#taper jean girl

[awesomehoggirl]

NEW LAYOUT!!!

HOLY SHIT I CANNOT BELIEVE SOMEONE NOTJCED. YES MINOR CHANGE TO MY LAYOUT!!!

[taperjeangirly]

[erodasfishtacos]

hiiii guys.

this is my new trope on patreon. there are 6 more parts available on there and more updates to come. You can subscribe for $3USD a month here

THE KISSCAM TROPE

++

YN doesn't know why she thought that a hockey game of all things would make her feel any better about her breakup with Adam.

YN really can’t imagine that anything will lessen the sour taste of her high school sweetheart getting another girl pregnant.

All YN had known was Adam which she was now realizing how much she had been missing out on experiencing through her earlier twenties.

While Adam snuck around behind her back to experiment, hook-up, and do whatever else with other woman.

YN, unfortunately, only knew Adam intimately.

YN always knew that had been lackluster, always more to desire because he chased his own needs and very rarely helped her reach her own pleasure.

It was bittersweet.

There’s a massive relief that she doesn’t have to imagine her entire life with him and open it to new possibilities.

However, the hurt that came with his infidelity still ached enough that she sometimes physically felt her chest twinge.

:readmore:

A hockey game with a few of her close friends.

Her best friend, April, worked for the arena which meant that she was able to secure pretty close-to-the-ice tickets for a fourth of the price.

As they sat down, a few of them had already had a drink or two in them, and YN didn’t want to mix alcohol with a broken heart so she stuck to a soda instead.

After they’ve filed into their seats, YN was at the one end of her group which meant the chair next to her would be filled by another attendee.

She didn’t think anything of it, leaning across her friend Henry to chat to April, her back towards the empty seat.

YN does not realize that someone is trying to sit down until someone bumps her in the back with their elbow, not hard enough to hurt but enough that YN glances back.

“Sorry for that,” The most gorgeous man she’s ever seen apologizes, a big genuine smile that makes dimples pop in his cheeks, “Got my hands full.”

And he did, he managed to carry three bottles of beer by the neck in one hand, his other filled with a tray of food.

His friends follow shortly after, tugging the beers one by one out of his hand until he can sit down comfortably with his carton of food on his lap.

“It’s okay,” YN assures him, trying to not make it too obvious that she’s giving him a sneaky once over because damn.

He was in a pair of well fitting jeans, a shirt that looked vintage but hugged his broad shoulders tight, looser as it tapered down.

The man continues to smile at her as his friends appear to be quite a rowdy group in comparison to him as they settle in.

“You’re pretty,” The stranger tells her, no shame in his words but not much meaning because he’s already turning back towards his friends like he didn’t just rock her world.

YN questions whether she heard it right because did he just call her pretty?

She tries desperately not to hyper focus on it like a schoolgirl with a crush but it’s hard when his shoulders are so broad, his biceps were built.

It was impossible for their bodies not to be frequently touching.

YN attempts to focus on her friends until the game starts, having to face forward and not be able to have her back to the man.

“You want a fry?” The stranger asks randomly after a few moments.

YN assumes that he’s talking to a friend until he nudges her with an elbow, “Do you want a fry or a chicken strip?”

YN normally wouldn’t accept food from someone she didn’t know but their dinner had been disgusting and inedible which meant her stomach was rumbling.

He’s offering the basket up to her, letting her pick out a fry, and his smile was still just plaster on his face as he watched her.

“Thank you,” YN replies after she’s finished it, giving him more of an unsure grin back.

“Help yourself,” He tells her casually before he’s placing the basket between them so she could grab a fry or strip more easily.

This was weird.

After a few minutes, YN hesitantly plucks up another fry, and the man next to her doesn’t acknowledge that she’s eating out of his basket at all.

When YN’s hand hits paper, she looked down in utter embarrassment, “Oh my god. I am so sorry. I didn’t even realize that I was eating all your food.”

The guy looks over at her for a moment, confused until he glances down at the basket balanced on his leg, and then back to her.

“I’ll go grab you another one right now-“

YN moves to stand up and his hand lightly comes to her shoulder to keep her sat, his expression is somewhat unreadable, somewhat amused.

“I offered them to you? Why are you apologizing?”

“You didn’t offer for me to eat the whole basket,” YN points out with a heat in her cheeks, this was embarrassing.

“Are you still hungry? I could go grab more,” He asks easily, it wasn’t a jest or teasing, he was being a hundred percent serious.

If YN would have ate Adam’s food, he would have demanded she go immediately to get more and then bring it up for the rest of the night too.

This man, who was unfairly attractive but more than that, suspiciously nice even though it didn’t come off as creepy or predatory.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m sorry again,” YN apologizes again for good measure as she picks anxiously at her thumb.

“No apology needed,” He shakes his head with a laugh as he puts the empty remnants on the ground in front of him and swigs from his beer.

YN has to keep her eyes on the ice, she is much too focused on every time his shoulder brushes or his knee knocks in hers because he has to spread his legs an ungodly amount.

There was no conversation between them until another attendee who was further into the middle row was attempting to exit by their side.

The man was a bit wobbly, there was surely a lot of alcohol running through his system and he wasn’t being careful.

He trips over his own feet, over the debris on the ground, and rumbles right on top of YN who yelps in surprise.

The man next to her is quick to action, standing up and tugging the guy back up so that he was standing off his feet.

He was visibly annoyed with the drunk, voice sharp as he warns, “Watch where you’re fucking walking, mate. You could have hurt her.”

The guy mumbles an apology before staggering up the stairs, most likely to get more alcohol.

“Thank you,” YN says once again to him, adjusting her top and brushing off the pants of her leg, heart still pounding.

“Harry, bro. Johnson almost scored!” One of his friends pats his arm excitedly.

Harry.

Well, Harry gives her that signature smile before biting the corner of his lip, and his eyes stay on her a moment longer than acceptable before going back to his friends.

When a commercial break cuts, towards the end of the game, it’s the crowd's favorite time.

The kiss cam.

YN doesn’t think much of it, she’s not with anyone nor loving up on someone.

And it’s an area with fifty-thousand people, it’s next to impossible for her to-

But then her friends are squealing, shoving at her to look towards the Jumbotron, and there she is, projected on the screen.

The frame is decorated with corny swirling pink hearts, balloons popping, and most importantly bold letters that read, ‘KISS CAM’.

In the frame with her, however, is Harry.

As if they were a couple.

His friends must point it out to him because he’s glancing at the screen before he’s making eye contact with her.

Boldly, wildly, he grins and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

YN boldy, wildly nods ‘yes’.

He leans into her space then, big hands coming up to cup her face, and he pulls her into a kiss with an intensity that’s unwarranted but welcomed.

YN can feel her heartbeat in her throat, blood rushing through her ears, and her hand trembling when she wraps her fingers around his wrist.

It’s not chaste.

No, Harry is swiping his tongue against her bottom lip as the crowd goes absolutely insane, roaring and hooting.

Not to mention their friends.

At some point, the camera finds a new couple but YN is positive that they’ve kissed for much longer than they were on the screen before they both pull back.

His lips are puffy, pink, and his eyes are intent on her.

YN feels like panting and her heart jumps when he leans back in for another kiss, a shorter, more sweet one but his hand is grounding on her jaw.

“I’m Harry.”

“YN,” She smiles back at him, her hand still gripping onto him and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit as they just can’t take their eyes off each other.

“Would you want to get out of here?” Harry asks brazenly, hopefully as he appears like he wants to devour her.

YN who’s never been a risk-tasker, who’s never had a hook-up, or anyone other than Adam finds herself agreeing, “Yeah, I do.”

+++

part ii

After Harry had opened his apartment door, the arousal and excitement has warped into a trembling nervousness.

What the fuck did a random hookup look like?

YN didn’t even know if she was good at sex because Adam only had a few trusty positions that he liked.

Harry locks the door behind them, the apartment is small but cozy and clean, it smells like his cologne and the lighting is just right for the mood.

He steps up behind her, leaning down to kiss her neck, and his hands on her hips, bigger and stronger than anything she’s ever felt before.

“Do you need anything first? Bathroom, food, water?” He asks against her skin, he was forward in the way that he was already pressing his hips into her backside.

YN shakes her head, trying to keep up, “No, thank you.”

Harry laughs softly, lips smooth against her pulse, “So polite. Let me know if that changes, baby.”

Baby.

They just met and it sounded sincere, not like a corny pickup line.

Harry moves in front of her, not once ounce of shyness as he crosses his arms over his chest and tugs his shirt up and off.

He was ripped.

Surprisingly so, not that he didn’t look fit with his shirt on but YN wasn’t expecting him to have abs, a sharp vee cutting towards his groin, nor the defined muscle near his ribs.

He looks like he walked out of a magazine.

Was she being pranked?

YN didn’t think this could possibly be real life where the most handsome man she’d ever seen was stripping for her.

He moves towards his jeans, unbuckling his belt, and shimmying them off his narrow hips before kicks them to the side.

Just in his briefs and socks, his groin was prominent, and YN’s heart lurches at that because she’s only taken Adam who was a little below average in size.

His wasn’t average, she could tell from here.

A nervous flip of arousal churns in the bit of her stomach, she wanted this man so much that she felt like clenching her thighs together.

Harry’s brow knife in concern when he notices YN stood like a statue, just staring at him, and making no effort to move.

“Is everything okay?” Harry checks cautiously, stepping towards her but not touching her as he looks unsure.

Fuck, she was embarrassed again.

“Uh, ye-yeah,” Her voice cracks like a boy going through puberty, “Just my first time.”

Harry’s eyes widen in alarm, startled, “Oh fuck, I would have done shit different if I knew that you’ve never-“

YN realizes she could have used much better wording and waves her hand, “No no, I’m not a virgin. I just got out of a long-term relationship. I’ve only ever been with him. This is my first time…just randomly hooking up with someone.”

A relieved smile crosses Harry’s face, “Shit, baby. I’m glad you chose me. How could someone let you go? Prettiest face I’ve ever seen, cutest set of tits too.”

“I just might not be the best but,” YN shrugs sheepishly, this has to be the most mortifying experience ever.

“Don’t be worried ‘bout a thing,” Harry assures her as he steps forward, “Now I gotta give it my all to prove m’better than your ex.”

YN decides to take a step out of her comfort zone, reaching forward to grip him through the cotton of his briefs, and he fills her whole hand.

“You weren’t going to give it your all before?” YN teases, feeling her confidence grow by the moment as she moves to thumb over the sensitive head.

“Fuck,” He curses under his breath, eyes meeting hers under his lashes, “I was always going to, baby.”

“Mhm,” YN hums, not convinced as he twitches in her palm, easy for her already.

“Gotta get you naked, my room,” Harry’s breathing is heavier as he reaches out for her hand, guiding her towards his bedroom.

Once they’re in, it’s surprisingly big, and has a comfortable looking king-sized bed that was actually made nicely.

“Please,” YN hears him asks after a moment of her being distracted, “Let me undress you. I’m fuckin’ dying to see you.”

YN can’t help but look over his body once more and she knew she was nothing in comparison to his athletic build.

However, pushing the insecurity down, she nods with a smile for him to undress her.

It was worth the nerves.

By the time she’s down to just her panties, Harry is groaning as he acts like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

“Knew you’d have the cutest set of tits I’ve ever seen,” Harry rumbles as he ducks down to cup them in his big palms, mouth wrapping around one and sucking.

It felt amazing.

Adam didn’t pay any attention to her body when they had sex, never had, and it did feel like her first time in a way.

She wouldn’t want it with anyone else but Harry.

His hand trails from her breast down her belly, fingers dipping into the front of her cotton underwear.

“Fuck, wait,” YN reaches down to hold his wrist, cheeks warm, “You don’t have to.”

Harry pulls his mouth back from her chest, frowning as he stands up straight again, “Do you not like that?”

“It’s not that, I just haven’t you know…” YN trails off, hoping that he would catch on.

He doesn’t.

“You haven’t….” Harry repeats back, he was still soft and gentle, unhurried and patient with her as she hesitated.

YN looks past his right ear as she replies, “I haven’t shaved in a while. We’ve been broken up for a few months and I haven’t maintained-“

Harry is letting out a humored snort, leaning forward to kiss her quiet before he’s kneeling down in front of her, mouth laying wet kisses on her belly.

“Baby, you’re insane if you think I mind hair. Anyway, I can get your pussy is fine by me. I like it, knowing I’m the first to have you like this in a while,” Harry replies, voice scratchier as his arousal grows, and his lips stay on her hip as he tugs the underwear down her legs.

Adam would refuse to have anything to do with her if she wasn’t freshly shaven.

Not shaving for the past few months had felt like the most freeing experience, she hadn’t ever thought she would be randomly having a hookup or she would have shaved.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Harry groans when he finally gets a look at her, his thumb coming up to smooth down the downy curls that were lightly dusting her pubic bone.

“Harry,” YN giggles anxiously, “You don’t have to act like -“

“Can I get my mouth on you?” Harry cuts her off, his eyes were glued to her center, where his thumb was pressing between her folds to nudge at her clit.

YN raises her eyebrow in surprise.

Adam had rarely done that, maybe five times total in their entire relationship, and YN never requested it because it didn’t feel good enough to want it again.

“If you want,” YN breathes out, still in a bit disbelief that this man was kneeling in front of her, asking to put his mouth if her.

“If I want,” He chuckles with a shake of his head before his hands are gripping his hips a bit firmer and keeping her still.

He doesn’t waste another moment, burying his face into her center, nose bumping against the curls on her mound as his tongue swipes through the split of her.

Harry knows what he’s doing.

His lips find her clit in seconds flat but he’s grunting at her, communicating without taking his mouth off of her, and shoulders her legs apart wider.

YN reaches for balance, finding his hair as something perfect to weave her fingers into, and hold steady.

He then just casually, again refusing to take his mouth away, hefts one of her thighs over his shoulder, and makes it possible to lick even deeper.

“Harry,” YN moans kittenishly, a sound she’s never heard out of her own mouth as she tugs harshly at his hair.

He lets out his own moan between sucks and licks, nose buried in the curls, and he’s taking heavy breathes because of his refusal of air.

YN has had orgasms when she had sex with Adam, occasionally, and with her own fingers.

This was the first time someone other than herself made her come.

Holy shit, it was life-changing.

“M’close,” YN warns but by the time she gets the words out, she’s throwing her head back and bucking her hips into his mouth as she rides it out.

His hands move to grip her ass hard, bruising enough as he pushes her as close as possible to help her feel it for as long as possible.

YN realizes just how much she was tugging his hair when her fingers ache, unwinding them as she pants, “I’m sorry. I pulled your hair so hard.”

Harry sits back on his heels, face shining as he swipes his thumb across his bottom lip before sticking in his mouth.

He was fucking obscene.

“Loved it,” Harry replies, voice raspy and deeper than ever, “You tasted just as good as you look. I think I’m in love with the bush.”

YN giggles as he helps her unwind her leg from over his shoulder, he stands up and kisses her hard.

It shouldn’t be hot that she can taste herself.

“Want to see you,” YN murmurs shyly, her fingernails trailing down his stomach, his abs twitching in response.

“Yeah, baby?” Harry goads as he watches her hand, “Hopefully it’s to your liking.”

YN takes that as permission to tug his briefs down his thighs, he was beautiful here too, unsurprisingly.

YN had experience with this.

Kinda.

Adam was less than half the size, not as pretty nor as thick.

It was a bit intimidating.

Harry must sense it, pressing a kiss to her lips, and huffing when she wraps her hand around him, stroking upwards.

“S’gonna fit, nice and snug, huh?” Harry whispers sweetly before he bites her bottom lip, he takes it upon himself to reach down again.

He slips in index and middle finger through her folds, crooking them up inside of her, and cursing under his breathe.

“Baby, you’re tight,” He tells her as he goes slowly, working her open as she pumps him in slow, firm strokes.

YN bites her lip, brave as she thumbs over his shiny tip, “Fuck me, please. Want it.”

“What do you like?” Harry asks as he walks them backwards to the bed, YN landing on her back and squirming up to the middle center.

“What do you mean?” YN asks between a gasp when she feels him brush against her mound, tip bumping at her folds.

“What position gets you off the best?” Harry elaborates as he peppers kisses over her collarbone, tweaking a nipple in his fingers.

“Whatever you like,” YN replies because none get her off.

Harry glances up at her, “But what position is good for you?”

