead, kissing you gently.

“You’ll cum when I say so, love,” he growled in your ear, walking out of your bedroom and into your bathroom.

You frowned and slowly sat up in your chair next to your bed, your legs still shaking, you slowly got out of your chair and followed George into the bathroom, standing in the doorway as you watched him wash his hands and fix his hair in the mirror.

“You can’t do this to me, George.” you pouted, still not wearing any clothes on your bottom half.

George flashed you a grin, staring at you through the mirror, almost laughing at the sight of you only wearing your shirt, cardigan and socks.

“Yes I can” he replied, turning around to face you, leaning against the sink “You know I have a curfew and work tomorrow.”

You pouted even more “but you’re an adult, Georgie!” you huffed “you’re not a kid anymore!”

George smirked and walked over to you, stroking his thumb against your soft flushed cheek - you started to count the freckles on his nose.

“Well until Ron and Ginny behave at school, I have to be home before ten.” he replied, “my mum warned you that I was a bad influence.”

You rolled your eyes, receiving a soft kiss on the lips from George, his body pushing into yours, trapping you against the door frame, his hand leaving the side of your face and falling down by his side, his fingers slowly dragging up the inside of your thigh - causing you to let out a shaky moan in excitement.

“Remember, love” he reminded you, growling in your ear “when I say so.”

George pulled his hand away from your inner thigh and apparated home, the loud popping filling the air as he disappeared before you could whine out and protest, leaving you feeling lonely and desperate.

You sighed and took off your socks, cardigan and shirt, hopping into the shower, your thoughts filled with George and what he would do to you if you broke his number one rule.

“You naughty girl” he growled, spanking you again, making you jolt and whimper beneath him.

Your bum cheek went hot and started to sting, his red handprint starting to form as his hand continued to collide with your cheeks, again, again, and again.

“Can you come over tonight?” you begged, holding the phone up to your ear.

It’s been two days since you last saw George, two days since you felt his touch, his hot breath against you, still having to follow his rules.

George started to speak but you couldn’t hear his voice clear enough.

“You’re holding the phone upside down George” you called out loudly so he could hear you “turn me over!”

You could hear George’s muttering and chuckles more clearly now, the phone sitting the right way up in his hand.

“What did you say, love?” George asked, yawning.

You bit your lip, realising he would probably be too tired to pop round for the night, not wanting to risk breaking his curfew.

You sighed “can you come over, Georgie? I really need you tonight.” you begged, trying to sound seductive “please baby”

You could tell that George had a smirk plastered on his face, you could tell through his voice.

“Not tonight Y/N” he replied softly “in two days you’ll see me”

Another two days?! You could come undone at any moment!

You frowned and let out a needy whine “well, do I have permission to”

“No.” George growled cutting you off, gripping onto the phone tighter “you will wait until I say so.”

You chewed on your lip and knitted your eyebrows together, feeling your neediness spread throughout your body - your inner thighs, your soft lips, your fingertips and breasts, all calling out, begging for George’s touch.

“Do you understand?” he asked, his heavy breathing travelling through the phone.

You nodded your head slowly “yes, I do understand, Georgie.”

“Good girl” he replied lowly “see you in two days” he put down the phone, the line being cut.

You continued to chew on your lip, your thoughts focusing on no one else but George. Pulling your phone away from your ear, you placed it back on charge and walked upstairs, getting into bed and pulling the covers over you.

Two more days...

One more day...

Feeling a nose brush against your neck, your eyes opened wide, your dreams fading suddenly as you awoke and focused on your reality. Looking next to you, George laid on his side, his brown eyes searching your eyes and a smile playing on his lips, his ginger hair ruffled from the pillows.

“Morning Y/N” he smiled, licking his lips.

You blushed, blinking fast and repeatedly “George, what are you-”

George smirked and chuckled “I told you to wait two more days and you did,” he said softly “I arrived late last night but you were asleep, so I slept next to you, I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for a few hours now.”

You felt your cheeks burn up and go red, you bit your lip, staring at your shirtless boyfriend. Your fingers ran up and down his arm and then traced circles onto his chest, you leant forward and peppered soft kisses on his chest, over his tiny freckles.

“Ah ah ah” George stopped you, sitting up and putting himself on top of you, slowly laying you on your back “it’s my turn to reward you, love. If that’s okay of course?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.

“I’ve been waiting for four days” you bit your lip “go wild”

George winked at you and dived under the covers, his hands pulling off your pyjama shorts and instantly diving down on you, his soft lips planting kisses on your clit. You moved your head back onto your pillow and moaned out as you felt his wet tongue drag across your folds and in circular motions around your clit.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as your moans spilt out of your mouth, his hips bucking against his touch. George smirked and felt his cock harden at the taste of your cunt and the sound of your moans.

George spat on his index and middle finger, circling them around your entrance before slowly pushing his fingers inside of you.

“George-” you moaned out and scrunched your eyes shut whilst you felt his fingers stroke against your G-Spot, starting to build the familiar pressure in your lower stomach.

“Shhh,” he whispered against your heat “don’t talk, just enjoy yourself, love.”

His hot breath brushed against your saliva-coated clit, sending shivers of excitement and arousal down your spine.

George continued to swirl his tongue around your clit, sucking on it casually, changing between finger fucking you and repeating the ‘come here’ motion, making you feel slightly shy as the pressure built up even more and now hearing the sound of your juices squelching coming from inside of you.

Your moans became more frequent and louder, George’s cock feeling painfully hard and twitching in desperation. With his other hand, George started to pump his cock, his precum leaking out which he spread out across the head of his cock with his thumb.

Opening your eyes, you couldn’t stand not being able to see George, the covers hiding him frustrated you so you pulled them back, finally seeing him pleasure you in between your legs. His lips red, wet, and puffy from working so hard, his hair tousled and highlighted by the rays of the sun which burst through the window.

The pressure built up higher and higher, your knees kept knocking together, your legs shaking, and your back now arching. George could tell that you were getting close and he wanted nothing more than for you to come undone because of him.

“I’m so close” you breathed out, your fingers pulling on a few strands of his hair.

“Come for me, Y/N.” he murmured, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck!” you gasped out “George, I’m cumming!”

Your walls tightened around his fingers and you released, the pressure in your lower tummy exploding like fireworks, and suddenly dissipating as liquid squirted out from beneath you, soaking George’s arm and the bedsheet.

“Want me to fuck you, baby?” he asked.

Feeling nothing but intense bliss, you nodded your head, catching your breath “yes” you nodded “I want you to fuck me so bad.”

Your now shaking legs were grabbed at the ankles by George’s hands, he placed your legs upon his shoulders and grabbed a condom, rolling it down his long, hard length. George grabbed the bottle of lube from your bedside table and squeezed the liquid onto his fingers which he spread down his length, applying more to fingers which he also spread across and around your entrance hole.

George pursed his lips and lined his hard cock up to your desperate hole, he grabbed onto your waist and slowly pushed himself inside of you, reaching as deep as he could inside of you, the head of his cock brushing against your sensitive G-Spot.

George started to fuck you faster, his cock slamming inside of you, filling you up and making you feel empty over and over again, constantly increasing your desperation for him, to feel him closer to you, to feel yourself let your guard down and become completely vulnerable with him.

With each thrust, your walls tightened around George’s cock even tighter than before, you looked up at him and watched as his mouth hung wide open, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead, and his facial expression displaying nothing but pleasure, and ecstasy.

Feeling slightly cheeky, you stripped your legs away from George’s shoulders, you placed your arms in the crook of your knee and held them together, raised up against your chest, pressing against your breasts, feeling George slide deeper inside of you.

“You and your pussy look so bloody good.” George groaned, bucking his hips.

You panted and felt his cock reach deeper inside of you, making you gasp out in pleasure, each time his cock hit and brushed against your G-Spot - pleasure pulsating throughout your body, inching you closer and closer to climaxing, George’s cock twitching inside of you.