“They’re all the same, aren’t they?” YN shrugs mulishly, “I don’t usually, well, I can use my fingers in any one.”

Harry looks at her like she’s grown a second head, voice sharper, “Did you ex really never make you orgasm during sex without you using your own fingers?”

YN tucks her bottom lip between her front teeth for a moment, “He said it’s easier if I just did it so yeah.”

Harry shakes his head, a scoff of disbelief, “How did he not worship this perfect little pussy, baby? I’ve never seen anything more magnificent.”

YN tries not to let the compliment go to her head, he defiently says that to every other girl he’s been with, it’s just a line.

“Your fingers aren’t going to be anywhere near your cunt tonight,” Harry rumbles as he reaches over to his night stand, rummaging until he finds a condom and rolls it over himself.

“Sweetheart, you’re drippin’ to your bum,” Harry laughs but it’s not mean, it’s fond as he has her bend her knees and spread them.

Harry paints himself up and down her entrance, hitting the heavy weight of it against her clit a few times before pressing in.

“O-oh,” YN gasps because he’s big.

It’s not painful but it is a stretch, as he makes room for himself, and he goes slowly.

He leans down, kissing her, and murmuring encouraging words to her.

Much too sweet for a causal hookup.

“Look at you, never had anyone look so pretty while taking my cock, baby.”

“See? S’room for me, hugging me perfectly.”

“Shit, darling. Never going to want to pull out, just want to stay all tucked up inside you.”

“Fuckin’ beautiful, I can’t decide whether I want to look at your pretty face or perfect pussy. M’spoiled for choice.”

“Please, please,” YN hiccups, she feels needy as he starts to put in more force behind in thrusts, and on every odd motion, he manages to hit a spot she didn’t know she had.

The spot that barreled her towards her second orgasm, nails digging to Harry’s bicep as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Fuck, there it is, pretty baby. Come around my cock, squeezing me,” Harry lets out a low moan when he feels her walls contract around him.

YN has never come twice like that.

When Harry reaches down to press a thumb to her clit, she squeals with the overstimulation but he kisses her and assures her that she can give him one more.

YN has pathetic, fat tears streaming down her face as her third orgasm hits her.

“There we go,” Harry croons, pleased as a peach as he kisses her damp cheeks, “Came on my tongue, on my cock twice, see how good you are for me? S’all mine, right? Only cock you’ve ever come on.”

The possessiveness in his words makes her stomach flip with something good, validating that she wanted.

“Just yo-yours,” YN manages to agree through bated breath, he was pounding into her now, barreling towards his own end.

“Good girl, fuckin’ making me come for you,” He grits out, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple as he stills, pulsing inside her, “Fuckin’ hell.”

++

YN wakes up before Harry the next morning, quietly as a mouse slipping back into her clothes, and leaving his apartment.

Was it a shitty thing to do?

Yes.

Did she do it to avoid him kicking her out after they used each other because it felt real to her and this was just plain fun for him?

Also yes.

YN guesses this is how hookups go.

++

four more parts are up on my patreon now :)

[leclsrc]

low down ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn w slight plot, humor, tad bit of fluff

word count: 2.5k

A lot can happen under an hour. You and Charles, self-proclaimed pros at sneaking around, can attest to this.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... smuuut,......,,, ... ,, dirty talk, charles is a bit dom-switchy, penetrative sex, handjob (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

req'd!!! title from this. leave it to auds to dip for 6 days n come back with another fic... i love u guys, my best friends foreva (dipping again for a bit after ths bec im headed back to ldn)

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh.” Lando pauses telling his story, spotting you and Charles sitting on the sofa of the lounge. “Hey, you guys.”

“Mmm,” you mumble noncommittally, both of you focused on the film playing. “Close the door, the light’s blocking the screen.”

“Right, sorry.” Lando pulls it shut and turns back to Carlos to finish his story. “So this girl, yeah? Proper fit and all. Hey, Charles, her friend’s single, if you’re into that.”

Charles mulls over it for a second, his lips warping into a pout. “Sure…? Actually, mate, no.”

“Both of you are going to die single,” Carlos chirps from the fridge, tossing Lando a can of beer, who receives it as he laughs.

You snort from your place on the couch, clearly amused. “You’re saying that like it’s wrong.”

five minutes earlier

Charles’ hands sneak up, underneath your thin tank top and higher to cup your breasts. You mouth his name hotly against his ear, your own fingers threading into his hair as you whimper. “You”—another moan escapes your lips involuntarily when one hand leaves to squeeze at your ass—“you’re sure Carlos won’t come in?”

“We’ve got an hour at the least,” he promises roughly, groping hungrily, blindly almost. You part from him to catch your breath, meeting his eyes. They’re dark, with want written all over them, so you pull him closer, to let your mouths meet in a wet, messy kiss.

You two haven’t hooked up in two weeks, record time for how good you are at sneaking around. You’re not usually so careless, but you’re both desperate. He breathes hard, urgent, the tent in his jeans rubbing against the seat of your shorts. So much pent up tension, weeks of lingering touches, of eye contact at the same table, of wanting each other so plainly, in front of everyone who thinks the two of you are just friends.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper, grinding downward, harder. Your top’s been pushed up so he can bury himself in between your tits. “But—mmmmf, fuck, I need it.”

“Tell me,” he says, demands, breathless. He thumbs at the cup of your bra.

“I keep touching myself thinking about you,” you confess. It slips easy when it’s him. 

You spread your legs wider from where you are on top of him, lying on the sofa, movie playing idly and forgotten behind you both. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much you want him, your body warm with desire, for him to bring his hand where you need it most. 

“Fuck, baby.” He hums, and it makes you so, so wet. Like he can read your mind, he mutters, “Wanna feel how wet you are.” Your hand loops around his wrist and you’re guiding it to your shorts, thighs clenching.

“Char—” Your breath tapers off into a high-pitched gasp when his arms suddenly wrap around your waist and gently, but urgently, push you off of him.

Briefly, you’re confused, your mind stuck on Fuck, baby and two weeks without all this and his promise of having enough time to fuck which has gone woefully unkept. You feel his fingers, quick to pull your top back down, feel him mumble a quick apology, and you sit yourself down on the other end of the sofa just as the door opens fully.

“You said an hour you asshole!” You manage to wedge it in before the chaos fizzles out.

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh, hey, you guys…”

—

“Leave it to her and Charles to swim even further off the beach,” George mutters to Lewis, both of them walking along the shore, feet sticky with water and sand. “Those two are always getting into trouble.” 

Lewis calls out to the blank bright sea. “Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving!” He scans the water for two heads, finds nothing.

Your head pokes out from the door of the yacht a few feet away, docked just by the pier. “Alright! Just a second!”

“What the hell?” He mutters quietly, just level enough for him and Lewis to hear. “Could’ve sworn they swam out…” The two exchange a puzzled look, but shrug it off. “Okay. Come quick!”

“Yep!” You shut the door again with a smile.

twenty minutes earlier

“Please,” you beg, fingers toying at the waistband of his shorts. It’s been so long, you’re implying. There was that one quickie three weeks ago and nothing else. Dry, dry, dry. It’s been ages. You blink, flirty, brows furrowed, lip red with how hard you’ve been biting on it. “Need you.”

Really, you are never this careless. The group—you, Charles, Daniel, George, Lewis—had all been drinking on a yacht, and then when everyone swam off, you both snuck back onto the boat and shut the door quick behind you so you could—

“I need you now,” you add, feverish, your head thrown against the wall.

“Slow down,” he grunts, a low, amused drawl. “So eager.” His hair’s a bit wet from the two minute dip you took to pretend you were both swimming like everybody else. It smells like the beach, his lips like beer. You’re addicted.

It’s killing you, the want. The hunger. The need. “Can you blame me?”

He brings his fingers up your skirt to push your flimsy bikini piece to the side, swearing gruffly under his breath when he pushes one inside of you slowly. A throaty moan leaves you, involuntary, drawn out by the slight stretch, the relief. You tighten around him, hands caging him closer toward you.

“You’re so tiny, baby.” He mutters something in French, amused, a bit in awe. “So good for me.”

“Just you, just you,” you whine, feeling him work another finger into your cunt. 

He laughs, vicious against your ear. “You like that? What if someone walks in, hmm?”

Your stomach lurches with excitement and you grow wetter. “I don’t care.”

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, low and hot. It’s so dirty, everything, all of it. The sneaking around, pretending you’re nothing but friends around everyone but claiming each other once you’re alone for even just a second. You’re desperate for him, more, more, more.

So he gives it, a third finger pushing into you and letting you feel more of the dull stretch. Your hand’s palming at the bulge in his shorts, ears savoring the whiny grunts coming from him when you squeeze at it, albeit distractedly. “I’m gonna—fuck—” You tense, the pleasure bubbling over, thighs shaking.

“Let me feel you,” he orders lowly. “Come on, ange. J’en veux. Cum for me.”

Like you’re on command, you do, toes curling and hands pulling him to latch against your neck so you can smell him, feel him everywhere as you cum. It’s hard, long, a direct result of the god awful dry spell, gushing all over his thick fingers. He slips them out, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheekbone, then your nose, then finally your lips meet again in a messy, slow kiss.

“How long do we have?” You ask, giggling. He smells good, like always, and having him pressed up against you is as comforting as it is arousing.

“I figure an hour.”

Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving! A disembodied English voice permeates the wooden wall and you screw your eyes shut tight, adjusting your pulled-up bikini top. You turn to open the door, head poked out, finding George and Lewis standing idly by the pier. Just behind the door, Charles’ big hand gropes at your ass and he laughs behind you, unseen.

“Alright! Just a second!” You chirp smilingly. They say something your mind’s too clouded to register, so you reply with a safe “Yep!” and shut the door, facing Charles with a stormy expression on your face.

“You are shit at timing these,” you scold, letting him lift you up and pin you up against the wall to savor a two-minute makeout session.

—

Daniel hands Charles a pickle jar, asks him to open it. You watch with mild amusement. This is an hours-long prank now, with Daniel proclaiming the jar to be fully un-open-able and garnering over fifteen failures over the morning. Lewis failed. Max failed. Esteban failed. Three engineers, two strategists, and one janitor failed. “Lewis failed?!” You’d asked when Daniel let you in on his secret challenge.

So you watch, eyes transfixed on his veiny, ring-clas hands wrap securely around the jar. And then it pops open.

Surprise etches itself onto your features—then warmth, at the realization that arousal had begun to boil in your stomach. “You should be proud of him,” Daniel says beside you, in awe. “Some friend you’ve got there.”

“Totally,” you say enthusiastically, elbowing Charles. “Nice one, mate.”

forty-five minutes later

“Your hands.” You feel them grope at your ass. “They’re wicked.”

“You’re weak,” he says. A menace.

“Just shut up.” In retaliation, he wraps a hand around your neck, but doesn’t squeeze. It just rests there, a promise of something more. Your breath hitches and you grow wet under your jeans. Your eyes flutter.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. And he does.

—

“What’d Charles say? Ring him, won’t you?” Alex asks, reviewing the reservation list for dinner. “He’s late.”

“He said he was good with 8PM. Let me call just in case,” Max hums, clicking at his phone and pressing his ear to it. “Charles?”

“Mate,” says Charles on the other end, voice muffled through the phone. He’s quiet. 

“You up for dinner, right?”

“Later, at eight,” says the other, breathy. “Bye—”

And the line’s clicked off. Max stares confusedly at his phone, turning back to Alex and shrugging. “Well, he said fine.”

“Does he knowit’s 8:15?”

thirty seconds earlier

Charles grabs your hair, knotting it in his grip as he sucks in through his teeth. “Fuck.”

He’s big, thick in your mouth, stretching your jaw out wide. You’re so pretty on your knees, like you have been for the past few minutes, head bobbing, bringing him toward and away from release. Your eyes are watery, pleading almost, and the farther you go the more you choke around his dick, unable to take it.

“Deeper,” he says gruffly. And you obey, like always, with a devious smile that translates mostly in your eyes, a raised brow.

He smiles back down at you, and then his phone is ringing in his back pocket. This has happened before—bosses, friends, family (God, family) calling during trysts, but Jesus, Charles will never ever—

“Answer it.” You pull off with a teasing smile. It’s a challenge, leaves your shiny lips that are currently wrapped around his tip again. You raise both brows. Go.

He does, presses accept without reading and then mumbling the first thing on his mind. “Mate.”

You cough around him, throat tightening as you deepthroat, humming sweetly like this is your favorite thing in the world. Above you, Charles is spilling nonsense. “At eight,” he says. “Bye—”

The phone clatters to the floor beside you and he thrusts roughly into your waiting mouth, good girl good girl leaving his mouth in thin, desperate, gritty moans until he’s pulling you off by your hair and cumming onto yout lips.

“Tastes like shit,” you tease menacingly, licking over them anyway and smiling. You stand up and button his jeans, laughing. He kisses you.

“I’m on a fucking time limit. Dinner at eight.”

“It’s 8:15.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I’ll just fuck you, then.”

—

“Is sneaking around the best idea?” You ask. “For us, right now?”

The season’s almost over, and that means Charles has no time to sneak off. Between almost being caught with your panties in your mouth by Carlos, and Charles almost being caught eating you out by Daniel, you’ve both agreed the stress isn’t worth it. But it begs the other question: how long will you wait?

“It…” He meets your eyes, exhaling, bummed. “It isn’t.”

one hour later

“Harder,” you whimper, the plead leaving you softly and desperately. His hand’s heavy at the small of your back, pushing you into a perfect arch so he can pound into you the way he likes. 

“How could I say no to you?” He says breathlessly. You hear his smile, his teasing pleasure. You shudder when he goes harder, tightening around him, sinking further down onto his cock. Your brain’s all fog, dumbed down by Charles’ insistent, hot words, hands all over you. 

“Cumming,” you say, the words thin and whiny. Your thighs shake when you do, for the third time in the hour. This fuck is messier, more desperate, hotter than all the rest. He doesn’t usually handle you so roughly but you both know it’s what you want anyway. 

You’re so fucking cock drunk it’s crazy. So good Charles—I want to cum again, I—

“Come on, for me.” He pounds into you harder. “Before I fill you up with my cum.”

“Wanna be full of it,” you pant, crying into the pillows when you let yourself give in to the knot of pleasure again and cum, gushing all over his cock.

He feels, semi-blindly, for your lips, presses his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. You sniffle around it, and clearly he’s close to release with how sloppy and rough his thrusts are now, the constant grunting music to your ears. “Gonna be good for me?” He asks. You nod. “Gonna be my good little slut?”

It’s too much, in the best way—it sends you both into overdrive, cumming at the same time. It’s so good, you’re saying, but it’s cloudy and faraway and dumb.

“I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. His face is shiny and pretty when you turn over, feel his dick slip out, and press a kiss to his sweaty nose. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Me neither,” you admit. The confession is swallowed into a kiss.

—

“Are you wearing Charles’ shirt?”

Max is eagle-eyed. Nobody noticed for twenty-seven fucking minutes and then Max walks in, takes a glance at your shirts, and suddenly everyone’s eyes are like glue. Your Ferrari shirt, which you’d purchased to be intentionally oversized—Charles’ size, just about—had a plain collar. Charles’—his was a polo.

You are wearing a polo. Charles is wearing a plain, U-shaped collar.

twenty-seven and a half minutes earlier

“I love that bra.” Charles flicks the black lacy strap and lets it snap against your skin. You yelp, brows furrowed defensively.

“Hey.” You pick your shirt up off the ground. “Don’t get turned on, we have to go and meet our friends. Isa’s here today, and so is Lily.”

He does the same, clutching the red and black Ferrari gear to his bare chest. “You turn me on.” It’s teasing, flirty, and you smile, pretending to shoo him away when he crowds you against his room’s wall. Get away! You’re shout-whispering, but he presses a sure kiss to your lips, and you smile against them.

“We’re pros at sneaking around,” you say, giggling as you tug your tee on.

He fixes his collar, tugs the shirt to fit properly, winks. “We really are.”

And maybe you don’t know it now, or in twenty-seven and a half minutes, but one day you will realize that the only people you’re hiding all your feelings from are yourselves.

[lazuruspit]

The Plight of Yearning — (m)

+ PAIRING: Eren Jaeger / Fem!Reader

+ SUMMARY: True love is giving your lover the bigger half of your favourite chiffon cake; it’s nudging them to the inside of a sidewalk next to a busy road; and it’s Mikasa and Jean, eyes hued with affection as they daydream their upcoming wedding. And maybe—just maybe—true love also comes in the form of Eren Jaeger and his best friend, the two idiots tasked with planning said wedding over the course of seven months.