“Georgie” you moaned, your face flushing with his “I’m going to cum.”

George groaned out and bucked his hips faster “cum for me love” he encouraged you “I’m getting close too.”

Watching George feeling pleasure, and feeling the pleasure he kept giving you, sent you over the edge, your walls squeezing George’s length, the built-up pressure burst once more, and slowly started to dissipate, your cum spilling down George’s condom covered cock.

George felt himself come undone, his cock twitching and throbbing inside of you, trapped between your walls, his seed spilling into the condom as he slowed down and stopped bucking his hips, pulling out of you and collapsing beside you.

The two of you laid there panting, sharing a sweet glance, erupting into a cheeky giggle.

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @reeophidian @alwaysnforeverfangirl @inglourious-imagines @horrorxweasley @xmalfoyweasleyx @freddiemylovelg

#george weasley #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #george weasley fanfiction #George Weasley one shot #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #Harry Potter fanfic #draco malfoy #draco x reader #ron weasley #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley imagines #ron weasley fanfic

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novelconcepts · 3 years

Note

The night Dani sees Peter Quint, a blackout happens during the storm. The officers say that it's not safe to stay there in the middle of a storm and without a way to talk to the police if necessary. Hannah and the kids go to Owen's house. Jamie offers a ride, her little flat, clothes and a bath (since crazy Dani decided to run after Peter during the storm).

There's just one bed prompt. Maybe a small couch or chair.

They listen, which is frankly more than Dani expected when Hannah insisted on calling the police. She suspects it has less to do with the Peter Quint of it all, and more to do with the lightning strike, the cataclysm of rain, an old house plunged into deep black. No phone lines, the officers point out with weary expressions that say they are not certain Peter Quint is truly a danger--but Lord Wingrave is not without a certain amount of authority around these parts, and if any further tragedy should befall his niece and nephew, these men would find themselves overloaded on unpleasant paperwork and worse press.

Bad reasons, Dani thinks with a scowl. They ought to have gone into this field to help people, not scoff at Hannah’s fear and Dani’s unease. They ought to be doing something, not simply waving them off the property for the night. It’s listening, sort of, but it isn’t hearing.

She glances at Jamie as the officers speak--directly, she notes, to Owen, as though as the only man among them, he has defaulted to de facto lord of the manor. He looks uncomfortable, rubbing a hand through wet hair; Dani remembers him saying, I was born in Bly, wonders if he went to school with either of the men in slick uniform.

Jamie doesn’t look uncomfortable. Jamie looks angry. There’s a fire burning in her Dani suspects never entirely went out after this afternoon’s rose debacle, one that might have been tempered if they’d been able to track Quint down outside. But he’s in the wind, the product of long legs and a better awareness of the terrain. Dani, giving chase into a fresh downpour before she could think better of her choices, is still itching at the memory of his long coat vanishing into the dark.

She’d run into Jamie, instead--full-force, a bone-rattling collision that had sent them both tumbling into the sopping grass. It might have been funny, if not for the echo of Quint’s footfalls dying away.

“If he’s here?” Jamie asks now. “Quint. If he’s still here? What then?”

The officer in charge gives her a brief look, barely long enough to register detail. “If he’s here,” he says boredly, “all the better that you aren’t.”

Jamie grinds her jaw. She seems barely to be containing herself, resisting the impulse to explain in no uncertain terms that this is their home, this place Quint is intruding upon. Their home--Hannah and the kids and Dani, at least--where Quint would be trailing slimy fingers. The idea of that smirking face going through the bedrooms makes Dani shudder. It seems to press Jamie toward an unwise argument.

Without thinking, Dani reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. Jamie’s hair is still dripping, her jacket sodden. Her eyes, catching on Dani’s face, widen a little, her teeth unclenching.

“You have somewhere to go?” the head officer reiterates, glancing back toward the door as though dreaming of a warm car, a comfortable house far from the manor. Owen nods in Hannah’s direction.

“Mum won’t mind. Can have a little sleepover.”

“Yes!” Flora perks up. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against Miles’ side, but her whole face switches on like a lantern now. “A sleepover!”

“How’s about it, Miles?” Hannah taps him lightly on the head. “A little evening adventure.”

He looks uncertain, but when she ruffles his hair, a slow smile creeps across his face. Dani’s relieved to see it--she’s started to believe Miles is thirty-five in a ten-year-old frame, the weight of so much loss bearing him down like an anchor. He deserves a little fun.

“And you,” Hannah adds, looking to Dani as if reading her mind. “What do you say to a night off?”

Dani blinks. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necess--”

“Chased a man into the storm,” Hannah interrupts. “Not a decision I’d approve of twice, but it was quite brave. And, forgive me dear, but you look like you could use a proper rest in the aftermath.”

That might be, Dani thinks absently, the nicest way of saying you look like shit I’ve ever heard.

“I’ll just get cleaned up real quick,” she says, “and then I’ll be perfectly fine to--”

Hannah raises a hand. “I insist. Let Owen and I handle them for the evening.”

Dani opens and closes her mouth several times. What’s the alternative? Is Hannah expecting her to stay here? Here, in a house they’re all carefully not admitting feels much bigger in the dark, huddled around the glow of policeman flashlights?

“Can crash at my place,” Jamie says, almost gruffly. “If you don't mind the company.”

Hannah looks unsurprised by this offer. Dani feels a little light-headed at the idea.

“I--I’m all muddy.”

Jamie makes a show of looking down at her own clothes, caked in wet clods of grass, soaked nearly to the skin. She raises her eyebrows in Dani’s direction as if to say, Any more sterling arguments?

Dani has none.

Jamie doesn’t say a word as they load into her truck, Dani trying her best to shrink down to inhabit as limited a space as possible. Her legs ache with the effort of holding her feet aloft, her thighs pressed together to prevent staining the whole seat with grime. Jamie glances in her direction, pulling carefully out onto the road, and Dani could swear she’s trying not to smile.

“Know what I do for a living, don’t you?”

Dani nods. Jamie clears her throat.

“Then should go without saying you’re not the first to track mud into the truck. Relax.”

Embarrassed, Dani does as she’s bid. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jamie’s mouth twitch again--sees Jamie’s hands resting comfortably at ten and two, Jamie’s shoulders slightly rounded as though by holding her posture firm, she can punch a hole through the sheeting rain. She doesn’t seem nervous in the least to be driving through this mess with Dani huddled beside her.

Jamie, Dani is starting to think, doesn’t get nervous.

Well, that makes one of us.

She has nothing to be nervous about, is the thing. Chasing a strange man into a storm, racing after him with nothing but a fire poker and a hot protective impulse--that should have made her nervous. Should have scared the shit out of her. And it hadn’t. She’d felt bizarrely well-equipped for the decisions she was making, at the time. Peter Quint, she’d been certain, should have been the nervous one.

But now, sitting with wet hair and mussed clothes beside a woman she’s held barely three conversations with, Dani feels distinctly out of her element. No kids. No easy warmth of a carefully-sewn-together family opening its arms to let her in. Just a truck, rattling along a slick road on its way to a tiny town she’s never set foot in before.

And a woman with wet curls plastered to her forehead, stealing tiny glances at Dani like she’s not quite sure what to do with her.

“Flat’s small,” Jamie says, as if apologizing, as she parks outside a pub that looks older than any establishment in Dani’s hometown. “Don’t need much. But there are no screamin’ kids.”

Flora and Miles aren’t much for screaming without reason, but Dani thinks she takes Jamie’s point all the same. Quiet, Jamie is trying to say. Dani can properly rest here, Jamie is trying to say. Jamie doesn’t mind offering up her space.

“Ready?” The rain is still coming down in a torrent. Jamie’s hand is positioned at the doorhandle, Jamie’s posture strung tight. “Make a break for it on three. One--two--”

They run, damp clothes made soggy all over again, and Dani is surprised to hear herself make a whooping sound of joy as she splashes through puddles. Jamie, she thinks, could move faster--Jamie’s got a runner’s stamina when she puts her mind to it--but she’s jogging along at an easy pace, refusing to leave Dani behind. Her hand catches once on Dani’s sleeve, pulling her to the stairs behind the pub, guiding her up to a door at the top.

“Storms like these,” Jamie says when they’ve tumbled breathlessly into her home, “remind me of bein’ a kid. Sitting in school, hoping the power’d go so they’d send us home early.”

“Did it ever happen?” Dani wraps her arms around herself, trying not to shiver, trying not to drip too expansively across the scored floorboards. Jamie grins.

“Once. I was seven. Spent the whole day out in it anyway, caught the worst cold of my life. Best goddamn day a kid could want.”

She looks so at home here, as Dani watches her pull off her boots, drape her jacket lazily over a chair, stride around turning on lights. At the manor, Jamie is casual enough, rarely inclined to rush or worry, but here, it’s instantly clear she knows every creak in the floor, every stubborn lightswitch, every inch of a domain that is entirely Jamie.

A domain she has, for no reason at all, opened up to Dani tonight. The reality of it crashes home all at once, landing hard. Jamie barely knows her, and still is willing to give Dani a place to stay. Jamie barely knows her, and still is holding out a gray towel and a bundle of clothes, her smile crooked.

“Thought you might like to get out of those.”

A spike of warmth makes its way up Dani’s spine, settling somewhere around her ears. She crushes it down, forcing herself to accept the sweats and t-shirt with a grateful smile of her own.

“Thank you. Honestly, you didn’t have to do any of this--”

“The rain,” Jamie says easily, “is the fun part. The cold, not so much. Bath’s this way.”

Bathroom, Dani assumes she means--until Jamie gestures at the little tub, barely big enough for a woman her size. She looks marginally embarrassed for the first time, but it’s a resolute sort of embarrassment, as though Jamie has little patience for it.

“Not much,” she says. “But still better than catching ill. Take however long you like.”

Dani watches her back out of the room, a tumble of unfamiliar emotions in her chest. Someone offering up everything--home, clothes, bathtub--without asking for something in return is strange. Someone doing that much and then leaving, peaceable as the turn of a new day, is unheard of. She hesitates, waiting at the closed door for signs that Jamie will change her mind--or knock, having thought of something else Dani might need--and nothing comes. This room has become, so long as Dani wants it, her space. Jamie will take it back only when Dani’s finished.

Unwelcomely, she tries to imagine Eddie doing this very thing. Eddie, who only refrains from haunting her European adventures with postcard and phone call because he has no idea how to find her. Eddie, who would think the offer of clothes and a hot bath automatically come with other perks, and who would smile as he stepped in to collect like he couldn’t imagine her wanting to be left alone.

She shakes her head. Eddie is gone, and she is here, and Jamie isn’t him. Is so unlike him, in fact, it’s hard to imagine them standing in the same room.

And why, some little part of her pipes slyly up, are you comparing them in the first place?

She shivers, turning on the water, letting it run as hot as possible before sinking in. She leans her head back against a wadded-up washcloth, surveying the simplicity of the bathroom--single toothbrush, single cup for water, a minute assortment of hairbrush, hair ties, sunscreen. There is a dried rose framed beside the door, a small bunch of purple-and-white flowers she can’t name in a tiny windowsill vase.

It’s all very discreet, all very Jamie. To look at it with this much freedom, to be trusted alone in a space that has belonged to no one else, makes her heart pound.

She’s only being nice. And so what? What does it matter?

It matters. Even if she never says so, even if she never lets it out of her heart, Dani can’t deny that it matters. Like it mattered watching Jamie walk into the kitchen earlier this week, glancing at her with an easy raise of brows like she was thinking, Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us.

Jamie, calling her Poppins, telling her she’s doing great, offering her flat without a second’s pause. None of it warranted. None of it asked for. All of it so incredibly welcome.

She stays in the bath until the shivers ease out, carefully soaping her hair with the little bottle of shampoo on the windowsill. A different scent and brand than her own, and as she’s rinsing clean, she realizes she will smell like Jamie now. If for only a night, her hair--and the clothes Jamie gently pressed into her hands--will hold just a little bit of the gardener’s influence.

The warmth she’s beginning to attribute to Jamie sweeps through her again at the idea. That, and the awareness that these are Jamie’s things hugging her body. Jamie’s belongings, offered up like she feels not the least bit possessive about her living space. Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us.

“Warm?” Jamie asks when she finally steps back out of the bathroom. Her hair is still wet, though she’s changed into a clean white shirt and sweatpants of her own. Dani nods, confused when Jamie grins.

“What?”

“I think,” Jamie says placidly, “this is the first time I’ve seen you out of pastels. Suits you.”

Dani glances down. The threadbare black t-shirt bears a jagged white London Calling in peeling letters. She can’t help smiling.

“Maybe I’m a secret punk fan.”

“Are you?” Jamie sounds interested. Dani shakes her head.

“Sorry, no. Always open to learning, though.”

Here it is again: that funny, twisting feeling in her stomach that says she is at home with Jamie. That Jamie is easy and warm, despite the anger simmering somewhere deep down and a tendency toward cropping her sentences with swear words. That Jamie has opened her home to Dani only because Jamie has opened to her, on some level neither of them is entirely sure how to approach.

“Thank you,” she says, because it’s easier than putting this feeling into words. “For all of this. You didn’t have to.”

Jamie shrugs. “Wanted to. You haven’t had an easy couple of days. Sometimes, a little quiet goes a long way.”

She’s seated on the arm of the couch, bare feet dangling an inch off the floor. Looking at her, Dani can’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea that she’s only known this woman for a couple of days. That she doesn’t, in fact, know much of anything about her at all.

And still, when Jamie rises and begins arranging pillow and blanket on the couch, Dani’s stomach performs a backflip she’d never come close to feeling with Eddie.

“That’s really kind of you,” she says, the words a blind effort to distract from her trembling hands. “I really don’t need much, you don’t have to go to any trouble--”

Jamie glances over her shoulder. “No trouble. Bed’s just that way.”

Dani turns to look. Sure enough, behind a pulled-back curtain, she can just make out Jamie’s mattress and frame. “I--I mean, I won’t be bothering you, if that’s what you--”

“What?” Straightening, Jamie frowns. “No, I mean, it’s yours. Take it. I sleep on the couch half the goddamn time anyway, it’s no--”

“I am not,” Dani interrupts, “taking your bed, Jamie.”

Not since her last argument with Miles has she been engaged in such a standoff. Jamie, still holding a pillow, looks ready to chain herself to the couch. Dani, heady with the inescapable awareness of Jamie’s shampoo rinsed out of her own hair, can’t have that. It’s too much. Clothes and space and ride--all of that, she can accept. But foisting Jamie from her own bed?

“I’m not doing it,” she says. Her arms are folded, her mouth pulling into a smile she can’t for her life shake. “I’m told I'm very stubborn, so you might as well just let me have that couch now.”

“I--” For the first time all night, Jamie seems to be at a loss. “I’m--aiming for chivalry, here, Poppins.”

“You’ve been nothing less,” Dani assures her. “A white knight, really. But I’m afraid this is where I have to draw the line.”

“I sleep on it all the time.”

“So, it’s my turn.”

Jamie’s whole face seems on edge of some kind of collapse--though into laughter or upset, Dani can’t begin to guess. She has a brief flash of possibility, the two of them standing on either side of the couch all night, arguing well into daylight over who ought to take the proper night’s sleep.

“You’ve got kids to handle in the morning,” Jamie says reasonably, proving her point.

“You spent all day working in the sun,” Dani volleys in return. She thinks for a moment, then adds, “Also, I knocked you into a puddle earlier, and you didn’t get a nice warm bath.”

“Didn’t need one.” Jamie looks exasperated. “Poppins, come on. This doesn’t have to be a big bloody deal.”