+ GENRES: modern!au, friends/idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, smut. 

+ CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, one (1) fleeting mention of vomit, three smut scenes including dry humping, photo taking, phone sex, mutual masturbation, breast play, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, and implied (unperformed) exhibitionism.

+ WORD COUNT: 21k

Following Mikasa’s announcement, not a second is left bereft of hollers.

Everybody bursts into peals of laughter and reeling giggles, causing the bottles of alcohol scattered around the table to begin shaking.

Pieck’s the first to officially react. She pounces onto Mikasa’s thigh, a giddy grin splitting her cheeks that are stuffed with Korean barbecue. She settles her hand within the crook of Mikasa’s elbow, her grey eyes blown wide and beguiled, sparkling with mirth.

“Holy fuck!” Pieck bawls, either wholly indifferent or heedlessly unaware of the searing look a mother sends her way.

Mikasa sheepishly coils in on herself. She lets her free hand drop, the impression on her face reading of cleft embarrassment and infatuation (if the deep blush that saturates her cheek is anything to go by).

She lets her hand get passed around the table, her smile swelling at the carol of awes between her friends as you all take turns swooning at the wedding stack that ornaments her ring finger. The jewellery catches glints from the restaurant lights, twinkling when Mikasa turns her hand, the glimmers likened to rose-tinted sunglasses in the summertime as it washes over your peripheral.

“When was this!?” Sasha wails, gawking at the amethyst that blinks in contrast to the fairness of Mikasa’s skin.

“Was it last weekend?” Hitch presses, wide-eyed, “Fuck, Mikasa, he proposed on your birthday, didn’t he?”

The aforementioned girl shyly ducks her head in what sounds like a nod. Mikasa nuzzles the bottom half of her face behind the foam of her cardigan, clouding the preening grin that lolls over her lips. Then, she extends her hand to Historia, who regards the ring with mantled eyebrows. She flips Mikasa’s hand over, running her eyes across the aureate band and the modest bridge in the middle, bolstering the engagement stone that flickers under her gaze.

It lacks undue emphasis, she notices, but Historia knows that Mikasa values simplicity over ostentatious spending, opting to live frugally. 

Historia knows there are lines to be read between. She knows that the ring is not only amethysts over a thin ribbon of gold, but something much more earnest to the couple.

It clicks in Historia’s mind when she glances up, a sweet smile betraying the warmth that swathes her heart. “Your birthstone. And the month you two met.”

Mikasa nods, chin cushioned by her palm, eyes glazed over with a dreamy sheen. “He proposed at the place we had our first date, too. That little Italian hole-in-the-wall.”

“That fucking asshole…” Sasha mutters, “who knew he was such a romantic?”

Annie rolls her eyes, reaching over the table to knuckle at Sasha’s skull. The latter winces and plaintively whines, swatting Annie’s hand away.

Pieck simply kisses her teeth, unmoved by the pair. “Are you kidding?” She asks, “Jean is, like, the poster boy of romance.”

“I wish Marlowe was more romantic,” Hitch sighs.

“Hah?” Historia gapes, “Is it just me who remembers the time he wrote a song for you?”

Hitch narrows her eyes. “I said more romantic.”

On the other side of the table, your eyes dart between your friends, watching as they taper off into different conversations. You drain your drink, listening in on the sparring spiel between Hitch and Sasha—who debate between themselves to see which of their boyfriends are less romantic—when a slight nudge to the edge of your calf startles you out of your thoughts.

Mikasa is already looking at you when you turn to look at her. Her face is chiefly gleeful, still riding the aftershocks of glee in the wake of her engagement announcement. But, before you can stop yourself, you’re subconsciously slanting forward, just enough so that you’re able to perceive a tinge of wariness dancing in the dilution of her eyes.

A glance around the table reaffirms to you that everyone is occupied, so, pinning your focus on Mikasa, you shuffle closer, your words already adopting a concerned tone.

“What’s wrong?” You whisper, poring over her pinched countenance.

Mikasa fidgets with the rim of her glass, folding her lips. You feel a spike of suspense rouse in your belly, but as Mikasa parts her lips, only to seal her mouth shut not a moment later, suspense ripens into fear.

“Mika?” You venture, tugging on her sleeve.

She shushes you with a fanning hand, polishing off her drink before pivoting to face you, mouth shielded from the rest of the table by the stretch of her palm.

“I have something to ask you,” she whispers, “don’t feel pressured into pleasing me, or anything, I want it to be genuine, you know?”

You nod like you understand—which you don’t.

Mikasa wedges her bottom lip between her teeth, in turn raking away some of her lipgloss. She plucks at a loose thread on her cardigan, and you vaguely recognise it as the one you got her on New Year’s, but currently, anticipation overshadows your buoyancy, and you wait with bated breath.

“I want you to be my maid of honour,” she starts, “I remember in high school we promised each other we’d be them at each other’s weddings, and now… y’know. I’m getting married.”

She turns to look at you, shallowly exhaling. “Jean’s asking Eren. To be his best man, I mean. It’s just– it’s a big responsibility. So… sleep on it.”

A blush deepens the colour of Mikasa’s face as she sweetly smiles, awaiting your reply, and her flash of teeth instantly saps you of all previous fear. 

Your response comes suddenly; a punch to the apex of her shoulder. Mikasa scowls and kneads the point of impact, but you both know that with her disciplined muscles, she barely felt a tingle.

“The hell was that for?” She pouts.

“Mika, of course I’ll be your maid of honour, are you kidding?”

Mikasa giggles and shrugs, dragging her vowels. “I dunno. Weddings aren’t really something we’ve done before. There’s all that planning, and the speech writing, and fuck, I just thought it’d be too much with your new job ‘n stuff.”

Mikasa outstretches her hand, wordlessly requesting a refill. Sasha chaotically pours soju to the rim of her shot glass. Some carbonation trickles down Mikasa’s fingers. She licks it off.

“Mika, I’d fight Porco to be your maid of honour–” you cause her to unceremoniously chortle in laughter, “no, I’m dead serious. I’d fight Porco to initiate myself as your maid of honour. Like, physically.”

“I’d fight Porco for a cookie from Subway,” Sasha gabbles.

Mikasa’s eyes shift to you. “Thank you,” she whispers, “I love you a lot. More than Jean, maybe.”

“Promise that if the seven-year itch ends up being real, you’ll leave him for me?”

Mikasa dramatically groans, throwing her head back. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I could never,” you smile, “Jean loves you too much.”

Mikasa simmers at that, a lovesick look casting over her features.

“Yeah,” she twists the ring on her finger, “I know he does.”

—

Cuteness embodied is Eren Jaeger’s 6’0” stature hunched over in his seat on the subway; knees steepled, shoulders twined in on themselves. 

His flaying earbuds dangle from the collar of his obnoxiously ostentatious Stüssy hoodie, the wires swaying with each rumble of the metro. He’s sandwiched between two old ladies who blather over the wispy brown tousles of his hair. Eren uncomfortably slants forward, not daring to lean back and thus forestall the ladies’ conversation, so, he toughs it out, and redirects his focus to the Kendrick Lamar song that cavorts in his right ear.

But said focus almost causes him to miss his stop, which prompts a not-so-suave sequence of messily corralling all of his belongings together, and scrambling out the doors.

This sling of Eren’s camera bag slips down his arm when hastening through the streets of San Francisco, the fringes of his vision turning blurry as he threads past passersby and weaves between crowds.

The address you’re all supposed to meet up at is ingrained into Eren’s mind. He reminds himself that it’s located on Grimes boulevard, not Graves, and thinks back to the voice message you’d left him this morning—stressing the fact that if Eren were late, you’d kick him off the wedding planning team yourself.

So, following the whirlwind tumult that is his Friday morning, Eren’s proud that he made it to the right place on time.

He swings the door open and steps inside, the world of Vivienne King’s Wedding Planning swathing him in a fuse of lo-fi music and vanilla musk purifiers. Eren catalogues the space, eyes loitering over the flush-mount fixtures before they sweep across the accent wall, down to the rows of shelves that hold framed photos of past customers.

Eren turns, and his gaze lands on Jean, who has his hold assured on Mikasa. She curls in on herself but slightly banks into Jean’s warm chest; her shoulder bolstered by his front, his hand skated into the rear pocket of her jeans. They’re standing in front of a woman with cropped hair, discussing the budget.

Eren hums to himself, deciding to hang back. He looks around the establishment, but is soon mourning in its lack of your presence. Eren grieves by shutting his eyes, picturing your smile behind the film rolls that are his eyelids–

“You’re late.”

Eren zips his head to the side so fast that he’s genuinely surprised—and thankful—he doesn’t get hit with a stint of whiplash. He’s briefly enfeebled, suddenly confronted by you within the mellow events firm.

He stares at you and isn’t really sure if he’s making a conscious effort of hiding it. But what Eren does know is that he finds himself pausing on the twinkle of your eyes; the loose strands of hair that frame your cheeks; the barely-there caper of your lips, and the endearing pucker between your brows.

Eren believes his oxygen is seized. And with his breathing impaired, he isn’t sure what to do.

So, Eren does the first thing that comes to mind; he bends over with his hands on his hips, eyes crossed and face pinched like that one SpongeBob meme before he squawks out in your imitation. “You're so late,” he annoyedly crows.

But as he’s bent over, Eren is gravely reminded of the bulky camera bag slung over his shoulder. The strap slopes down his arm, subsequently pulling his backpack with it, all until Eren’s webbed in an awkward gossamer of strings, straps, and buckles.

He tries to free himself, the show having just as much grace as a bull in a china shop, and when Eren finally breaks free, he perks up, his hair a ruffled mess on his head. A megawatt grin splits his cheeks as he marvels at you, and it’s stupid and witless and undeniably cheesy but it is so unapologetically Eren.

It flatters a giggle out of you. You move to walk past him, flicking his forehead on the way. “You’re embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassinger,” Eren snarks back.

“Losersayswhat?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Told ya,” you wink.

“What–? Hey! No! That is so not fair!” Eren whines, lapsing into a petulant spell as a pout mounts his lips, further emphasising the furrow between his brows. Then, he turns serious. Rather quickly. Eren soberises and sends you a grave look, muttering, “Spell icup. No, don’t look at me like that, just spell it. I swear I’m not taking the piss–!”

“Eren.”

The boy in question pivots, greeted with glances from Mikasa, Jean, and the lady with cropped hair.

“We’re brainstorming wedding day activities,” Mikasa says.

“Do you have a wedding photographer?” The cropped-hair woman asks, who Eren is now guessing literally is Vivienne King in the flesh.

Eren cuts in with a tight smile—tight because he’s awkward, not rude—and raises a hand in greeting. “That’s me. The photographer.”

Vivienne nods, eyes shifting towards the couple. “A friend of yours?”

“More like a royal pain-in-the-ass, but yeah,” Jean jokes. Vivienne blinks. Mikasa pinches the bridge of her nose, cringing in embarrassment. Eren simpers.

Vivienne tilts her head, extending her gaze towards you. “You’re the performer?”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head, “I’m just here for… moral support.”

“She’s my maid of honour,” Mikasa tacks on.

“So you’ve got performers in mind?” Vivienne asks, “If not that’s fine, I can lock you in with live bands I work with. They’ve got reviews from past customers, too.”

“That’s fine,” Jean says, “but I think we’ll hire a performer on our own.”

Vivienne shrugs. “So it’s more sentimental, I get that. Honeymoon destination?”

“Val-d’Isere,” Mikasa grins as she lists into Jean’s warm hold, her head ensconced on his toned shoulder.

“The French Alps?” Vivienne marvels, “Beautiful. Good choice. And what theme are you looking for? Bohemian? Royal?”

In response to her question, both parties of the couple jump to answer. The earliest vowels of classic roll off Jean’s tongue before he’s cut off by Mikasa’s request for vintage.

Vivienne looks between the two, a knowing smirk on her face. “That’s alright, we have time to figure it all out. Everyone’s first wedding’s the most stressful.”

At that, both Jean’s and Mikasa’s eyes widen.

“I’m kidding,” Vivienne rolls her eyes, “let’s get to work.”

The preliminary meeting goes by smoothly—excluding the game of footsies you play with Eren beneath the table. Vivienne distributes tasks for the planning, assigning you and Eren the more creative ones while she hands off the legality and liking to Mikasa and Jean. 

Eren’s feverish and forthcoming, already snapping latent photos of the engaged couple as they sign documents and read over themes. You stay reserved, crumpling cups from the water cooler as Eren nears you with his bubbly disposition, camera strap looped around his neck.

He sites himself next to you, cheek braced by his palm.

“Ready to spend the next seven months with me?” Eren asks, soft lips moulding into a grin.

You reach out and poke his plushy cheek, toying with a curl of his hair as you pull away. “I literally see you every day, ‘Ren.”

“Well yeah, but this is different,” he shrugs, fishing hard-candy out of his pocket.

“Alright… I’ll bite. How so?” You goad, sifting a grape-flavoured lolly from the palm of his hand. You let the tips of your fingers dawdle on the facet of his skin—soft and toasty—his hand involuntarily twitching as you pull away.

“‘Cause,” Eren jerks his head in the direction of Jean and Mikasa, boyish charm playing on his tongue as he smiles, “love is in the air, don’t ya think?”

MONTH 1: THE GUEST LIST.

“Do we still talk to Louise?”

“Nah,” Eren hums, pressing his thumbs into the sole of your socked foot, “we all stopped.”

You grimace. “But... Mika still likes her, right?”

“Don’t think so. Not after that fight she had with Connie on Halloween.” 

“Yeah, but like… should I write her down? We’re gonna run this past Jean ‘n Mika anyway.”

“Should we add Floch?”

You twist your face, digging the tips of your toes into Eren’s chest. “He’d end up chugging half the champagne before the night’s over.”

“Champagne?” Eren parrots, “We haven’t even picked out vendors yet. Don’t get too crazy, baby.”

“Why?” You grin, chafing your cheek against his sofa, “Too much of a lightweight?”

Eren rolls his eyes and slips his hand beneath the material of your pyjama pants, massaging your calf. “I am not a lightweight.”

“Uh-huh,” your eyelids wilt into slits, “it’s just funny, ‘cause I remember that one time–”

“Stoppp.”

“–you got wasted off three beers and got matching tramp-stamps with Armin.”

Now, Eren grovels. His lips curl into a sulking frown while he takes gentle hold of your ankle, lifts your leg, and lodges it atop his shoulder. He whisks the pad of his thumb along the edge of your wiggling toes. “You’re mean, y’know that?”

“The tattoo is hideous, Eren.”

He grins. “I know. And at least I own it, unlike Armin.”

“You’re stupid.”

“You love me.”

“Fuck off.”

Eren pouts, and that, tempered with the ruffles of his bedhead, the sweatshirt that practically swaddles him whole, and the red glow that flushes the tips of his ears, it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not snuggle into his side.

So, you poise yourself over his lean figure, carting your weight to your dominant arm as you extend a free hand to the bowl of popcorn that’s situated on the coffee table. But Eren works quicker—suavely curling his arm around your waist and pulling you to his chest, wreathing his legs around your back.

Your chin pokes his chest. His palm soothes the skin of your spine. He looks down at you, and the moment stretches a little longer, the air rife with familiar warmth.

Then, Eren’s lips frizzle into a smile. “You’re smelly.”

You swat his chest, seating yourself on the sofa. “Jokes on you, I used your 3-in-1.”

Eren frowns, an offended colour painting his features as he slowly creeps forward, bullying you onto your back. His arms cage you in. 

“I don’t use 3-in-1 anymore,” he mumbles, “not since you read me to filth ‘cause of it.”

You giggle and kick your feet up, sliding your calves along Eren’s legs.

“You laughin’ at me?” 

“Eren,” you bite, the warning tone crossing your tongue palpable.

Like the brat that he is, Eren merely grins, cutting his fingers into the chub of your hips. He glides them low and wiggles his fingers, wrenching a chortle from you as he chucks your sweatshirt over your belly, presses his lips to your stomach, and blows a raspberry into your flesh.

“Eren–” you gasp, your attempts at escaping fruitless as he doesn’t retreat, “‘Ren, I’m serious–”

Eren giggles at your expense—his shoulders shaking, nose cutely scrunching.

“You ass… I’m gonna pee myself–!”

“Eren.”

The aforementioned boy thwarts his movements. His fingers are still splayed on your stomach, burning embers into your skin. His face is still burrowed in your neck, but as Armin’s voice rings out, scotching the lull of dawn, Eren sits up, a dopey smile unfurling over his lips.

“Hi,” he smiles.

Armin yawns, scratching his chest. “What’s going on? Y’woke Annie up.”

You push onto your elbows, peeking over the sofa. “Hey, ‘Min.”

The blonde’s eyes marginally widen, lips parting in surprise as he watches Eren draw his arm around your neck, pulling you closer.

“I thought you would’ve left hours ago,” he grumbles.

Your shoulders rise and fall in indifference. Armin’s eyes flutter towards Eren, and the boy is grateful he’s able to recognise the nuances that flicker over his roommate’s face. Eren keeps you anchored to his chest, his fingers carding through your hair.

“Tell Annie we’re sorry for waking her,” you mumble, chewing on your lips.

“Don’t do that,” Eren scolds, pulling your lip from your teeth with the pad of his thumb. He teases your cheek with his index, pushing your bottom lip down until it pops back into place. A fine wash of your saliva licks his thumb as he pulls back. “You barely take enough vitamin C as it is.”

“What can I say?” You smirk, “I like living on the edge.”

Eren giggles; and then you giggle; and then peals of laughter toll out within the living room, your chin rested against Eren’s toned shoulder, his cheek ensconced atop your head.

Armin stares—jaded, listless, and a little annoyed—he shallowly exhales, waiting for your laughter to pass. He jams his hands in his pyjama pockets and shifts on his feet, feeling all types of unseemly in his own apartment.

Your amusement eventually peters off into sparse giggles, and as Armin clears his throat, you and Eren shift your attention towards him as if he’d just waltzed in.

“Oh, hey,” you murmur.

Armin places a hand on his hip. “Aren’t you meant to be writing up the guest list?”

“We’re taking a break,” Eren says.

Armin rakes his eyes over the living room. He sees the scattered McDonald’s wrappers on the coffee table; he recognises a shirt of Eren’s wrapped around your figure—bleached, threadbare, redolent of his college days—; and he notices the white wine Eren had flattered you with.

“Well. Annie and I have a twelve-hour shift tomorrow, so if you guys would so kindly–”

“What’s going on, ‘Min?” Annie ambles into the living room, dozy and drowsy. The sleeves of her hoodie curl over her fingers as she rubs her eyes, heeling into her boyfriend’s chest.

“Nothing, honey.”

Annie nods before glancing up, eyes scarcely widening as she spots you. “And you’re still here?”

“Yup,” you say, hyper-aware of Eren’s palm gliding down your back, “we lost track of time.”

“We’ll be quiet. We’re sorry,” Eren starts grating his hair against your cheek, “aren’t we?”

You vigorously nod, kneeing him away. “Super sorry.”

Armin and Annie exchange a look. It’s clandestine; covert; and arcane. One of those looks that only a couple could interpret, leaving everyone else excluded from their private knowledge.

“Alright… goodnight, guys,” Armin mutters, patting his girlfriend out of the living room, his hand resting on the fade of her waist.

You and Eren reply with a synchronised goodnight, tacked on by Eren’s ornate don’t let the bedbugs bite! as grovelling looks paint both your faces.

“They’re hopeless,” you hear one gripe. For someone that talks so much crap, Armin’s whispers are anything but quiet.

“Were they having sex?” You hear next, followed by a blunt chortle, “I’m serious, ‘Min, were they fucking?”

The couple’s not-so-latent spiel concludes with the click of a lock upon them withdrawing into Armin’s bedroom. They leave the air thick: rife with tension, bereft of dialogue.

From the blurry brinks of your vision, you see Eren face you. He spins on a swivel. His eyes glide towards you first, followed by his head, and the full suppleness of his lissom chest.

You poach Eren’s actions by imitating them, turning to him with blank eyes as you enigmatically return his stare.

Where words are meant to be bartered, there are none. Just silence, and your innate urge to pry him into a noogie.

 Then—in true fashion—Eren snorts; it’s hilarious and vulgar and decidedly accidental, the crass sound muffled behind his palm not a second later.

“You’re silly,” you bleat, chucking a Turkish throw pillow towards him, “I’m literally never trusting you with my wedding planning.”

Eren adopts a scandalised look. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the person you’ll be marrying.”

You roll your eyes, covering your face with your forearm. “Pipe down, Romeo.”

“Does that make you my Juliet?”

You toss Eren the guest list and chuck him a pen. “In your dreams.”

“Y’know...” Eren lowly whistles, shaking his head, “ma always told me to follow my dreams.”

MONTH 2: CHOOSING VENUES.

“Out of all the states to host a rustic wedding, California has got to be the worst.”

You sharply elbow Eren’s side. “You’re supposed to support the bride-and-groom-to-be, not second-guess their decisions.”

“I get the hesitance,” Vivienne says—much to your embarrassment, you didn’t know she was listening—“San Francisco’s always go-go-go, isn’t it? Luckily, I’ve got all the best stops around North California.”

Eren straightens and you stick your tongue out at him, scurrying away before you’re able to see his riposte.

“We’re looking for a place an hour from San Fran, at most,” Jean says, his pinky locked with Mikasa’s. The pair remain unperturbed by you and Eren chasing each other around the parking lot.

Vivienne nods. “Today’s gonna be a long day. The farthest venue is in Sacramento, and the closest is Muir Woods, just a thirty-minute drive.”

“Can I drive?” Eren asks, muttering against the shell of your ear. He already caught up to you, snaking his arms around your waist, pulling you towards him. His chest drums against your spine as he giggles.

“You’ll drive safe?”

“Obviously,” he whines, dipping his hands into the pocket of your leggings, fishing for your keys, “who do you take me for, Connie?”

“Connie drives better.”

Eren hums non-committally, tugging you towards your car. “You can talk once you learn to parallel park.”

You’re about to swat his bicep, but Eren moves quicker, gallantly curling his fingers around your wrist. He leans over, pulls your seatbelt across your chest, and slides it in the buckle.

“Safety first,” he smiles, booping your nose, and with the distance between you—or lack thereof—you’re able to make out all the subtlety to Eren’s face.

It’s subtlety nobody should notice, but ones you’ve noticed countless times. Like the beauty mark at the oxbow of his mouth.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, brazenly dragging his tongue over his teeth.

You examine Eren’s face. Green swirls with freckles of gold in his irises, lashes long and lush, framing the eyes that gaze down at you. His lips roll together, eyebrows dark and thick and embellishing his strong stare. His skin—a deep tan—glistens in the high sun, golden and beguiling. You flicker your eyes back up, and fall into Eren’s eyes.

“You’re really pretty.”

Eren’s lips part as his oxygen suddenly foils. He holds his breath, blush creeping down the score of his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he forces down a swallow. His eyes are shifty, veering in every direction. His face is twisted, the tips of his ears burning red, but Eren offsets his shock by schooling his face to neutral.

“You’ve got a real knack for that,” he rasps.

You blink up at him. “For?”

“Catching me off-guard.”

You nervously giggle, averting your gaze. “Just get in the car.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eren winks—to which he fails—the right side of his face awkwardly twitching.

The drive to Muir Woods is exactly what you expected it to be: full with gas station stops and games of I spy.

Eren and Jean communicate over speakerphone, serenading both you and Mikasa with repetitive roadtrip songs. Soon, skyscrapers and trams convert into hollyleaf cherry bushes and oak trees. The group stops by the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and the Tennessee Valley Trailhead, also pausing by the Sausalito coast to snap some pictures.

For a photographer, Eren sucks at taking photos on phones, but that does nothing to deter him (“You look beautiful no matter what, no picture does you justice,”). So you resort to Jean, halfway on his back on the rocky shoreline of Sausalito, documenting his fiancée who’s fixated on tracing their initials into the sand.

After some time, Mikasa and Jean go to order ice cream for everyone while Eren insists on scouring for seashells eclipsed within the resplendent sand. He guides you as you stroll the beach, palming the small of your back to help keep you steady. He lends you his heart-shaped sunglasses and holds your sneakers in a free hand, later cupping your face and squishing your cheeks as he kindly works sunscreen into your skin.

Now, you’re both banking against a wooden fence on the coast. It seethes with peeling wood, but Eren pillows you from it by leaning his back against it and pulling you to his chest, throwing an arm around your shoulder. The sun bakes the sand, burning the asphalt sidewalk.

Eren’s broad shoulders and lithe arms enwrap you easily, his chin digging into your scalp as you watch skaters and bikers whizz past. You raise your hand over your head in a soundless render of your ice cream, and Eren, as tall as he is, leans over to steal a lick, lowering his own ice cream cone to your mouth next, offering you a taste.

“Good?” He wonders.

“The best,” you purr, wriggling in his arms, “can you order for me next time?”

“Yeah?” Eren leans over once more, hair curtaining the dazzling sun from your eyesight. Poised like this, your world consists of just Eren. “Even if I always order guava cake at that restaurant on seventeenth?”

You scrunch your face, brushing your nose against his own. “You order that every time. Five years, consecutively.”

Eren distractedly hums and swipes his thumb along your bottom lip, rubbing away a streak of melted ice cream that drizzles down your chin.

“Doesn’t it get boring?”

“Nah,” Eren opens his windbreaker and envelops you in it, fastening the zipper, “routine is good.”

“Ah.”

“You’re like my routine.”

“Oh?”

He sways you to-and-fro, the hot pink and royal blue exterior of his jacket snapping in the wind. “Yeah, you’re my rock.”

Somewhere in the distance, Vivienne shouts for you all.

“Your rock?” You parrot, wryly beaming, “Not scared of erosion?”

“What?”

“That was meant to be a joke. It sounded funnier in my head.”

Mikasa’s voice rings out next, mingling with the chime of coastal breeze.

Eren smirks, unzipping his windbreaker. “I can laugh now if it’ll make you feel better?”

“Save it for Jean’s knock-knock jokes,” you titter, leading Eren towards the car, “I hear he’s on quite the roll today.”

Eren splays a hand over his bucket hat as he hangs his head back, comically groaning in exasperation.

The remainder of the drive is still substantially amusing. Your feet rest on the dashboard, neck cushioned by a travel pillow, your anklet—engraved with Eren’s Genshin Impact UID—twinkling in the light of day.

You recite the venue article Vivienne sent into the wedding planning groupchat that’s aptly named “wedding planning”.

“So,” you start, casting Eren a coy look, “according to brides.com, The Pelican Inn is, and I quote, Bay Area’s little England. It fits 100 people, includes a conservatory, a pub, a snug room—whatever that is—and seven ensuite bedrooms.”

Eren clicks his tongue. “Seven isn’t enough.”

“Yeah, but it’s pretty. Look,” you counter, flipping your phone in his direction.

“I’m driving, baby.” 

You nod, sagging into the passenger seat. You dip your hand outside the window and spread your fingers, working your palm against the wind current.

“Describe it,” he tacks on, “how it looks.”

“Remember Twilight?”

Eren bursts into giggles; face coloured with mirth, voice enriched with candied amusement. “I was thinking, like, a more Louisa Alcott description, but yes, baby, I remember. I remember you forcing me to watch it last Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s not like either of us had dates,” you roll your eyes, “but the inn looks like that scene where Edward crawls up trees.”

“Where he calls Bella his spider-monkey?”

“Oh my– yes, I can’t believe you remember that.”

Eren squints and bites his lip, huskily speaking in an overripe voice. “Bella, where have you been, loca?”

“That was Jasper,” you spout.

“Jacob,” he corrects, “Jasper was Alice’s boyfriend.”

“How come you know so much Twilight lore?” You curiously quirk your brow, “There something I should know?”

Eren sends you a cursory look. “Next venue.”

You snicker and redirect your attention to your phone. “Bear Flag Farm’s surrounded by lavender fields. There’s a cottage and an adjoining terrace.”

“Isn’t there also a vine yard?”

“It’s vineyard, ‘Ren, but yeah, it’s got a vineyard lawn.”

The tips of Eren’s ears smoulder a sheepish shade of red, but he focuses on driving. “That’s the one near Nestldown?”

“Yup.”

“What else?”

“Long Meadow Ranch. Part restaurant; part winery; part farm. It’s got a sensory garden and a pergola.”

Eren pulls into a dirt road, dutifully following the trail of cars belonging to Vivienne and Jean and Mikasa ahead of him. Soil and twigs crunch under the wheels, the sound of pebbles grating together echoing out as he drives further into the forest reserve.

“Then there’s Timber Cove, the farthest from San Francisco. It’s got oceanfront weddings for 100 people and forty-five guestrooms. An event lawn, firepits, and lots of pastimes for guests to partake in.”

Eren cuts the engine in the centre of a towering grove of redwood trees, slipping out of the car.

He’s on your side before you can blink, pulling open the door and shepherding you out with a hand on your shoulder. He removes his bucket hat and tugs it onto your head, brushing away your bangs that drape over your eyes.

“C’mon,” he sings. Eren’s hold on you glides southbound, catching your fingers, clutching you forward.

The Pelican Inn, you find, is beautiful. The terrain seethes with the heady scent of dewy bark and frothy soil. It’s pungent and zesty, swirling around your head. The dirt sinks as you all amble around, examining the venue and regarding the archways flanked by honeysuckle.

Along with the perennial smell of moss and magnolia, Muir woods is also, unfortunately, lousy with bugs. It’s a gorgeous place—beyond gorgeous—with a lush lawn and glassed-in spaces torched by globed lighting fixtures. There’s the conservatory and the beach outlook, but alas, as Mikasa and Jean stroll the premises, they shyly deem it unworthy for their wedding.

“My dress would get dirty,” Mikasa mutters.

“And there’s too many mosquitos,” Jean adds, fanning them away from Mikasa’s skin.

Mikasa faces Vivienne, guilt sagging her features. Discomfort tugs at her heart—it’s not easy for her to turn something down—so she worries at the collar of her blouse, which prompts Jean to swiftly insert himself between the two, rubbing at the small of Mikasa’s back.

“I don’t think this one’s for us,” Jean laments.

Vivienne shrugs; she doesn’t seem to be irked but she does brandish her shoulders, as if bracing herself for a day that’ll stretch longer than expected. She leads you all to the carpark made of gravel and dirt, loading herself into her car before sending the groupchat the next venue’s location.

The Bear Flag Farm looks to be directly out of a fairytale. It’s gilded and whimsical, drowning in sunlight, garnished with gentle zephyrs. It’s trailed with decor but doesn’t feel ostentatious; it’s accentuated with regal elegance in bright-coloured gardens and walnut trees.

The sycamore-ringed amphitheatre is lined by string lights, and the tree-dotted hillside nurtures lists of lavender fields. The estate is stunning and picturesque, complete with a quaint cottage accessed by French doors verging onto a neighbouring terrace. Mikasa brushes her hand over a throng of swaying orchids as she approaches the ferris wheel, eyeing its white paint and glassed-in booths.

You’ve got your nose buried in a batch of tulips when someone clears their throat. It’s Eren, assimilated within the flower field, hands jammed inside his windbreaker.

He cutely cocks his head to the side. “Wanna see something cool?”

“Where?”

Eren extends a hand. “Don’t trust me?”

You roll your eyes at his crypticness but take his hand nonetheless. It’s large, callous, dry—because he always forgets to moisturise—but warm. “I’ll bite,” you squeeze his hand, “where to?”

Eren answers with a sly look, opting to lead you down the hill. You chance a glance towards Mikasa and Jean who, thankfully, are occupied with Vivienne, yielding you and Eren time to slip away and sneak into the vineyard.

The grapevines shield you from the sun, tickling your arms as you shoulder past them, delving into the orchard. Eren drops your hand, redirecting his hold to a vine that’s stippled with swelling grapes.

“Eren!” You hiss, “We can’t take these.”

Eren writes off your hesitance, an undercurrent of indifference fanning through him as he twists the dewy fruit off their stems, rolling them over the ridge of his palm. “What they don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.”

You gape as he tilts his head back, sunlight cascading down the column of his neck. The grapes slide into Eren’s mouth as he works his jaw around them, locking you in his gaze. 

You eye him warily. “Are wine grapes edible?”

Eren smacks his lips and plucks some more. “Sour.”

He makes some enigmatic gesture with his hands, which you belatedly realise is his wordless request for you to open your mouth.