It doesn’t, Dani agrees. It really doesn’t. All Jamie has to do is step out of the way, step behind that curtain, put herself to bed where she belongs.

Or, alternatively--

It’s coming out of her mouth before she can stop it. Before she can run through all the reasons not to suggest this very thing. Before she can pin down the butterflies having a dogfight in her stomach and make a decision based in good judgment.

“Look, if you’re that committed to making me sleep in the bed, come join me.”

Jamie nearly drops the pillow. Her calm has utterly vacated the flat, leaving behind a woman who looks--if Dani isn’t much mistaken--much nearer to frantic than she’s ever seen Jamie before. Much nearer to the kind of nervous Dani had been on the ride over.

“I,” she says. “That--I shouldn’t--”

“It’s the best compromise,” Dani says, trying to sound reasonable. Trying to sound as though the invitation to share Jamie’s bed isn’t making her entire body run with sudden electricity. “Neither of us is very big, I’m sure we can fit.”

“I’m--sure we can.” Jamie is grimacing. Jamie looks pained. If she had an elegant way out, Dani would take it back simply to erase that look from Jamie’s face, a look that says Jamie would rather sleep in her tiny bathtub than wherever Dani is.

Elegant way out, she can’t find, and she’s tired. Tired, and buzzing with nerves, and somehow, the au pair wins out over all possible variants of Dani Clayton. “It isn’t that bad an idea,” she says, her voice steady. “I don’t even snore.”

This breaks something open between them. She can’t put her finger on just what it is, or why, but suddenly Jamie is laughing, and Dani is grinning, and she knows the stalemate is at its end. It’s been too long a night. There’s just no point.

“Here,” she adds, settling at the edge of the bed, watching Jamie switch off the lights and creep closer as though trying not to startle a skittish animal. “I’ll lay right on the edge, you won’t even have to know I’m here--”

“Don’t be silly,” Jamie says. She hesitates; Dani wonders if she’s giving a final chance for Dani to shoo her away, to choose a night spent alone after all. She thumps the bedspread with a flat palm, staring meaningfully at Jamie until the mattress sinks beneath the weight of au pair and gardener alike.

“See?” she can’t stop herself saying. “We fit.”

Jamie stares at her, a lingering gaze Dani couldn’t decipher on her best day. She opts to ignore it, stretching out under the rumpled covers. Beside her, Jamie slides a hand beneath her head, staring up at the ceiling.

“Not so bad,” Dani says, wishing she could shut up, wishing she could stop thinking--about Jamie’s head on the pillow beside her, about Jamie’s scent sunk into this pillow, about the indent of Jamie’s body in this old mattress where maybe no one else has ever lain. Jamie makes a low sound in her chest.

“Long day.”

“So long.” Was it only this morning Dani was having a small panic attack, the strain of a new job on top of familiar guilt too heavy to bear? Was it only this afternoon she’d grabbed Jamie’s shoulder, pulled her back from storming off to skin Miles alive?

Was it really only this evening she’d stalked out after Peter Quint, crashed headlong into Jamie, listened to police officers warn them all away from the manor in a blackout?

Jamie clears her throat. Dani’s starting to think it’s a nervous habit--Jamie seems to do it only around her. Why on earth would I make her nervous? “Comfortable?” she asks the ceiling. Dani nods.

In the dark, the bed seems smaller. The pillows are touching, the blankets bridging the brief gap between Jamie’s right leg and Dani’s left. In the dark, Jamie’s breath is audible, the smell of rain and shampoo and clean clothes twisting together into a single knot.

In the dark, Dani thinks, they could be anyone. Not gardener and au pair, but anyone, bound by a single unpredictable night.

She wonders if they should talk--about Peter Quint, about the tension of the evening, about the kids, or the roses, or any number of little odd moments around the manor. She wonders if Jamie expects her to ask questions--who Quint is, what he was to Rebecca Jessel, what he might be doing skulking around the house.

She can’t quite find it in her. It’s too warm, too soft, the silence as inviting as the rustle of Jamie’s borrowed clothes against her skin. Laying in the dark, Jamie’s foot nearly touching her own, listening to the storm pound the windowpanes, Dani is breathing easier than she has in months.

“I’m glad,” she says quietly, “you’re here.”

Jamie’s head rustles the pillowcase, turning to look at her. “Yeah?”

Dani smiles. “Yeah. I can’t explain it, but I feel...safer.” Something sharpens behind her ribcage, something that begs her to add, With Hannah, with Owen, with the kids, too. She doesn’t. It’s true, but it’s also not really what she means.

“He doesn’t know where to find you,” Jamie says, and for a moment, Dani wonders how she could possibly be talking about Eddie. Then Jamie adds, “I hate that fucker. So does Owen. Everyone is safe tonight.”

Right. Peter Quint. Of course. “I’m glad,” Dani repeats. She feels the mattress shift as Jamie carefully settles in. “Jamie?”

“Mm?”

Too many things to say. Too many questions to ask. Too many of those butterflies winging around as Jamie’s elbow bumps her, as Jamie’s breath brushes her cheek. She shuts her eyes, the simple image of Jamie’s gaze inches away too much to handle.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Poppins,” Jamie murmurs. And though Dani’s heart is racing, though her skin is hot, though the storm outside is brutal and Jamie’s bed is much smaller than she’d thought--she finds herself relaxing. Finds herself thoughtlessly shifting to a more comfortable position on her side. Finds herself, even, leaning in toward Jamie’s warmth as the sound of her breathing shallows.

For the first time in what feels like years, Dani Clayton sleeps.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #damie #clearly an AU all things considered--ghosts didn't feel like they suited this one

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weirdthinkingdragon · 3 years

Text

Welcome To The Family (3/???)

1/ 2

Warnings of bad babysitters, and a couple swears but I think that’s it. Also sorry if this seems more of a filler chapter. Can’t believe I might have made a filler chapter with my favorite character. -_-

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It’s been a week since that night. Shinsou even started joining Eri and me with things now with a small smile instead of a glare. Aizawa is the last one that still doesn’t really care for me I’m pretty sure. Today they didn’t need me to babysit since the students at the school kept begging them to bring Eri to see again. Who can blame them? Eri can melt the heart of anyone.

I was already told a few days ago to call Yamada by his first name, but it’s rather similar to Shinsou’s. I still keep getting them mixed up in my head. I still prefer to call them by their last names. Why can’t I just keep calling them by their last names? My fault for wanting to be friends with them I suppose.

Yamada texted me he wants me to come into his recording studio tonight. Something about finally having the chance to know me better? But don’t we pretty much know everything about each other already from him reading my summary and I knowing him from his professions, as well as Eri telling both of us things about each other?

Eh, I didn’t have anything planned to do today anyway.

I waited for it to get later in the day and head towards the location of the studio. He’s also a teacher, so it would be better to arrive a bit later, knowing he will be there then as well. I might ask him for a ride back to my home though if he’s willing. I don’t really want to walk alone at night back to my place, considering here is a much farther distance to my place than their house to mine. Kind of surprised to not have run into a villain yet. Here’s to hoping I never do.

Entering the tower, I’m greeted by someone unknown sitting at a desk. She has a rather deep frown on her face as she saw me enter and walk up to the desk. I feel like a nervous wreck trying to tell her I’m here to see Yamada. What if he forgot to tell her and I get humiliated?

Okay, that might be a bit ridiculous. No one else is around. “Hello. I’m here to uh… See Yamada?” Her frown deepens even further. “Farthest room on the right.” I walk towards the door. Hospitality much?

I knock on the door and wait for him to answer.

“C’mon in, Y/N!” He yells through the door. His voice was rather quiet, so the room must be incredibly soundproof. I enter the room and see Best Jeanist sitting on a chair in front of him. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” I ask.

They both shake their heads. “No, we just finished a bit ago,” Best Jeanist does a weird hand motion over his hair? “I’ll be leaving now. This was a pleasant time.” He gets up and leaves.