You do so bashfully, just barely parting your lips for him. Eren slips an engorged grape between your teeth, his fingers reaming your lips as he tentatively withdraws his hand.

Eyes still glued on Eren, you sink your teeth into the fruit and section it into two, causing the grape juices to burst and ooze down your throat.

The tanginess is glaring. It’s cool and fresh, spilling over your lips and sluicing down your chin.

But, Eren’s faster—keenly quick-witted as he darts out a hand, extending his forefinger just below the plush of your lip, soaking up the grape sap. He mimics a polishing motion; his thumb pressed into the arch of your jaw, his index finger wiping away the juice on your chin.

And it’s now that you realise how gentle Eren’s hold with you is. 

You'd seen him yank the grapes off their stems; you’ve seen him wring and pound brioche dough on your baking nights; you’ve seen his jaded fingers curled over textbooks as he scribbles down notes for his health studies.

But Eren holds you like glass. When passing behind you with his hand on the small of your back; while sliding gelatin-based parfaits onto your tongue; as he locks necklaces for you and zips up your dresses, the tips of his fingers loitering over the suppleness of your skin.

It takes you a moment to notice Eren’s palm is still cupping your jaw. It’s only when it’s ripped away do you grieve in its deprivation. That is, until you realise why the warmth was taken too soon—there’s a rustle within the grapevines.

Whoever it is, they rive the lull between you and Eren, and out pops Jean—reddened with sunburn—the sleeves of his (Mikasa’s) button-up rolled to his elbows.

He sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes. “Stop making out, we gotta get to the last venue. You guys can share spit later.”

You and Eren flounder in defence, but your rebuttal falls on deaf ears as Jean disappears back into the orchard.

You turn to Eren and expect his face to be the picture of anger, but instead, his cheeks bulge, his eyes water, and his face permeates with a furious pink.

You startle, stammering back a bit. “You’re blushing!”

Eren startles next, head whipping in your direction with debilitating speed.

“You're blushing!” He retorts, pointing to the telltale warble of your lips.

“I’m blushing because you’re blushing,” you whine, burying your face in your hands, “what’s your issue?”

Eren squirms. “Nothing. What’s yours?”

You peek through your fingers. “Nothing.”

“Alright, good,” Eren clears his throat, “but you’d tell me if something’s wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

Eren nods with surety. You pivot on your heel, rushing towards the exit of the vineyard.

Eren hangs back a while, only until he remembers that he’s got to get moving. So, he ambles in your direction, watching your retreating figure meet the carpark. You squeeze into Mikasa’s arms as she hugs you close.

It’s no secret Eren’s head-over-heels in love with you.

Well, it’s no secret to him. The same can’t be said for you.

Eren believes he’s inconspicuous. He believes he's hiding his love for you under the guise that he’s just touchy-feely and expressive.

Sometimes, Eren’s certain you’re fucking with him. You reciprocate his gestures. You play with his hair and call him like a lovelorn teenager on the weekends you’re apart, unabashedly elongating your stolen stares with him from across the room. Sometimes, Eren thinks you love him just as much as he loves you.

... But the drive to the final venue is silent, and the air has shifted.

It’s the farthest one, stretching to the coast of Sonoma. The tension inside the car is tangible, and Eren’s Spotify mix does nothing to offset the strain.

Timber Cove Inn is the best venue out of all three... Eren thinks. He doesn’t know. He’s too busy stealing glimpses in your direction, sneaking them in before glancing away.

The air of Sonoma looks nice on you, Eren concludes. Wind-blown hair, sand-tattered feet, sun-kissed skin.

Eren stares at you as you idle around the banquet hall. His heart-shaped sunglasses are still perched on your head upon polishing off a cup of oolong tea, grinning with Vivienne as you gush about something he can’t perceive.

Eren’s heart cinches, and he feels love bursting at its seams. He has to make a conscious effort of looking away.

These next five months are going to prove a lot more difficult than he had originally prepared.

MONTH 3: SELECTING CATERERS.

Mikasa and Jean are busy choosing performers with Vivienne. By process of elimination, that leaves Eren with you. Eren, who sways on the soles of his sneakers, humming an off-key chorus under his breath.

You’re both waiting in the lobby of a restaurant that’s known for catering. It’s mellow and mellifluous, and in your sweater vest and baggy jeans, you stick out like a sore thumb. You cast a glance to Eren for respite, who happens to be mesmerised by the chandelier suspended above you both. 

He speaks without looking at you. “Something on my face?”

You’re going to retort, but before you can, a waiter is walking up and greeting you with a grin.

“You’re the engaged couple? That’s here for our catering samples–?”

“We’re actually their wedding planners,” you hurry, “we’re… we’re not the engaged couple.”

A look of recognition brightens his face. “Right! I remember the email mentioning you. I’m Isaac, I’ll be your host tonight. Kinda.”

Isaac winks at you and offers a hand, his skin soft against yours, fingers worming around your palm. When he pulls back, his smile marginally dissipates, and he outstretches his hand to Eren next.

As Eren reaches for it, he slants his wrist up in an angle that grants him most control in the handshake. He puffs his chest out and stands taller, and you roll your eyes as Eren’s grip tightens, the two men sharing a handshake that’s only likened to guys.

The restaurant is hued in soft oranges and blacks, shadows casting over the fountain in the centre. Light chatter emanates from every corner of the restaurant as Isaac leads you to a booth.

A live band in the corner plays blue-toned jazz as you slide into your seat, plucking at your dove-folded serviette.

Eren cheekily leans over the table, whispering under his breath. “We look like a couple, huh?”

You flash him a bright grin. “Couple’a’besties.”

Eren punches out a high-pitched whine just as Isaac returns to the table, two wooden boards balanced on each of his arms.

“Caprese crostinis,” he smirks, “with bocconcini and balsamic glaze,” he sets down the charcuterie boards, “and sweet potato slides complete with ramson cream and cress. I’ll go get the rest.”

Once Isaac slinks out of earshot, Eren tucks his serviette into the collar of his shirt, but soon rips it out, sheepishly copying your motions of refinedly laying it on his lap.

He rests his cheek against his palm. “I have no idea what any of these ingredients he just said are.”

You giggle, sipping on some seltzer. “Just pick whatever’s yummiest.”

You reach for the crostinis first, but your movement is forestalled by Eren, who snatches the one you were reaching for.

You twist your face, ready to pout up at him, but as you flicker your eyes up you see the crostini hovering in front of your face, held up by Eren’s fingers. You lean forward, snagging the food between your teeth. Eren holds his palm under your chin in case anything falls. He pushes forward the more you eat, all until you’ve consumed the last morsel, and Eren’s fingers meet your mouth, his thumb brushing away all crumbs from your bottom lip.

“Rate it,” he says.

“Seven, maybe.”

Eren raises a sceptic brow and stuffs his face with his own crostini. His cheeks bulge as he makes a show of chewing loudly, lips fashioned into a satisfied smile. “Nine.”

“Why not ten?”

Eren stares at you like it’s obvious. “You didn’t feed me.”

You roll your eyes but yield nonetheless, handing him a crostini that he eats out of the palm of your hand.

That’s how the better half of the evening progresses; you and Eren slanted over the table, tasting bits and pieces of sampled appetisers.

There’s seared scallops that Eren pulls out with a tiny fork, blowing aeroplane noises as he raises it to your lips. There’s snap pea sushi and summer rolls, both in which you swirl around Eren’s face each time he tries biting them off their skewers. Couscous poppers are served to you, too. Kindly, on a silver spoon that curls at its handle. 

You’re both hyper-aware of the patronising glares customers cast you, but honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. They all wane into the background, fading into your blurry peripheral as Eren stuffs your face with falafel balls and tuna tartare.

As time went on, you and Eren narrowed down the choices of hors-d’oeuvres. Agreeing on marinated shrimp was easy enough, followed by the assortment of ricecakes. There was a tossup between gougères and miniature tacos, in which the two of you settled for the former. And between quinoa chips or chicken and waffles, you both decided on the latter.

Now, Eren’s leaning back in his seat, gazing at his cleared plate of portobello mushrooms with hungry eyes. You settled on that for the main course, gauging it as tasty enough to be served to sixty guests.

“Why aren’t they giving us sweets?” Eren sighs, licking sauce off his fingers.

“Because,” you hum, “there’s already that big-ass wedding cake.”

“No,” Eren groans, “I mean why aren’t they serving us any sweets?”

“You didn’t order any.”

“‘Cause their brownies are fucking expensive, it’s ridiculous.”

You raise an eyebrow, wary, because you know the gears are grinding in Eren’s head.

To play testament to that, he ducks forward, coiling his hands in a curling motion to beckon you forward. Once close, Eren begins to whisper.

“What dessert do you want?”

“I’m not paying fifty bucks for something I can get at Baskin Robbins.”

“No, choose something fancier,” he urges, “peach cobbler?”

“Okay…”

Eren takes a moment to look at you—really look at you—green eyes glimmering.

“Now, do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Eren smiles, fang tooth catching the reflections of the restaurant's lighting. Then, he slides his ring off his index finger, slips out of the booth, and lowers to a knee.

“Eren–”

He keeps his eyes on you, grin splitting his cheeks. “Marry me?”

You dart your eyes around the restaurant, shrinking under the stares of patrons. When you turn back to Eren, you’re only able to make out the tail-end of the words flying from his mouth.

“... free dessert.”

It takes you a while to understand, but once you do, you’re perking up, sobbing out a dramatic yes! and throwing your arms around Eren’s neck, unable to distinguish the sudden cacophony of claps from the blood rushing to your ears.

Eren scarcely pulls back, just enough to swoon at the smile on your face. A giggle knells out of you, and in a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement, you’re leaning in, smooshing your lips against Eren’s mouth.

He tastes like feta and cilantro and salmon and he tastes like home.

He draws an arm around your wait, pulling you flush against his chest. Eren deepens the kiss by craning his neck forward, sliding his palm along the line of your jaw. His touch is warm and familiar, and you lean into it, legs ripening into jello as your knees begin to buckle.

It only lasts a second, but when Eren pulls away, he pulls along with him all of the air from your lungs. He rests his forehead against yours, sheepish and giggly as he takes gentle hold of your hand, gliding his ring onto your finger.

Congratulations’ from strangers rings out, and you’re suddenly reminded that you and Eren aren’t the only people in the world. Eren hides his blush within his seltzer, eyeing you over the rim of the glass.

The restaurant doesn’t even end up giving you free dessert.

Eren snorts at that, and once the final food orders for the wedding are confirmed with the caterers, you gather into Eren’s car, pulling into a parking lot of the nearest McDonald’s.

Now, you sit in the empty diner with a spread of food between you—three large fries, two cheeseburgers. 

You nudge him from under the table, seizing his attention. “Good?”

Eren nods, swallowing. He tells you it’s sweet. He wants to tell you it’s not nearly as sweet as you. Not nearly as sweet as the kiss you’d shared thirty minutes prior. The one you’re both seeming to gloss over.

You silently finish the rest of the food before taking your leave, driving back home.

The next time you speak, you’re parked in front of your apartment, girdled by the sound of cicadas. “I had fun today, but your mac ‘n cheese puts all their hors-d’oeuvre to shame.”

A beam breaks out on Eren’s face. “Yeah?”

You hum, slinking out of his car. “See you tomorrow?”

“We’ve gotta show the list to Jean and Mika, so yeah,” he shrugs.

You idly shuffle in place. You’re waiting for Eren to say something; Eren’s waiting for you to say something. You opt for a shy smile, worrying at your sweater vest.

“So, tomorrow?”

“You said that already, baby.”

You roll your eyes and shut the door, waving as you enter your apartment complex. Eren doesn’t drive off, not until you text him that you’ve made it home safely.

Eren’s greeted home by Armin lounging on the couch, curled in a swirl of blankets, hot cocoa cradled in his hands. Eren sits down alongside him, laying his head on Armin’s shoulder.

“Sex and the City?”

Armin nods and flickers his gaze towards Eren. Eren, whose eyelashes flutter dreamily, cheeks rosy and engorged by virtue of his cheshire smile.

Armin nudges his roommate “What’s got you so happy?”

Eren shrugs. “Can’t I enjoy spending time with my closest friend?”

Armin narrows his eyes. He knows better than to embarrass Eren, and as a look of love colours his face, Armin finds it’s not what’s got Eren so happy, but who. 

“Uh-huh,” Armin hums, knowingly smiling.

MONTH 4: SAVE-THE-DATES.

You think you’re in love with Eren Jaeger.

It’s not your fault. How could you have known? Eren has always felt like your home. He’s always been your home.

Eren’s always been your interlude; your respite; your best friend.

Well apparently, best friends don’t kiss. Or share longing glances. They don’t itch to have their hands on one another. Nor do they take each others’ virginities in the back of Connie’s 2019 Dodge Charger following the epilogue of their junior year in university.

You guess that—in some silly little way—it all means you and Eren aren’t best friends. That you haven’t been best friends in a long time.

You’re not sure when, but you know you ruined your friendship with Eren ages ago. And now comes the hard part. Now, comes the part where you must pretend you’re not entirely besotted with your “best friend”.

You hate him. You hate him because he’s making it so hard. With his stupidly large hands and his dumb smile that makes his eyes gleam gold.

Or maybe that’s just the glitter that garnishes his eyelashes. On his cheeks, his lips, freckled over his hair.

Eren’s gaze flickers up to you. “Something on my face?”

Your breath stifles, and your body works before your mind does; reaching out to sweep your thumb over Eren’s cheek, brushing away the silver and gold sparkles that wink at you beneath the kitchen light.

As you pull back, a wash of his saliva glosses your finger.

A raft of save-the-dates are spaced out in front of you and Eren. They’re thick with cardstock and coloured brown, rustic yet refined, decorated with dried flowers twined in ribbon. You did the calligraphy—because Eren can’t write in cursive for the life of him—while he punched out heart shapes in the corner of every card.

He wedges a Sharpie between his teeth, uncapping the marker. He hands it to you, and you repeat the process of your thirtieth card, halfway through the invites of sixty guests.

“Lemme do some,” Eren petulantly mumbles, squishing his cheek against the counter, “I wanna help.”

You push Eren’s bangs back, fanning them away from his face. “You’ve done enough.”

The space between you quietens, and you return to twirling coarse yarn around cardstock. But, you’re only able to sift through three more invites until the shutter of Eren’s camera kills the lull. He’s directing the lens towards you when you turn to him, squinting through the viewfinder.

“Eren.”

“You look pretty,” he burbles, “couldn’t resist.”

“You’re distracting me,” you grit, manually tearing your stare away from his aquamarine eyes; the ones that mirror celestial cities.

Eren cocks his head, lowering his camera. He leans over the kitchen island and inserts himself in your vision, biceps flexing, teeth charmingly flashing. “I’m a distraction to you?”

You glare at him over an invite. “Yes.”

“Let’s just take a break,” he whines, “we’ve been at this all day.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes and brush the supplies aside. “If we take a break, will you leave me alone?”

“Cross my heart,” Eren simpers, shaking glitter out of his hair.

That promise brings you to the couch in your living room. Eren’s on top of you, breath fanning your face, the aura he exudes causing ice to crawl up your spine. You relapse into helplessness and keep your eyes frozen on the ceiling because you don’t know what the fuck to do.

“Don’t move,” Eren rasps, “you’ll get glitter everywhere.”

You couldn’t move—not even if you wanted to. Eren’s above you, sprinkling sparkles around the crown of your head, caging you beneath him.

When he’s finished, Eren pulls back and admires his work.

Eren wants to tell you that he had the easy part; that the real credit goes to you, harmoniously heavenly beneath him. But Eren doesn’t have a way with words, so with a thrashing heart, he hooks his lips in a smile, clearing his throat.

Eren reigns above you and pulls his camera to his face. And just as he centres you in the viewfinder, his heart, and his world, he skirts a hand over your torso, tickling a laugh out of you.

The camera clicks just as you snort and swat his hand away, cavilling his name.

“I needed your smile for the photo,” he lamely defends.

“You could’ve asked.”

Eren non-sequentially shrugs, reaching out to toy with a curl of your hair. “I needed your real smile for the photo.”

“Rookie move, ‘Rennie,” you grin—genuinely grin—“my smile’s always real when I’m with you.”