After a bit, I sat in the chair he was just sitting in, and it felt rather awkward between us. The warmth of the seat not aiding in much comfort.

“So… Is the woman at the main desk usually in such a mood, or is it a bad day today?”

He laughs. “She’s been like that for a while!”

For a while? “What made her like that?”

He shakes his head. “She still digs me. A while ago we tried having her as Eri’s babysitter, but it didn’t go well with how uncaring she was for her. Sho and I could both tell she couldn’t have cared less for our kids and was rather disgusted finding out Sho and I were married. She still kept tryin’ though, so we had to kick her from babysitting.”

“That explains why she seemed so annoyed with me when I asked her where your room was.”

He nods. “Yep! It probably doesn’t help I teased her by tellin’ her you’re our new sitter!”

I give him an incredulous look. “Why would you do that?”

“Ah, don’t be so worried! I just told her how you’re already a way better sitter than she ever was!”

I don’t really know what to say to that. It’s just what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? “It’s just my job. But to be honest, Eri makes it way more enjoyable. Hate to say I have favorites, but she easily has to be in my top five favorite kids I ever got to babysit.”

He seems to grow even happier at the news, judging by his smile growing bigger. Jeez, how does his face get that big without strain!? “So glad to hear that! I Gotta say, we were close to givin’ up on the whole babysitter thing until we passed yours.”

I tilt my head. “Why is that?”

His face goes into a frown. “The first two were actually villains. The first was working with some villains in trying to get Eri. Luckily we found out the same day before leaving from our son using his quirk on them. The second was known for stealin’ people’s items, but the reviews were deleted so we didn’t know until it was too late. They didn’t take anything that couldn’t be replaced though.”

“Like Eri.”

He smiles again. “Yep! But we obviously couldn’t have someone like that around us, ya know? So we caught them and turned ‘em in.”

I nod. “That makes sense. Was the next one the woman at the desk?”

He shakes his head. “Nope! That was the next one. The third one was pretty good. Or so we thought, but our son didn’t feel right with them being around Eri,” His fists clench tightly, and his frown is even deeper than before. “Turns out he had an obsession of bein’ in charge and kept bossing Eri around when we weren’t home. Making her clean everything and took the credit. I went home early one day and caught him in the act.”

My heart twinges knowing Eri had to go through EVEN MORE than she already did. “Please tell me you decked him for it.”

He smirks. “Sho wasn’t too happy at me for it, but fuck yeah I did!”

“Glad to hear!” I smirk. “I bet Shinsou was all for you decking him as well, knowing him.”

He nods. “Yep! He told me if he was there, he would have done the same thing!”

“Sounds like him.”

It goes quiet between us after that. I keep trying to think of something else to talk about, but my mind keeps coming up blank. Surprisingly or not, I’m not nearly as good at talking with adults as I am with kids. They’re usually easily distracted, and bringing up one thing can make them go into an hour of talking about it.

“Just curious, do ya ever listen to my show?” He suddenly asks. I’m so thankful he’s able to come up with something.

“Sometimes. I was introduced to it by a child I babysat before. I wasn’t too appreciative of the tantrums he would throw when he couldn’t listen to it though. It also took a bit, but your show started to grow on me.”

He smiles again. “Glad to know I’ve got some good hard fans listenin’ in!”

I roll my eyes with a smile. “I don’t think his parents would agree with you, but go ahead and think what you want.”

He smiles and shrugs.

I can’t help but suddenly try to clear my throat from how dry it seems in here now that I notice. He notices, gets up, and grabs a bottle of water from a stand not too far from his seat, passing it to me. “Here ya go! Sorry for it bein’ so dry in here. One of the previous people using this room has some desert-like quirk. Gotten pretty used to it myself!”

I take the bottle. “Thanks, Hitoshi.”

He stops for a moment and blinks at me. “I think ya mean Hizashi, my dear listener!”

Oh. OH. FUCK!

I let out an embarrassed groan and couldn’t even look at him in the eyes, making him laugh incredibly hard at my reaction. “Don’t worry about it! They do seem rather similar, don’t they?” I just reply by nodding my head. Not being used to their first names really came to bite me, didn’t it?

Hizashi’s phone started to ring. He sees who it is, and answers it. “Hey babe, what ya need?” He’s quiet for a second, but then his eyes widen as he turns and looks at the clock. “Shit! Sorry, guess time slipped by! I’ll be there shortly!” He then hangs up.

“Hey, we gotta pick up Eri and Sho from the school. Since you’re here, I could drive ya if you want!” Hearing that is more relieving than having to ask him. “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all!”

As we leave, I look back to see the woman glaring hard at me from being beside Hizashi. It’s already decided. The less I’m around her, the better.

We walk down to his black car. I get into the back seat so his husband can sit in the front. On the left is the car seat for Eri. I’ll get out when we get there so Shin- Hitoshi can sit in the middle. I really need to get them straight now before I get embarrassed by saying the wrong name again.

Huh, the seats are incredibly comfortable. They’re also a beige color. Some reason, I was really expecting a different color. Not judging though, since I don’t even have one.

It stays quiet between us until we enter the school area. It’s crazy to see in person. Aizawa, Eri, and Hitoshi are waiting outside by the entrance. I exit the vehicle, and she brightens upon seeing me. I get tackled into a hug by her. “Hey, Eri! Good to see you again!”

“Even though it’s only been a day?” Hitoshi teases.

“Admit it. You missed me too.” I tease.

He smirks. “Maybe, maybe not.” He teases back.

Aizawa’s expression is unreadable as he looks at me. I decide to just give him space and accept he might just never like me. I’m honestly a little scared to try since he might get pissed off at me instead of not liking me too much. That’s a scary thought itself. He sits up front while I help Eri get into her seat. Shin- Hitoshi waits for me to walk around and sit in the middle. Maybe to keep them straight I could call them Toshi and Zashi. Would they mind that? That seems maybe too unprofessional though.

“Do you want to drop me off first, or your family first since my place is farther away, Hizashi?”

“I think we can go to your place first. Kinda curious to see your place, dear listener! I heard your place is rather lively!” He looks into the mirror at me. “Oh! And ya got the name right this time!”

Really? Why do you have to embarrass me in front of your whole family!? I groan and hide my face with my hands.

“This time?” Aizawa questions.

“They accidentally called me our son’s name! Ya shoulda seen their face when they realized!”

I take my hands off my face. “You didn’t have to tell them that! I’m sorry! I’m not used to your first names yet!”

Hizashi and Hitoshi both laugh at me. Hitoshi’s was more of a snicker.

I decide to try to change the subject to save myself from the embarrassment. “So, you know where it is, or do you need me to tell you the way?”

“Nope! I got it memorized already!”

“Good to know.”

----------------------------------------------

We all talk a bit more on our way to my place. “Oh yeah! Hey, Y/N!” Hizashi suddenly pipes up when I was saying some joking banter with Hitoshi.

“Yeah?” I question.

“Are ya goin’ to the festival next week?”

I shrug in reply. “Not really sure. I was thinking of maybe spending a bit more time with my neighbors since I haven’t done that very much for a while.”

None of them seemed to be too happy with that I think from their silence for a minute.

“You could come with us. I’m sure Eri would like you to come.” Hitoshi informs.

Eri nods enthusiastically at me when I look at her. My brows narrow in thought. “Isn’t that a family day for you guys though? I really don’t want to intrude.”

For the first time since I’ve met him, Aizawa replies to me. “It’s not intruding if we’re inviting.”

I look at Eri again, who is beyond pleading me to go. Damn it, how in the world can I say no to her? “I guess my friends could wait a bit longer. Sure, I can come.”

“Great! We’ll pick ya up that day then!”

It’s easy to tell we’re getting close to my place by the music that blairs into the car.