Eren’s smirk marginally falters, and currently, you don’t have the bandwidth to read through your regular is-this-what-friends-do internal monologue. His eyelids are heavy and his breathing is straggled, camera dangling from his neck and sitting on your chest. His hand sinks into the cushion beside your head, forearm flexing.

You shift onto your elbows, peering through your eyelashes at Eren. He stares down his nose at you, a near pained look etched upon his face. His virtues are always acute and carven, always reeling the edge of—as Zeke likes to put it—a resting bitch face, but when confronted by you, you make Eren’s features melt into softness and fondness and all things tender. Just like how he disarms your ribs and seizes your heart.

“Get on your back,” your voice shakes as you murmur, “it’s my turn.”

Eren sees no point in your whispering. After all, it’s just the two of you in your apartment, but the sentiment tugs at his heart, nonetheless. It’s the fact that in the heart of San Francisco, nestled on your l-shaped sofa, your words are meant for him. The stare you seize him with is only made for him; the tone in which you serenade him is solely meant for him.

Eren lifts himself off of you and sinks onto his back. He unburdens himself by slipping off his camera, placing it in your hands. You roll on top of him, knees bracketing his torso and sinking into the sofa. Eren’s stapled to the couch now, chinched between your thighs.

His hands find your hips—partially on top of your Nike shorts, partially on the suppleness of your bare skin. The fleece of your shorts tautly stretches as you bend your legs, leaning over to graze your fingers through Eren’s odd-angled tufts of hair. 

He clasps your hips, kneads the flesh of your thighs, and slides his hold to the small of your back, pressing you down on his waist.

You yield to Eren’s guidance and seat yourself on his groin, bringing the viewfinder to your eyes. 

Eren’s hair—an umber halo around his head—curls into his eyelashes and flares against the pillow he lies on. His bronzed skin turns into a dark tan under the feeble lighting and under the camera lens. His lips—soft and Jolly Rancher-stained—cleave as he hums a quiet mantra under his breath.

His green eyes seem to shift into overdrive, already adopting a fucked-out mien. There’s an undercurrent of raptorial flush in his gaze… but maybe that’s just the camera's sensor sensitivity.

“You know you– you’ve still got that same effect on me,” Eren purrs.

You press your thumb on the shutter. Your perspiration smears around the mutton. The little click rings out, complementing the chime of Eren’s breathy chuckles.

“Oh?” Another photo, “What effect?”

“From junior year,” he laughs, it's charming but it’s strained, “when we fucked in Connie’s car.”

You squeeze your eyes, gnawing down on your lip. “You’re thinking of that as I’m sitting on your dick?”

“I think about it…” Eren spits a punched-out wheeze, “I think about it lots. More than I should, probably.”

“Why’s that?” You goad.

“Because you’re my best friend.”

Eren huffs out a laugh, and it seems to require effort—there’s you on top of him, there’s his hands on your waist, and his worn-out senses.

You roll your hips—adjusting yourself on top of him—which generates a guttural groan from the depths of his throat. Eren throws his head back, baring his neck to your hungry eyes and the prying camera and the sweltering heat of your living room.

Eren loses control of his waist as he fervently humps up into you, guiding your hips over his thickening cock. It’s impossible not to notice the heavy weight that swells from his sweatpants. It kicks you into excitement; he’s hard. Eren is so fucking hard.

You grind yourself down on him; hips rolling, cunt dragging over his cock. It curves into your clit, sparking for a kindling friction in the pits of your navel.

A whine bubbles from Eren’s throat. He beseeches you with his eyes and flatters you as he slips his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can you ki– can you kiss me? Can you please–”

You vigorously nod and feed into Eren’s warmth as he tugs you close by the sling of his camera, coaxing your mouth open with the slide of his tongue. Your teeth clink, lips slipping over the other in a salacious share of spit.

His body overheats, saliva dribbling from his mouth. He can feel the fat head of his cock drooling with pearls of precum, his arousal matting to his boxer-briefs and sieving through its froth. You weave your fingers in his hair and fist his head back so his neck is exposed—thumping with a wayward pulse, bobbing with an erratic Adam’s apple.

You suck hickeys onto Eren’s jaw, practically making out with his neck. He’s sensitive beneath you—quivering yet pliant to your teeth that sink into his sheeny collarbones. His v-line flexes and tremors. 

You swivel your hips over his dick, and Eren’s cock twitches, slipping between the folds of your pussy. It defies the restraints of your clothing; pressing into the fat of your cunt, rubbing onto your clit.

You rock yourself back-and-forth as your panties cling to your dewy pussy, your slick smearing around your upper thighs. You can smell the yearning in the air—you can sense it in each nerve-ending and every erect hair on the back of your neck.

The sentiment of carnal desire is palpable. It seduces you into a faster pace—an uncontrolled rush of your hips—and wheedles soft wails from your shallow lungs.

“I wanna cum,” Eren pants, digging divots into your skin.

“You wanna?” You sneer, bracing yourself with your hands atop his chest, “You think I should let you?”

A blanket of sweat swathes Eren’s skin, and it dawns on him that he is the paragon of a predator-turned-prey as he turns to putty under your hold, under your cunt, and under your heavy-lidded gaze.

“Please,” he babbles, “I can’t h– take it.”

Eren ruts his cock into you, lolls his head to the side, and shudders with a sob. 

You smooth your thumb against his mouth to wedge his lips open. You slide your finger on his tongue, rolling it into the inside of his cheek.

Eren sucks your thumb and twirls his tongue around your finger; eyes pinched shut, hips greedily thrusting against your cunt. His spine coils, and his face twists into pleasure. 

When Eren cums, he’s whiney. He mewls and moans and exhales and groans. His whines ripen into sniffles and cries as he kittens his nose into your palm and prattles against your skin, warbling for forgiveness.

It’s comical because as he apologises, the strokes of his hips don’t cease. Eren continues aiding himself through his orgasm, still dry humping you. His hard dick pulses, hugged by your warm and soft pussy, throbbing as it slavers with shoots of thick cum.

He stutters to a stop, face burning because he can’t believe he just came his pants. Because you made him come in his pants.

“Good boy,” you praise, and Eren’s too fucked-out to register you snapping another photo.

You bend down and charm him with your lips. Eren completes the kiss, mouth rippling against yours, chin lifted to lure you closer.

You rest your foreheads against each other when you break apart, breaths mingling between you.

Eren huffs out a laugh, gliding his palms down your back. He purrs into the threshold of your lips. “Just what are you doing to me?”

“What’re you on about?” You tease.

Eren pouts, scrunching his eyebrows. He does things to you. He makes you feel things—scary things—he carves out holes in your heart and refills the craters all the same.

You back away, sliding off of him. You cross your arms and stand up.

Eren sits up on his elbows. “Where’re you going?” 

“We have to finish the save-the-dates,” you mumble.

“What about you?” Eren reaches out, hand skimming your arm, “You didn’t–”

“That’s okay.”

“But I wanna make you feel good, too,” he whispers. Eren stares at you with puppy-eyes and pink lips.

You awkwardly pat his head. “Later.”

“Later?”

“Another time,” you sigh, “promise.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Eren owlishly blinks. You pivot on your heel and stalk towards the kitchen. Your chest feels heavy but your head feels light. An inverted type of conflict sinks in your belly.

Best friends don’t give each other orgasms.

MONTH 5: SPEECH WRITING.

In retrospect, choosing a café in which to brainstorm your wedding speeches may not have been the best idea.

There’s the overlapping chatter; tolls of the entrance bell; the purling sound of pouring coffee, and the occasional screech of silverware against saucers.

But in your defence, all these things tower the idea of being alone with Eren.

Your night on the cough last month has reared its ugly head, manifesting itself as an unspoken shift between you.

While out for hotpot with friends, you sit separately. When bowling, you don’t have him velcro your shoes and you don’t sit on his lap. You don’t promptly show up at his door during the height of twilight for another The Lord of the Rings rerun, and you don’t wrap your arms around his torso as he quarters grilled cheese.

Your friends have already paid heed to the sudden change, too. Sasha was the first to ask, followed by Colt, and then the rest.

The perception of your friends set you on edge. Are you and Eren really so inseparable? So much so, that when there’s a rift dividing you, it is more than overtly obvious? 

“Is it yummy?”

Eren knocks you out of your reverie. He has a real affinity for that, you realise.

“Hah?”

He uses his chin to point to your drink. “Your boba.”

“It’s nice,” you say.

“It’s been paused halfway up your straw for five minutes.”

You make an obnoxious show of slurping your refreshment, rolling your eyes. “It’s nice.”

“Can I try?”

You nudge the cup in his direction, pushing it past notepads and crumpled sheets of paper and uncapped pens.

Eren reciprocates by offering you his drink, too, and curls his lips around your straw. His eyebrows pucker as he tries to cheek a tapioca pearl lodged towards the bottom of your cup.

Eren pulls the straw from his mouth once he’s sated, licking away the glaze of almond bubble tea that laminates his bottom lip.

You slide his drink back in front of him. “Verdict?”

“Tastes like almonds.”

You snort. “But do I get the Jaeger stamp of approval?”

Eren chucks you a cheeky grin. “Platinum.”

“How courteous of you,” you sarcastically marvel.

A smile tugs at Eren’s lips before he stretches his arm across the table, wordlessly asking for your arm. You place your wrist in his hand, providing him a canvas in which he begins to doodle on.

And, it’s now—as Eren’s tongue pokes into his cheek, his pen drawing hearts on your skin—are you gravely confronted with the weight of your relationship.

Just last month did you spiral into a wasteland of rumination and ruefulness. You reamed yourself as you recalled how you coalesced into Eren, how he coalesced into you, and how you coalesced into each other.

Eren wrests you from your internal thoughts when he pulls away. “Tell me how this sounds,” he says, reciting the rough draft of his best man speech.

Honestly, it all goes in one ear and out the other. You focus on his lips; soft and plump and alluring as they wrap soundlessly around words you don’t have the energy to understand.

He curls his tongue out of his mouth when he’s finished, a gentle sheen of saliva coating his lips.

“So? Does it sound basic?” Eren asks, “I don’t want it to seem like I got it from, like… BuzzFeed, or something. Because I didn’t.”

You inhale a mouthful of boba, subsequently saving yourself from saying anything stupid. “I think it’s good.”

“Read me yours.”

You do—after reminding him it’s just a very rough draft. Your speech is the stuff of jokes and enlightenment. How you had encouraged Mikasa to go on that first date with Jean; how you threatened to beat his ass after he was a no-show; and how you swooned upon finding out the reason he didn’t show up. Which was finding a three-legged cat on the highway and driving it to the vet.

You talk of how they complement each other. How they’re each other’s halves, each other’s purposes, each other’s muses. You talk with spunk and passion, eyes glossed over in—what Eren knows—is yearning. He’s seen it in the mirror enough times to recognise it.

Eren has long since mastered the art of masking his emotions. He watches you politely, but as your eyes flit down, he slips a quick peek at your lips, lapsing into awe as it rings around words like love.

If he believes hard enough, Eren can imagine your words are meant for him.

He startles when you glance at him over your notebook. “Too short?”

“Perfect.”

“You can’t say that to everything I do,” you groan, “you’re too biassed.”

“If the shoe fits…” he trails off.

You chuck a napkin in his direction, and Eren retaliates by nudging his shoe against yours.

“Help me,” he whines, “I dunno what else to write. I already have how Jean turned Mika into a better person. That’s good, right?”

“I never knew Mikasa before Jean,” you shrug.

“Well it’s true.” 

“What is?”

“That people turn into better people when they’re in love.”

You blink. Eren blinks.

“Okay, Romeo,” you mumble, your bubble tea swallowing the tail-end of your sentence.

“I’m just not good with words.”

“You’re stressing too much over this,” you coast out of the booth, round the table, and slide yourself next to Eren, “let’s outline.”

You’re almost reeling off the edge of the seat with how you keep your distance from Eren. Eren, who’s curled into the window on his side of the seat, dissolved into a hunch.

You tentatively extend a hand, picking Eren’s pen from his fist. He unfurls it, making it easier for you, and brushes your hand with his as you pull away. You dare not flicker your gaze up, as you know your eyes will betray your emotions.

You force your focus to the notebook before you, scribbling down a list of bullet-points.

relationship w mika pre-jean

how they met

how he helped her grow into who she is today

the changes u see in mika

throw in some jokes - none of ur corny knock-knock ones

“You like my jokes,” Eren defends.

You glance up, half-expecting him to still be huddled in his arch. But as you crane your neck up, you’re left momentarily stupefied to see how close he’d gotten.

His lashes flutter as they press into his cheeks. Lush. Tantalising.

Eren’s heart sputters to a stop, and his eyes reflect that sentiment as they go flickering down to your lips.

“Don’t you?” He ventures, “You like a lot of things about me.”

“Your jokes are idiotic,” you awkwardly try to diffuse, “I’m saving you the embarrassment for when nobody laughs.”

Eren’s face ripens into determination as he steals his pen back, scribbling into his notebook.

His writing is sloppy—especially when he falls into a spell and enters the zone. He writes of how Mikasa would gush about Jean after their dates, how she’d stress over which pastries to bake him, and how she knew exactly how to put a smile on his face.

“Mika knows him really well,” he says, tongue prodding his cheek, “just like I know you really well.”

You roll your eyes. “You know people really well, Eren. You're a harlot.”

“Actually, I haven’t looked at anyone else since our night in Connie’s car,” Eren says matter-of-factly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just you,” he shrugs, “I’ve forgotten what men and women look like, to be honest.”

You loll your head onto his shoulder, unceremoniously snorting. “You’re such a dweeb, y’know?”

“Your favourite dweeb,” Eren teases.

You lift your head—not enough to be denuded of his warmth—but enough to fall into his gaze.

Eren folds his lips, preening under your stare.

“Say something,” he tacks on, “don’t make it awkward.”

“What would I even say?” You retort.

“Anything,” he shrugs, “there’s a lot we have to talk about.”

Eren smirks—falteringly, timidly—and it triggers an itch from the recesses of your brain. From those groves materialise the urge to nurture and care for him.

“Like?”

Eren doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least. He takes his forefinger and his middle finger, shaping them onto the inside of your wrist.

“Your pulse,” he slowly states, “it’s racing.”

You recoil, jerking your hand away from Eren’s smouldering touch. You doctor your wrist even though it doesn’t hurt, soothing a free hand over the lingering sensation of Eren’s fingers.

“That’s not how you do it,” you say, voice fluctuating, “you’re meant to put your fingers at the base of the thumb.”

“Yeah?”

“Annie told me,” you mutter.

“Well, maybe I could try–” Eren lets his words subdue, completing his sentence in movements as he skirts his hand along your jaw, pressing his fingers beside your windpipe.

You both stay like that for a while—fifteen seconds to anyone who may be watching—but an entire lifetime to you. He stares at you and you revert your eyes to your boba, refusing to acknowledge the heat that crawls up your cheeks.

Then, Eren withdraws his hand. “Forty-two.”

“What–?”

“Forty-two times four, about 170,” Eren mischievously hums, “beats per minute. I’m pretty sure. If what nurse Armin told me is right.”

You knit your brows when Eren leans forward, eyeing you through the web of his lashes.

“Do I make you nervous?”

His wry smirk turns into a wolfish grin. His gaze—teasing—peeks at you from the corners of his eyes. 

Eren’s coy about his feelings; his words are playful but his cheeks are red.

He takes a sip of his drink, and a dribble of spicy mango boba goes pearling down his bottom lip.

Your chest hurts. Your heart flutters. His chest hurts. His heart flutters. 

Eren dashes his tongue out, licking clean the last dregs of his drink. “The same way I distract you, do I make you nervous?”

Despite how he always prompts butterflies in your stomach, you know your answer. “No.”

“Annoy you?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you don’t get tired of me?”

“How can I?” You say. “You’re my guava cake.”

Eren snickers. “Y’know, Mikasa is Jean’s mille-feuilles.”

“It’s pronounced mille-feuilles, Eren, the s is silent.”

He thins his lips in embarrassment, eyebrows cutely puckering. “Same difference.”

You edge towards him, your shoulders butting in the centre. “You can add that.”

“That Mikasa’s Jean’s mille-feui– that thing you said?”

“It’s cute,” you shrug, “like an inside joke between the four of us.”

“How gross,” Eren comically gags, “they’re really, like, in love, or whatever.”

“Yeah,” you say, tipping into his side, head resting on his shoulder. He tenses but it’s only fleeting, and the feeling of butterflies fulminates in your belly as he slackens into your warmth.