… Are they seriously playing “It wasn’t me” by Shaggy today? I can’t help but laugh while everyone in the car but Hizashi is confused. It’s a nightly occurrence I’ve finally gotten used to, and sometimes even join them for a bit. I’ve learned quite a bit of English from them as well. They’re great neighbors. Honestly they’re one of the reasons I don’t move out, though now I could. This place has gotten rather cheap rent from these rambunctious people. It started with two, and soon the whole building became nothing but chaos. They’ve been frowned upon by many for their ways, but they couldn’t seem to care less. No noise complaints? No problems.

“What are you laughing at?” Hitoshi questions.

“Just my neighbor’s choice of song tonight. I’m beyond surprised they haven’t gotten into trouble for it yet.”

“You can understand it!?” Hizashi excitedly exclaims.

“Mostly. They taught me some English from me being here.”

Even though Hizashi seems like the type to like many types of music, he doesn’t seem to like the lyrics too much. Well. it IS about cheating after all. I’m beyond thankful Eri doesn’t understand any of it. Both from probably being too young, and not knowing the language very well yet.

“What’s the song about?” Eri questions.

Uh… “You don’t want to know. It’s a gross song.”

“Why laugh if it’s gross?”

I reach over and gently pat her head. I’ve finally gotten close enough she no longer fears my touch. “You will find out when you’re older. It’s an adult thing.”

She seems unsure. “O...kay.”

Hizashi pulls up to the building. My crazy friends being outside dancing their pants off as usual. I laugh at them and shake my head. Hitoshi gets out for me to exit. They all freeze and stare at me as I exit the vehicle, Hitoshi immediately getting back in. I wave at them and head towards my friends.

My closest friend, Ryo, comes up to me. “What up, my friend?” They put their hand up for a high five. Just another rare thing these people like to do. I high five their hand.

“Not much! Just got back from another day of sitting! You know, the usual!” Sadly I can’t tell them the truth from the promise to the heroes.

They take a quick glance at the car, then back at me with a whistle. “You sure got the jackpot huh? Bet those are some lucky kids!”

“It’s nothing much. Kids are kids. They’d like anyone that’s kind to them and listens to them.”

“Ah, don’t be so modest now!” They get me in a headlock and rub my head in a jokingly aggressive way. “Any kid is lucky if they get you as a sitter!”

I laugh and force myself out of their grip. Hizashi quickly pulls away in the car in the process.

We enter the building, and I’m incredibly glad they didn’t ask to come in. On the outside the place looks fine, but the inside is pretty much falling apart. Walls peeling, and the floor thin enough to feel the vibrations of the music underneath. Hey, at least we never have a mold problem. It might be from someone here who has a mold-absorption type of quirk. How he discovered it, I don’t want to know.

I’m rather tired today, so I’m not joining them. Ryo seemed to notice, so they went back out to the others. I just flop onto my bed and almost immediately fall asleep.

#Yandere EraserMic household #x reader #yandere x reader #platonic yandere shinsou x reader #yandere erasermic x reader #yandere shouta aizawa #yandere hizashi yamada

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jjkpls · 3 years

Text

first love (m)

genre : fluff, angst, light smut

pairing : kim seokjin x reader (f)

word count : 4.6k

warnings/content : mentions of sexual intercourse, mature language, infidelity, separated parents, unresolved past relationship, dad!seokjin, mom!reader

Seokjin doesn't mean to overreact. He knows he shouldn't. Knows you hate it. Knows, because he's been told enough times, that these types of reactions are unnecessary and possibly harmful for a child.

He can't really help it when deep down he knows he was meant to be an actor. Right before his actual birthday, his mother had dreamt of giving birth on a theatre stage, for God's sake.

But his father wasn't into it, given his ambitions, his own growing company and all the promising opportunities he envisioned both for him and for his only son. Therefore Seokjin went to law school, graduated with excellent mentions, followed an accelerated program in business development and managing and joined his father exactly where he was expected.

He isn't exactly complaining.

He likes his job, most of the time, likes the money and luxury that come with it especially and appreciates the work safety.

Now, you can't blame him for being quite the drama queen in his everyday life. All that pent up, buried alive passion for the arts of acting need to express, somehow.

That's what he'd say to you when you used to yell at him for starting weeping loudly in your ear when he'd call you to cancel a date last minute because he couldn't come, instead of just, cancelling it, aplogize, get over it like a normal person.

Or when you'd kick him in the ribs because he'd be all wild gestures and screeching screams when he'd teach your son to ride a bike and he would fall, as he should to learn, making the boy cry even when he wasn't hurt, solely from the projection of his dad's fear.

You're not here to tell him yourself but the glazed, annoyed roll of his son's eyes tells him precisely what you would. Those eyes are the worst. The prettiest he's ever seen. The ones he loves the most. The ones you also wear on your own pretty face.

"Since when?" He has a hand pressed to his chest, preventing a heart attack it seems, gaze wide and alarmed. Timothy sighs.

"A while. They were already together for Valentine's Day-" He explains patiently. That kid is sweet. The way he's slumped over, obviously annoyed to have to be the one telling his dad and having to deal with the consequences but still, he's watching over him with a soft eye, mouth torn in a sympathetic pout. He wouldn't mind his parents to get back together even though he is almost sure it wouldn't be a good idea for the both of you. He's heard tales of dysfunctional families, of parents hurting each other and their children and doesn't want that for any of you. He can't imagine it happen. You two are too good for that. That's probably why you had decided to separate in the first place.

Seokjin is quickly making maths in his head. Not really counting the time but situating himself in that time frame. Where was he at when she was out with this guy? What was he doing?

He may have been in Japan when it started. He remembers a call from you, you were asking him to take Timothy for a couple of days. You sounded embarrassed and he didn't know why but couldn't take the time to investigate, he had a flight expecting him and a conference call waiting to start in a couple of minutes. Important stuff. None of it would have mattered if he had known what you were up to.

"You okay, dad?" Timothy asks, awkward but kind. His mom basically.

"Devastated." Seokjin says with the widest grin on his face. He's not devastated. It'd be ridiculous to be for something absolutely predictable, fair and normal. He's not mad, nor disappointed. You deserve to be seeing people, have them desire you and make you feel good. He wishes it were him but if he can't do that, if you won't let him, he's glad you still can allow someone else to do it.

He's surprised though, he can't lie about that.

Honestly. That's stupid. But he didn't expect one second that you were seeing someone. You never mentioned anything and you didn't look like it. If there's a way you look when you're dating.

He remembers rosy cheeks and short skirts. You were younger.

"You think it's serious?" He asks casually, surprising even himself. His heart is in a turmoil but he showed enough to Timothy, acting like he was half dying, gasping for air and all.

"I don't know. She doesn't want to bring him home yet. Like, introduce him to me. I asked." Timothy, not only is he nice, he is smart. He's thirteen, shouldn't know much about Love and adults' matters yet. He's supposed to still be at that stage when one believes children and adults are two very distinctive race of humans, one that depends on the other and the other having it all figured it out, having reached a certain knowledge and expertise on all things and can't really be wrong on accident.

Timothy knows precisely what his dad would love to hear. And he gives it to him. Not to feed him vain hopes. Not even for this tiny hidden greed to have you back together. Simply because it's the truth and if for once the truth is pleasant to hear, then he should give it. Seokjin's smile only gets brighter. He shares a glance with his son, a glint winking his way and Timothy rolls his eyes, unable to hide the lift of the corners of his lips.

"Anyway, I heard you won that science fair at school?" Seokjin has already left his seat on Timothy's bed. He's rummaging through his leather bag and Timothy knows what it means. He has a present for him. Seokjin always has a present for him. Most of the time, he can justify it by some event or some success Timothy had encountered. The thing is they don't see each other that often, therefore, almost systematically, something new has come about and Seokjin can explain why he's brought a brand new console, a new laptop, a TV for his room or that one limited edition of this way too expensive branded pair of sneakers.

You used to get really mad at that. You'd say that he shouldn't, that he didn't need to bring him all these expensive stuff because what he'd like (it was a long time ago when Timothy was too young to have his own opinion and you would speak for him) is for his dad to be here more often. You'd say he wouldn't have to buy him shit for any other times than Christmas and his birthday if only he could be here for him. His dad would be his present.

It caused a lot of drama, a lot of crying. You had made sure not to scream, not to be too angry but Timothy felt from the way you squeezed him hard against your bosom that you were very upset. His dad had apologized, had said the most with his eyes only for you to understand. Timothy was staring, trying to get it too because he was involved, wasn't he? But that was one of those adults moments he wasn't allowed to participate in yet.

From then on, his dad wasn't late anymore when he'd set dates with him, his phone would be turned off when they were together and he would text him more often.

It was really nice. Because at first, Timothy felt that maybe if his dad wasn't so present it was because he didn't want to. For some reasons. He thought maybe he was too much of a coward or too nice possibly, to leave you two altogether, to disappear from your lives and start another one somewhere else, one he would have chosen and shaped as he'd want. Turns out Seokjin really appreciated his son and the time he got to spend with him. The more time they spend together, the more Timothy is met with awed eyes and whistling lips, impressed as his dad is by his smartness, his humour and hidden talents. He just was very busy. You explained that to him. That he was passionate by his work, that it required a sacrificial amount of time in one's life, and that he shouldn't ever take it personally because even he loved you and couldn't give you that time.

It's the conversation that led him to think that maybe his parents are meant to be, except they won't because... circumstances.

In any case, no matter how often they meet now, Seokjin still brings him gifts each and every time. The difference is that he has to think of a reason, sometimes make one up to not be struck down by your fury.

"Yes, I did."

"Of course, you did! Cause my son is the smartest." Timothy waits for the moment he says that his brain and the magic fuel filling it all come from him. It doesn't come. Instead, a neat white box is held in front of his face. There's a pretty tie made of ribbons glued in the middle, to hide the picture of what's inside, but there's no doubt that this is an iPhone. He rips the tie off and surprise surprise it's the iPhone 12.

"Mom is going to kill you." Timothy says first, before even thanking him, heart pounding from excitement and face split in two by the wide banana grin.

"Probably." He shrugs, unapologetic.

"Thanks, dad!" Timothy doesn't forget to add, eyes shiny and toothy grin even shinier.

He hopes so. That you're going to be mad. You two are too old to have petty fights now. You don't waste your energy in screaming and finding the worst things to say to hurt his feelings. You just cross your arms under your tits, clench your jaws and adopt that pout on your mouth, eyelids low and eyebrows high, the embodiment of condescendence and you look sexy as hell. He smiles and winks at you, calls you by an old pet name and you're swooning even though you try to hide it. No one is charming like he is, and no one charms you as he does therefore he's not too worried.

His son was just going around with this prehistorical device you dared to call a smartphone. With the broken screen, and the non-functioning selfie cam and the safari app needing a good ten minutes to charge one fucking page -this was deliberate as you wanted him to have a phone to call and text you and not go and lose himself on the internet or whatever. He's almost fourteen though and he's doing a great job at school and is such a good kid at home, he deserves it.

"I know and I don't care. I don't need you to tell me my son is good." You are infuriated. The perfect picture of you he had imagined, the only difference is that, you've just walked out of work, you seem to have had a rough day and your hair is a mess. With the wild locks hanging off of your bun, framing your pretty face, you look even better. "I don't want him to have something so expensive on him, first of all."

"His dad is richer than Cresus, what do you expect?" The cockiness dripping from every pore should suffice to make you explode. Of course, it doesn't. He has that stupid side grin. The one he's got you with in the first place.

"And what about- internet and even just the darn AppStore? He's too young to-"

"Are you worried about porn?" He frowns, you flush. That's precisely one of the things you think about. You don't want him to fall upon stuff he doesn't need to see -in your opinion for a good ten years at least- or start taking interest in social medias where creepy fuckers could hang out.

You flush because apparently, it's a word complicated still to hear from him. "I've made a parental software installed in it. And a localisation too. Not that we really need it with him but you know."

"Oh." All tension escapes from your torn face and tensed shoulders.

"Oh, wow, my first love is such a good dad." He mocks, voice high, hardly resembling yours, barely biting back a smirk. He even goes as far as swiping the right side of his bangs back, eyes closed, mannerism insufferable.

"Shut up." More flush. A fist to his chest for punishment. Bad idea. Apparently, he went back to the gym.

"You should be nicer because I have something for you too." He says, eyes glancing mischievously as his hand dips in the pocket of his trench coat. "Well. I don't want it." You cross your arms on your chest again which only serves to push your tits forward to him and he wonders what you're playing at. Probably the same game he plays when he winks and smiles and lifts his eyebrow to you.

"Wait 'til you see it." He sees the moment you realize it's a jewellery box. He reads the instant wild excitement, he catches also the gloomy shadow you try to paint over it because you don't want to accept it. How many times does he need to be told to stop? He won't ever stop.

"You can't buy me, Seokjin." You're eyeing the velour box in his hand, a tiny beautiful red in this large pearly white palm. You want it. You always do. You don't dare uncross your arms though because you know that if you even do something as reckless as taking it in your hand, just to have a look at it, you won't be able to refuse it.

"Of course, I can." More of that smirk. You glare, it makes him wheeze as he does.

You have never ever been able to refuse any of his shiny presents. You're not a gold digger, that's precisely why you felt so guilty all the time, accepting to receive from him things you could never afford for him -or yourself. He's born richer than you'll ever be, he loves to spend it on his loved ones -and on cars and designer clothes- and amongst everything else he loves, he adores covering you in shiny little rocks.

No one has ever worn diamonds the way you do. You look beautiful without them, magnificent with them. They were made to enhance your beauty and you were made to give them sense.

"You're such a dick." You say, tone way too monotonous to still have been in total control of your free will. Your eyes are glued to the shine of the two dainty clear earrings nested in the case. He's holding it open in front of your nose, like a hypnotizing stick. He sees your determination wavers. Your arms have just untied. Your hand is getting close. He smiles already savouring his victory.

"Take them, petal, I don't think your new boy could ever afford them." Your hand freezes mid-track, face falling you look up. He's a bit surprised to see guilt in those eyes. Shame and guilt. Even though, you have the right to see whoever you want. Obviously.

"How-" His head tilts slightly towards the hallway, where the bedrooms and the one Timothy is in, probably playing with his new phone. "Great. Bribing our son into giving you off my personal information."

"I gave him the iPhone after he told me." Seokjin feels the need to precise. His son loves him and he confided for this very reason. He wants to believe. He hopes that it's not because he's worried his dad would have a mental breakdown if he were to learn the news the day his mom would invite him to their wedding or something.

You sigh. You don't know what to say it seems. He doesn't want you to feel upset. He's not going to congratulate you either. He can't.

"Take them."

"He could- he's a doctor, you know." You sound like a petty little girl saying that, fingers aiming for the box but mouth reshaped by contempt.

Thankfully, the mesmerizing glee on your lovely face makes up for this last information.

A doctor.

He snorts, huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Are you really being disdainful over the noblest of all professions?"

"I bet he's not as handsome as I am." Seokjin says, staring away into space in a very Vogue kind of pose.

"And it's relevant because your face saves lives too, right?" You add to his clownery, biting on the smile wanting to take over your face.

"Precisely." You're already putting them on, watching your fingers work in the reflection on the microwave door. He's loving it. One is on, reflecting the light coming from the window, bringing a new sense to your whole stance. You don't look tired anymore. You look very fancy. Sexier than before. Your butt sways a little in excitement when you take a new look at yourself, now beautifully decorated and he's reminded of an idea he once had but never got to realize.

He wanted to have a fashion designer make a garter holder made of tiny diamonds. Solely diamonds. It would fit you just right, maybe a bit tight on you, would dig slightly in the meat of your thighs, enough to look fucking sinful and not too much so it doesn't hurt. He was quite young when he had the idea first and was probably not rich enough to make it happen.