“They’re good for each other though, huh?” You hum.

Eren’s writing is thwarted. He turns to you; lips loured, face flustered. He looks at you. Eren truly looks at you.

“She makes him the happiest person in the world,” he purls.

A thick blanket of silence swaddles you both. It’s charged; it’s pointed; it’s loaded. Most importantly, it’s transient, because by the next second, a waitress approaches the table. She sets down two ramekins of crème brûlée. 

You bite your lip. “He makes her feel like she’s the only girl in the universe.”

And then, Eren smiles. And then, you smile. And then you whip your heads towards your notepads. And then, the moment is gone.

MONTH 6: BACHELOR(ETTE) PARTIES.

You tilt your head back, the last lees of your champagne gliding down your throat. You set the glass down and, immediately, are offered another drink by staff.

She passionately recommends alcohol they serve—limoncello prosecco; saffron fleurtation; tequila sunrise. She lists them off, and you nod along as if you understand (you don’t).

You’re certain that if Eren were here, he’d whisper in your ear how snobby these people are when it comes to alcohol, and how he could get the same amount of drunk for $10 worth of shots at the hole-in-the-wall pub nestled near Colt’s apartment.

The staff clears her throat, awaiting your answer. You settle on a pomegranate sparkler. Her smile tightens, but she pivots, “off to fetch your order,” she says.

You redirect your focus to the flower vase that sits in the centre of your circle. It’s a Baccarat antique—curated and detailed—and out of it spouts a blooming bouquet. 

The glassed-in gazebo you’re seated inside of allows cascades of sunlight to sheen over your canvas, and the cacophony of colours that paint it. The air of spring percolates through the windows and doors, the honeyed scent of nature whirling through the room in a mix of eucalyptus garlands and bergamot.

While Jean and the boys are off doing God knows that, Mikasa opted to have a lowkey bachelorette party. Thus, the afternoon has been rife with wine tasting and painting classes.

“There’s only so many synonyms for yummy,” Sasha hisses, “how’re we meant to compliment wine?”

“Nobody’s here to actually rate wine,” Ymir drawls, swirling her glass, “we’re just here to drink.”

“I heard that winemakers don’t like when people chug their drinks,” Mikasa hums, drifting her paintbrush along the lip of her canvas, “it offends their craft, something like that.”

“Really?” Sasha gapes, “Niccolo’s the opposite. He loves when I gobble his food.”

“That’s cause he’s in love with you, dummy,” Pieck giggles, “Bert tried snarfing down his soufflé and Niccolo threw a towel at him.”

Your friends fall into a bicker over the intricacies of high-skill food, and in the midst of their squabble, Mikasa digs her chin into your elbow, smiling at your artwork.

“You never told me you had such a knack for painting.”

“Because I don’t,” you snort, “not really, at least.”

Your rendition of the flower vase isn’t terrible. It doesn’t scream beginner, but doesn’t drip of Basquiat-level adeptness, either. Mikasa’s painting is like her; abstruse and unique. She adopted an abstract style, the shapes jarring and the colours contrasted.

Mikasa follows your gaze, easing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m thinking of gifting it to Jean.”

“He’ll love it,” you say without thinking.

“Yeah? Our apartment’s kinda drab right now, it’ll look good in our room, or something,” her eyes slowly slink towards you, “are you gonna give yours to anyone?”

You purse your lips, cheeks soaking up the flavour of your wine.

“No…” you drawl, “who would I give it to?”

Mikasa’s quiet for a second, silently seeming to catalogue the look on your face.

“Red chrysanthemums symbolise love,” she shrugs, “tulips represent perfection, orchids mean refinement.”

You nod and divert your gaze, sticking it on your canvas that glistens in the sunshine. “Interesting.”

Mikasa’s eyes surge lower, down to Eren’s ring that you twirl around your finger.

Something flits over her countenance—something that remains unseen by you, as she hides her face behind the rim of her glass, polishing off her sangria wine.

Mikasa clears her throat. “Why are you wea–”

The waitress returns, setting your sparkler down beside you. You take a swig, saving yourself from saying anything more. Placing the glass back down, you brush the back of your hand against your chin.

“What was that?” You ask, glancing at Mikasa.

“Nothing,” she smiles.

You nod; she nods; and you both turn back to your canvases

—

On the other side of town Eren crawls on his stomach. Night-vision goggles assured on his face, a gun cradled in his hands.

He rises to his feet, bends at his knees, and hides behind a bollard. He slides his back against the plastic, expertly peeking over the post with unrivalled finesse. 

He fishes his necklace out of his pocket. It’s in the element of replicating a dogtag—not of similar shape, but holding the same sentiment. Ingrained in the silver chain is your Steam tag—a little unorthodox, sure, but matching the Genshin Impact UID of his that’s entrenched into your golden anklet.

He presses the cool jewellery to his lips, gloating over the moment’s respite it bears him in the midst of chaos. His mind drifts to you, your homemade paellas, your twinkling laughter. He skates the necklace back into his pants, pulling the gun towards his chest. Eren tells himself he must win. For you, for bragging rights, and for the opportunity to see the crushing look of defeat on Reiner’s face–

Beeeeeeep.

Eren’s kicked from his internal narration at the depleting sound of his chestplate. He looks down, then looks to the cause of his demise.

“Connie!” Eren throws his arms up in the air, whining as he slaps them back down to his sides, “What the fuck, man? We’re on the same team!”

The aforementioned boy slaps a hand over his mouth and scurries towards Eren. They take cover behind the bollard, Connie’s hands flattened to Eren’s chest as if to put pressure on an imaginary wound. Connie cups Eren’s cheek with a shaking hand.

“Shoot me,” Connie warbles, “an eye for an eye.”

“Idiot,” Eren growls, “go win.”

“Shall I?”

Eren coughs up a hacking sound. “An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.”

“I will avenge you,” Connie grits his teeth, sliding his palm against Eren’s nape, “and I’ll take care of your woman. Put your faith in me–”

This time, the moment is cleaved by the sapping sound of Connie’s chestplate. The teammates look over to Jean, who wields his glow-in-the-dark gun towards them, a stupid grin splitting his cheeks.

“We had a truce, Jean!”

“Sorry, Con,” Jean smirks, “you were the last one on team blue.”

Connie huffs in a petulant display of attitude. He holds his hand out, helping Eren to his feet.

“You’re lucky you got Braun on your team,” sulks Connie, “he carried.”

Right then, Reiner rounds the corner, chestplate bulging from the solidity of his chest. “What about me?” He grunts.

Connie puckers his lips, shaking his head. “Nothing, dude. It’s nothing.”

“You guys fuckin’ destroyed me,” Colt laughs, scratching the back of his head, “I was already out. You didn’t have to keep shooting me.”

“My bad,” Reiner heartily chuckles, nearly knocking Colt over as he slaps him on the back, “I thought you were one of the actors.”

While his friends are occupied, Eren shuffles to the side to seize the moment. He fishes out his phone and pulls up your texts, a smile gracing his features as he types out a greeting.

eren: hey stinka

you: hi stinky. Wyd

eren: wishing u were here :(

you: i miss u too you: are you drunk?

eren: can i not be sentimental?

you: send mea selfie <2

eren: y

you: bc i miss your stupid face and this place is pretentious

Eren huffs out a laugh, pulling his camera up and posing for his phone. You get a string of texts the next minute—a chain of photos of Eren, all blurry and foggy, taken by shaking hands.

you: and you call yourself a photographer?

eren: -_-

The next pictures you get are a series of clearer ones. Eren sports a peace sign, mouth wide open and fang teeth on display as he pretends to take a bite out of the air.

you: uwu you: my pretty boy

The air conditioning and his blush take turns nipping at Eren’s cheeks. He turns down the brightness of his phone, hunching his shoulders in case Armin decides to be particularly nosey (as he always is.)

eren: send me one of you

you: wait

Eren rocks on his feet, dragging the soles of his shoes against the carpet. His friends are getting ready to leave.

The ping of his phone chimes out, and the device almost gets thrown out of his hold from the speed in which he unlocks it. Eren locates his pinned messages, and the boisterous laughter of his friends seems to fade into nothing.

There’s just you, poised before a restroom mirror, your body swathed in mulberry satin. Your halter dress reches your mid-thighs, crepe and soft as it flutters over your skin. 

Eren wishes to tell you that you are gilded and aureate—an enigma that has enraptured him wholly. His mind, his body, his soul. He wants to say you are the catalyst of all his becomings.

But, Eren doesn’t have a way with words. So he bites his fist, shakes off his enchantment, and types out the first thing that comes to mind.

eren: just slapped my dick on the screen

you: LMFAOOOOOO I HATE U. you: (affectionately) 

eren: uwu eren: how close are u to home

you: 15 mins

eren: ur going home soon?

you: riding with annie :P

eren: go home

you: that’s the plan….

eren: no i mean now

you: …. Why jaeger

eren: i wanna see you now eren: i wanna talk u now eren: and hear you

Where you are, you stand in the centre of the estate’s restroom, rubbing your legs together. Your eyes cut from your phone to Annie, who’s leaning over the sink and applying lip tint.

“Ready to go?” She hums, “We all agreed to head home at this time.”

“Yeah,” you nod, shifting under her gaze.

Annie quirks an eyebrow. “C’mon, let’s say bye, then. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day for everyone.”

While you surge out of the restroom and bid your see you later’s, Eren, on the other side of the city, is pulling his friends in for hugs and clapping Jean on the back.

As he slides into his car, you pile into Annie’s vehicle, tugging on the hem of your dress to keep your hands busy.

Eren drums his fingers over his steering wheel, lukewarm towards the gossip Armin spews from the passenger seat. You rest your head against Annie’s window, peering out at the city lights that thrum past your vision.

You duck out of Annie’s car and wave at her as she parks in front of your condo. Eren loops his keyring around his forefinger, spinning it as he eases into his apartment’s parking unit.

While you’re settling into a corner of the elevator, Eren’s bounding up the stairs with a pep in his step.

You trifle with your lanyard as you fish it from your purse, keys chiming a loud peal in the empty hallway. As you shove your keys into the lock, Eren enters his code into his apartment door.

He stumbles inside his apartment as you stumble into yours. You haul your phone out of your purse as it vibrates, the screen flashing with Eren’s contact.

You accept the call with bated breath, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your cheek as you scurry into your bedroom.

“Hey there, baby,” Eren says. His voice is mellow and tipsy—not off alcohol, but in a way so rheumy, you can picture the bleary sheen of his eyes.

You bite down on your cheek, suppressing a chuckle. “Hi.”

Eren, on the other hand, freely lets a giggle slip. His mouth is so close to the phone that the sound scruffs against the receiver. “Hi.”

“Hey,” you rasp, sprawling yourself out on your bed which, you now realise, feels starkly empty.

“Saw your Instagram stories,” he starts, “and the pic you sent. You look really pretty.”

You roll onto your belly, kicking your feet behind you. “I’m still wearing the dress.”

“You haven’t changed?”

Your voice dips lower as you answer, “No.”

“What a coincidence,” Eren laughs.

“Oh?” You toy with your skirt, “You don’t say.”

Eren hums. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

You flop onto your back, skating a palm down your chest. “Oh, totally.”

You’re quiet for some time, and the next thing to caulk the silence is Eren’s sweet voice.

“Can you FaceTime?”

“I was just about to get changed, ‘Ren.”

“... Alright.”

“Why?” You croon, “You wanna watch?”

Your words—while teasing—reel the edge of grave sincerity. It’s clear you’re testing the waters, highly-strung yet giddy as you catalogue Eren’s breath through the speaker.

The response you get is the call disconnecting. Your eyes widen, but before the next second, an incoming call flares over your screen. This time, it’s accompanied with the live image of you, aureoled by your sweat-saturated hair and clammy makeup.

Sitting up so fast, you’re welted with a dizzy spell. You make quick work of taming your hair and fixing your lip oil, using your phone as a makeshift mirror before accepting the call.

Eren’s face stretches across your phone screen. He’s leaning back on his myriad of plushies and pillows, mischief colouring his face. “Hey, you.”

He’s wearing his clothes from earlier, just as he’d said. A silken button-up tinted rose gold; sleeves rolled over his veiny forearms, collar folded, first few buttons undone.

You chortle into your palm. “You wore that to Jean’s bachelor party?”

Eren frowns, looking down at his outfit. His chest expands against the canopy of his blouse, the gilt material slipping and glimmering in contrast to his brown skin.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” you giggle, “you look like a harlot.”

Eren steadily smirks, huffing out an amused laugh. “Yeah, well, a hoe never gets cold.”

“Where’d you guys go?” You roll onto your side, deciding to poke fun at him, “Strip club?”

“You serious?” Eren’s eyes bulge wide, “We’re loyal men. We went to laser tag.”

“So… you’re a laser-shooting harlot.”

He casts you a wink. Once again, it’s awkward. It’s entirely embarrassing (then again, when is he not), but so outrageously endearing that you can’t help the grin that brightens your face.

“You’re a wet dog, y’know?” You say.

Eren scoffs. “Rude.”

“Calling to see me change?” You tut-tut and shake your head, “You’re dirty.”

“Well… are you?” Eren ventures.

“Am I?”

“... Gonna change.”

Laying on your stomach, you stretch yourself out on your bed, sliding your arms in front of you before propping your phone up with slothful hands. Half of your face sinks into the plush of your duvet, the other half peeing up at Eren in a teasing manner.

“Depends,” you coyly say, “you alone?”

Thankfully, Eren takes the bait. You aren’t sly—and Eren knows what you’re doing—but with his growing arousal, he can’t bring himself to care that you’re meant to be best friends anymore.

He rises, camera shaking with how quickly he closes in on his bedroom door. Eren swings it shut and locks it, leaning into his pillows as he crawls back onto his bed.

“Just us?” You ask.

“Just us two,” he beams, “always.”

Eren lolls his back against the headboard, phone resting atop his denim-clad thighs and held up with his ring-garlanded hand.

The angle has you dazed. It’s as if you’re on your knees for him—yielding and forthcoming between his legs. Eren tilts his head to the side, surveilling you through heavy-lidded eyes and the thick frame of his lashes. The shine of his chest peers at you, his glossy shirt tugged down as he cards his free hand through his hair.

His mane falls perfectly over his head, hair mounting his eyebrows and curling behind his ears. The lamp in the corner of his room radiates a soft and orange smoulder, the shadows that issue from it pooling in the dip of his cupid’s bow.

“You wanted to see me?” You ask.

Eren nods. 

You kiss your teeth. “No manners?”

“Please,” he begs.

You grin wickedly, pulling back and propping your phone against your pillow. You slide your halter-collar over your head, pushing your dress down your body.

In only your brassiere and panties, the air conditioning slaps at your bare skin—and you would shiver—if not for the molten that crawls up your spine, pin-balling beneath your skin.

Eren sheds his shirt, the light grooves of his lithe chest now fully exposed. You lick your lips at the sound of his fly unzipping, the ring penetrating through the air, piercing your lungs. He shoves his jeans over his thighs and twists them off his ankles.

Eren’s cock is salient under the strain of his boxer-briefs, semi-hard and pressing against the material.

You expel a soft curse and cup your breast, squeezing yourself through the froth of your bra. Eren begins palming himself in slow, languid circles. His eyelids droop, his lips part, and he flutters in need.

“Do you– wanna take off your bra?” Eren pants.

“Do you wanna take off your briefs?” You retort, unclasping the hook of your bra.

The nylon falls, and with it, falls your breasts. You steady them with your forearm, pushing them towards the camera.

“Fuck,” Eren gasps, “you’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

He lets little oh's and ah's slip as he tugs down his boxers, freeing his thickening dick that slips out and smacks his chest.

Beads of precum rivulet down Eren’s chest, and his cock dumbly nods as he snakes his hand lower, kneading his balls.

The camera shakes as you arch your back. “‘M taking my panties off,” you huff.

Your phone glides lower, down to capture the mound of your pussy laced by your panties. You wiggle your hips to tug down your undergarment, and strings of your arousal cling from your pussy lips to the crotch of your panties.

You carelessly chuck them to a random corner of your room. You ghost a finger over the slit of your pussy, collecting arousal and tracing it around your clit.

“Ah– your nails,” Eren exclaims, “they’re so cute!”

You enter a breathy fit of laughter—the pads of your fingers still swirling your swelling and sensitive bud, the length of your fingers still sliding between the wet fat of your cunt.