He now owns a few palaces perched on the last stage of skyscrapers in three of the most expensive cities in the world and he would sell one in a beat if it meant he could get that for you and see you wear it for him.

You'd probably end up accepting it and then wear it for your new boy so that's out the question.

He doesn't hesitate when he reaches a hand forward, slip his fingers through the tie holding your hair in a bun and slide it off. You don't even flinch, he's still allowed to do that.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you." You whisper with a smile, both for the compliment and for the present.

"You went to the hair salon." You nod, forcing yourself not to show your surprise. He doesn't need it to throw himself some flowers, "See? I noticed." He adds with way too much pride for so little.

"Your lenses work, congratulations." Sarcasm is the only answer to his stupidity, you both have figured this out long ago. "Is he nice?" Seokjin can't help but ask. He doesn't want to know too much about him. Kind of hopes that it won't be necessary as the guy won't last too long. But he can't resist his curiosity.

"Yes." You say without much of a hesitation. "Last week, he took me to this nice French restaurant in Songpa." You tell, eyes looking away, a bit pensive, mindlessly playing with one strand of your hair. Your face is taken over by that air. Seokjin realizes then that you really like him.

"I used to take you to very nice restaurants all the time, remember?" He's just messing around now. He knows it's not that relevant. Knows it won't get him higher in your regard,

"And I would spend half the date with the waiter while you'll have yours with your phone. I do remember." Especially given you don't recall your common past the same.

He does remember now that you mention it. His memory has been awfully selective and mainly, what he could picture when he thought about those times, is how beautiful you looked, how much he wanted you and felt like even sitting right next to you, he couldn't satisfy that need, was missing you even if you were right there, and the mind-blowing sex too. The later probably happening because he owed to make it up to you because indeed, his job was on the dates too and you hated that. He remembers the late mornings, the lazy ones, you'd make him carry you on his back because your legs and your hips hurt too badly.

"Ouch!" Toppling over, hand on his bosom where it actually really hurts, he yelps in agony, pretending to have been shot. You giggle and slap his shoulder, pester him to stop when you both hear Timothy ask from his room if everything's okay. You'd think he would know by now that his dad is just a clown whose shenanigans shouldn't be taken seriously.

"Are you seeing someone these days?" What a shame, Seokjin really thought for once he'd be solely cool and collected and handsome. Instead, he can feel his ears start to burn in embarrassment, walks a few steps back, pretending to want to throw a glance through the window when really, he'd do anything to not have see you notice.

"Someone?" He huffs. "Some three, actually some four or five. You know how the ladies get with me-" He sounds dumb as hell. It suffices to make you laugh. You've always laughed at his antics. Even when you were going through complicated times, like the pregnancy and the soon to follow break up, he'd try to dry your cheeks and lighten your gaze, heartbroken as he was to see you like that, and it would always work.

"And I know how bad you are with maths." He nods, doesn't look at you, simply stares at the shiny tip of his italian shoes. "You should call me sometimes, Jin." You don't need to tell him, he knows. You say that to him almost every single time. It's just you being kindhearted, the way you've always been. But first, he hates the idea that somehow, to some degree, it's a pity hand you're holding out for him. And secondly, he knows he'll fuck up if he calls.

He won't be able to talk about his job or politics or what's on the dumb tv these days. He'd probably start by asking what you're wearing and end it all by serenading you. What a bad idea. "You don't ever call, only Tim. Which is fine but-" He is lonely, he does miss you, but he's not that stupid. "I miss you too, you know." You look awfully sincere when you say this. There's still a sad shade to your eyes and he suspects it comes from you worrying about him rather than you simply wanting him more in your life. Maybe it's there for both reasons. He can't be mad at you for caring about him still, can he? Ultimately, it's sweet. It's not your fault he tends to be a loser in his very personal life.

He wouldn't know who he is trying to comfort when he strides forward and place a kiss on your cheek. The other one he's cradling in his palm feels warmer the longer he touches it. He doesn't let it go once he backs up and away. You're looking up to him with your eyes looking all round and childish. Quiet and in expectancy. You look like you do when you would wait for him to kiss you. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip and he smirks.

"Expecting me to kiss you?" He asks with an eyebrow raised high. Pretend judgment in his tone, even remonstrance. As if. "How scandalous, when you already have a boyfriend." You know he's just kidding and he can tell that. He wouldn't play with that if he wasn't sure. He doesn't want to hurt your feelings, make you feel wrong or bad in any way. He loves you too much for that. You could let him kiss you and he wouldn't hold you accountable for it. Therefore he does. Because he's dying to since the last time it happened a couple of weeks back. And when your own lips welcome his, with that much willing and tenderness, he suspects you've had too.

He doesn't allow it to go too far. He thought you would stop him, at some point, but you don't. He's the one pulling away when his tongue, instinctively, means to reach out for your own. He knows what comes after that, and what comes after that and after and after. And even if you transpire guilt and shame, he can sense in the way your eyes stare into his that you would have let it all happen.

He's not lacking in desire, he hopes you know that. Honestly, since earlier, and that random flash of the diamond garter holder, his brain is half clouded by the thought of your thighs and his face buried in between them. You used to make the most delicious sounds, pulling at the root of his hair and chasing your high with your hips. Also now that he's met your mouth again and he envisioned what could happen if he just let go, he can't help but think about that dresser in your room. The gigantic thing you wanted him and Timothy to put together as sort of a father and son enterprise to bound or whatever - he ended up paying a guy to do it for them and they played Mario Kart instead but you don't need to know that. Point of the matter is, that massive dresser has a massive mirror on its door and that massive mirror sits perfectly in front of your bed. And all he can think about is how bad he'd like to fuck you on your bed while you'd watch yourself in it. He'd pull back your hair, hold in tight in his fist like he knows you love so you could see your own cute face while his cock would reshape your cunt to its fitting, all this with the pretty little shiny earrings adorning your ears.

Fuck, what a concept.

And it is to say that right now, he knows, you'd let him. He's not that wicked though. He feels your too weak to resist him today therefore he's not even going to chance it. He doesn't want you to do something you'd hate yourself for afterwards.

"I should go, I still have documents to send for a new contract before-" He takes a look at the expensive watch heavy on his wrist, you roll your eyes. "Half an hour ago, great." He offers you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes no matter how hard he tries before he's off to the hallway, giving you his broad back. "I'm going to say bye to Tim."

"It's just- like that, Seokjin." The words are pretty badly chosen. They don't mean much. Seokjin still gets it though. He can picture you behind him, shrugging your shoulders and tilting your head to the side. It doesn't mean much.

"I know, petal. Don't worry." He throws over his shoulder, faux lightness in his tone even though his heart feels raw. It doesn't mean enough, is more accurate. This kiss like every single one of your shared looks and words and bickering and touches, they all mean that you still fit perfectly good together. However, it's not enough because somehow, someday, you came to the conclusion that you were not meant to be. He's confused as to why and how he agreed with you then. Here's the main reason why he never calls you.

When Timothy looks up from his new phone, wearing your eyes and his smile, he feels a whole new range of pain affected to his sensitized heart. How can you not see that you're meant to be?

A/N: Happy Lunar New Year :) this little thingy was inspired by Arsène Lupin and the relationship between Assane and Claire for those who watched it! I don’t know if i translated well the alchimy and unfightable attraction and connection they still have even after having seperated. ANYWAY, hope you all are doing fine, hope you liked this, LET ME KNOW what you thought, tell me about your day, your resolutions if you have any, what’s the weather like where you at etc lmao xoxo

PS: stay tuned for a new upcoming series i’m quite excited about ~~

#btswriterscollective #thekimlinenet #ksmutclub #bts fluff #bts smut #bts angst #seokjin fluff #seokjin smut #seokjin angst #bts scenario #seokjin fanfic #bts fanfic #seokjin scenario

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