“Thanks,” you pant, “we got them done this afternoon.”

Eren lazily smirks, rolling his head back. “Can’t wait to see ‘em wrapped ‘round my cock, baby.”

You fixate your gaze on Eren’s dick, how it slips in his hand. He’s gorgeous—sublimely thick and salaciously curved—pink and heavy with a bulbous tip and plump balls.

Eren tightly groans, cock jumping in his fist. You pinch your clit but soothe the burn as you billiard a finger over the bud, crying out in pleasure.

“I wanna fuck you open, baby,” Eren shudders with a whine, “fuck, so bad, so bad–”

He throws his head back as he beats his dick, grip tightening at the sound of your sweet moans and the charm of his name bowling off your tongue. His chest ebbs and flows. His lips wrap around your name in soundless yearning.

His cock pulses in his slick grip, his eyes gloss over with an off-white tint, his lips pop open.

Your face flutters with the tide of pleasure. You writhe under Eren’s stare, his gaze fencing you in place.

Your legs shake, your pussy puffy and split as you sink two fingers into your hole. You’re still wearing Eren’s ring. It sends a chill up your spine, your back arching at the cold brass that rolls over your clit. At this point, you don’t even have the energy to keep your head steady. You let it flop down, ears keen on the wet click of Eren’s dick as he drags his hand over his cock.

“Look how hard you got me,” Eren’s voice filters through the receiver.

Your head just barely balances on your shoulders as you force it back up. You begin nodding off as you circle your clit, pussy wet and pupils dilated as you watch Eren fuck his fist.

His hips rise and fall in choppy fevour, bedsprings wailing beneath him. He tells you he’s close. You tell him you need a little longer, but as Eren’s abdomen begins flexing, his strokes turning sloppy and losing control, cum spouts from his cock and paints his chest. He fucks himself through his orgasm, heedless towards the arousal dripping down his fingers.

The sight utterly melts you. From the inside, out. You imagine him cumming inside of you, your ass pulled flush against his pelvis, cock stuffed so far inside of you that his cum fills your tummy and warms the grooves of your heart.

Your orgasm weighs down your eyelids. You fight to keep them open, but pleasure unfurls upon you like a silken spill-wave.

Your clit pulses and your legs tremble. You fall slack on your bed, slick running down your ass and pooling over your sheets.

The lull of carnal air gets pierced by Eren’s mousy giggle. You open your eyes, heartbeat simmering at his beaming smile.

You brush your hair out of your face, batting your sleepy eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, “I can’t smile at my best friend?”

“Best friend,” you parrot. It doesn’t bother you like it used to. The term spins off Eren’s tongue with inflexion, candied in cadence.

You wedge your bottom lip between your teeth, giggling into your pillow.

“I really mean it,” Eren murmurs, “you look beautiful.”

Look, not looked. Eren’s still besotted by you in this moment—mascara clumping your lashes, lip oil smeared against your cheek.

It’s a sweet and soundless moment. Liminal, as you both contemplate the other.

Your eyes are heavy. They dip with fatigue.

“Go sleep,” Eren whispers.

You flap a hand in dismissal, but the grip on your phone still weakens.

“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he tacks on, “I’ll miss you until then.”

You nod into your pillow, curling into your comforter as Eren ends the call. And before slipping into the limbo of sleep, you find yourself imagining Eren’s arms garlanding your waist, pulling you into his warmth, all until you irrevocably become whole.

MONTH 7: THE WEDDING.

With the last of your luggage loaded inside the car, you round the vehicle, sliding into the backseat. Armin’s already in the passenger seat, connecting to the AUX; Annie’s in the driver’s seat, adjusting the controls to her height; and Eren’s scooting towards you—despite there being plenty of space in the back—resting his head on your shoulder.

The 8AM air of San Francisco looks good on you, Eren muses, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of Annie’s car, gracing your face.

Eren kittens his nose into your neck, preening under Armin’s prying gaze through the rearview mirror. You lay your cheek on Eren’s head and chafe your face against his wispy hair, inhaling the sweet scent of his strawberry shampoo.

Eren reaches out and twists his fingers with yours, tracing his calloused index over the heartline of your palm. He brings your hands to lay on his lap, lulling you to rest as you begin easing into the small and sunny town of Jenner-by-the-sea, California.

—

The venue is already bustling with staff by the time you get there. Both the event lawn and the deck are wreathed in waxflower, the glassed-in lobby flecked with fairy lights.

You and Eren weave your way through vendors as you navigate the homey halls of the lodge. The vaulted ceilings hang antler chandeliers, the cosy colour of walnut wood swathing you from every direction. Eren’s already snapping photos, squinting through his viewfinder at the preparation for the wedding.

The venue smells of cedar wood and mimics a cabin in the woods. It’s perfect for Mikasa and Jean. Rustic, yet refined.

“Here you are,” Eren slows to a stop, “suite 33.”

He jams the key in the lock, swinging the door open.

Stepping inside your room, rolling your luggage over the teal green carpet, you’re not above ogling at the muscles that ripple beneath Eren’s taut t-shirt. The black stretches over his lithe muscles, thinning into his limber waist, and curving into his bottom, filling out the space of his jeans.

He twists at his waist, throwing you a boyish smirk. “Enjoying the view?”

Your eyes slide up, slink towards the oceanfront scape of your window, then creep back to Eren.

“Something like that,” you tease, gently nudging past him.

You press your face against the window, fawning at the coast of Sonoma decked with wooden chairs and a flower archway. You watch the ocean ebb and flow, the clement waters likened to the fluctuating beat of your heart as Eren plants himself next to you.

“You know…” Eren starts, “we could fuck against this window.”

Your lips pop open and you whip your head in Eren’s direction, batting your palm against his chest.

“What!?” He pleats his lips, “It’s true.”

“And all those vendors on the ground?” You hiss, chiding yourself for the sizzle that sparks below your navel.

Eren shrugs, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Not like we’d ever see them again.”

You can’t deny the blaze in your belly; it overrides all other sensations at the prospect of Eren taking you against the window. You, with your cardigan chucked over your tits, your body folded into his large frame and conforming arms. Eren, with his nose buried in your neck, teeth digging into your collarbone. You, stuffed with his cum as you head downstairs. Everyone else, unassuming.

You turn to Eren, pressing your boobs against his arm. He slips a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer so that you’re pulled flush against his chest.

You brace your hands on Eren’s shoulders, clinging onto bated breath as he fixes you with a stare. He looks at you, eyes reading of warmth; lips cleaved, breath unfurling against your face; cheeks supple and rosy, bulging with his megawatt grin.

“Twenty minutes,” you bubble. You bite your lip to contain your giggles, “Or will they notice we’re gone by–”

A little tinker on your right rents the moment. You and Eren jump away from each other and, upon looking out the window, you see Connie on the event lawn—Jean balancing on his shoulders—a fistful of pebbles in his hand and a puckish grin on his face.

“Get your asses down here!” Connie loudly cackles, neck straining as he looks up at you, “Jean-boy needs to start getting ready!”

The aforementioned boy leers, tightening his legs on either side of Connie’s neck. Connie retaliates by smacking Jean’s calf—to which he locks Connie’s head, brands his knuckles, and rubs a rough noogie onto his scalp. The exertion has Connie fumbling, eventually toppling over and bringing Jean down with him, the pair ending in a tangled heap of limbs on the ground.

Eren snorts, rolling his eyes. “Those idiots are our best friends?”

“You’re that idiot’s best man,” you grin, “you should get going.”

“Yeah,” Eren airly chuckles, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. His eyes twinkle and his cheeks burn. His chest wavers, as if he’s reminding himself how to breathe. “I’ll see you?”

You teeter on your tippy-toes, pucker your lips, and press a smooch onto Eren’s cheek. Shyness roils off of him as you pull back, his cheeks a vibrant shade of pink.

You smile, heading towards the door of your suite.

“I’ll see you,” you confirm.

—

You toy with the strap of your dress—the one that keeps slipping down your shoulder—as you watch the stylist tweak Mikasa’s hair, adjusting her pearl headpiece.

Sasha’s currently fanning her face, rallying herself on, making sure her tears are kept at bay. Hitch is adding the finishing touches to the bouquet. Annie’s leaning over the vanity, folding her lips to spread her soft red lipstick.

The door swings open and there stands Vivienne, her off-the-shoulder floral dress swaying around her calves as she struts into the room. She throws a hand over her shoulder. “Bridesmaids and groomsmen should be at the walkway.”

“Already?” Sasha gasps, sliding a finger below her waterline.

Vivienne nods. 

“Everything ready?” Mikasa asks as she turns, fiddling with the sleeve of her dress.

“Everything’s been ready,” Vivienne softly smiles, “they’re waiting for you.”

Sliding past Mikasa, you place your hands on her shoulders, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I’ll see you there.”

You slip out of the vanity room with the rest of your friends. You grip your bouquet, and smooth a hand over the silk of your sage green bridesmaid dress.

All of the special guests—Jean’s mom, Levi, the groomsmen and bridesmaids—congregate behind the white curtain that leads to the event lawn. You’re able to hear the lull of the guests from where you stand, the seaside breeze flapping past the curtain, fanning your face.

It’s when the group starts tapering off into pairs, does a hand brushing your shoulder catch your attention.

You pivot, and there stands Eren; eyes wide, lips parted.

“You look…” he expels a heavy breath, tugging at his lopsided tie, “… wow.”

You giggle, a shy thank you crossing your tongue.

Eren’s very aura inspires euphoria. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as you tuck your bouquet under your arm, adjusting his tie and the sling of his camera.

“There,” you tease, patting your palms down his chest, “now you look like a gentleman.”

Your hands loiter on Eren’s chest, his pulse rapping through the sheen of his suit and thumping beneath your touch.

He sweeps your hand up and raises it to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the apex of your knuckles. “We should get going.”

Eren leads you to the back of the line, looping his arms with yours. You stand side-by-side, poised to walk down the aisle to open the ceremony.

Eren leans down, breath tickling the shell of your ear. “Nervous?”

You shoot him a look, nudge him with your side, and stick out your tongue. “Never.”

The line shuffles forward, parting the curtain that lets the high noon sunlight spill into the room you’re waiting in. The parents move out first, and the seated guests quieten.

The alluring air of calming violins charm you as you amble—arm-in-arm—with Eren down the aisle.

The lawn is flecked with clear balloons and blooming vines. There aren’t many guests, but the sunshine hangs over them, sluicing a twinkling lustre over the lush grass, wooden chairs, and flowering archway.

At the altar, you and Eren part. He stands by the groomsmen while you get in line with the other bridesmaids.

Eren shoots you one last smile before raising his camera to his face, squinting through the viewfinder.

The action, of course, leads you to turn your head. There, Levi leads Mikasa down the aisle, the satin of her dress soaking up the sunshine, reflecting it in waves.

Her wedding dress is silky and smooth as it sways around her like a crown of light. It’s a sheath column dress; off-the-shoulder and satin, reaching her ankles with a layered slit that shears between the middle, drawing attention to her muscular legs.

Out of everything, though—her vine headpiece, the silk that cascades down her dress, the twinkle to her shoes—Mikasa’s face is what beams the brightest.

Her smile puts the sun to shame as she eases down the aisle, eyes trained on Jean.

The violins recede to silence just as Mikasa arrives at the altar. Levi claps Jean on the back, no-doubt slipping a little something under his breath to him, too, judging by the way Jean goes rigid. The groom shakes it off with a smile, giving Levi a resolute nod.

“Knock it off, Levi,” Mikasa lightheartedly scolds.

Levi soothes his hands over his tuxedo, and draws Jean close for a tight embrace. They pat each other on the back in the way that family members should, and pull away with tears flecking their eyelashes. Levi turns before Mikasa sees his glassy eyes and—knowing her—gets the chance to pause the ceremony to tend to his overflowing emotions. Levi jams his hands into his pockets, settling into his seat in the first row.

“Welcome everyone, please be seated,” the officiant begins, “whether old or young, male or female, single or taken, we’re all here today to witness the blooming love between Jean Kirstein and Mikasa Ackerman.”

A breeze unfurls across the lawn, bringing the scent of the ocean with it. The waves curl and crest, singing a staccato.

“Many of us here have known this couple for years. We’re seen them grow, and today we get the opportunity to see them grow as one…”

The officiant’s words fade into your background as you rock in your heels, creeping your eyes across the venue. You sneak a glance at Eren, and lapse into surprise when you see his gaze is pointed at not Jean nor Mikasa, but you.

His hands are folded in front of him, his eyes depthless emeralds thronging with stars.

“We all know marriage is not created by law or ceremony, rather it occurs in the hearts of two human beings.”

The corner of Eren’s lip capers up in a tilted smile, the chub of his cheeks swelling in his sheepish show of teeth.

Eren pulls a comical face—which really isn’t all that funny—but he’s just so foolish he has you shaking with mirth, a grin unfurling upon your lips.

“So, here today, we are observing an outward sign of an inward union that already exists between two people.”

Eren’s face dwindles to something softer. Something dulcet, mellow, and ill-defined. His gaze is just as strong, though, causing goosebumps to prickle up the scruff of your neck. You maintain the stare, feeding into his allure.

The drape of Eren’s lashes somewhat dull the intensity of his gaze as the officiant continues on, easing into the declaration of intent.

Something inside of you stirs; it rouses, tailspinning its way around your heart.

“Jean, do you take Mikasa to be your–”

“Hell yeah, I do!”

A ripple of amusement fans over the lawn, guests flaring up in laughter. Eren, too. His shoulders shake, eyes crinkling as he watches Mikasa playfully swat Jean’s chest.

“And do you, Mikasa, take Jean to be your lawfully wedded husband? To live together in matrimony; to love him; comfort him; honour him and keep him. In sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward?”

Mikasa settles for a kittenish smile, breathing her reply. “I do.”

The couple skips their vows, opting to keep their words for each other privy to the walls of their suite. Gabi approaches the altar with a slab of circular wood in her hands—a rustic alternative to ring pillows.

“Thank you,” Mikasa smiles.

Between that, the voice of the officiant, and the image of Jean and Mikasa slipping rings onto each other’s fingers, it’s all a blip in the streamline of your memory, because your gaze stays locked on Eren. 

A gust of wind plaits through his brown hair, causing his tufts to twine and twist through the breeze. He smiles—that boyish, lopsided, charming smile of his—and looks away.

“It is in my honour to officially acknowledge you married. Go forth and live each day to the fullest. You may seal your marriage with a kiss.”

Jean slips his hands over Mikasa’s waist; Mikasa slides her fingers over the cusp of Jean’s jaw. The former pulls him towards her, mashes her lips to his, and breathes him in like a lifeline.

It truly is movie material—deep, unrushed and impassioned. It doesn’t cross the threshold of awkwardness, but it does tug at your heart.

“It is my privilege to present you—for the very first time as husband and wife—Jean Kirstein and Mikasa Ackerman.”

The guests exclaim in peals of good-wishes and cheers, clapping the newlyweds back inside as they retreat—arm-in-arm—down the aisle, the lilt of joyful birdsongs and happy friends serenading them as they do so.

—

Mikasa leans forward, resting her cheek on Levi’s head as they sway to the maestoso of violins.

The redwood deck is sparsely packed with guests—some snacking on hors-d’oeuvre; some playing bocce; others wreathed around the dancefloor, watching Mikasa share a dance with Levi.

Eren stays to the side—camera in hands, viewfinder near his eyes—as he captures the memory on film.

He’s dizzy. With love, cherry spritzer, or the cascade of clementine macarons he ingested? Eren doesn’t know. He thinks it may be all.

Just as he snaps another photo, he hears the call of his name. Eren looks up to see Jean shepherding him close with a grin, eyes glossy with mirth.

The first thing Eren does upon approaching his best friend is pull him into a bear hug for the nth time that night. They snivel, vulnerable yet safe in one another’s arms.

“Congratulations, Kirstein. Really, I mean it.”

Jean rolls his eyes by a pretence of annoyance, but it’s clear he’s trying to fend-off the tears that tease his waterline. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Jaeger.”

Jean hands Eren a flute of champagne. “And you? Any progress?”

Eren makes a sound between a scoff and a gasp, eyeing Jean over the lip of his champagne glass. “What?”

“Oh, c’mon, Jaeger,” Jean drawls, “I’m literally a married man—and one of your closest friends—I know how to read what’s there.”

The cast of redcurrants makes its way onto Eren’s cheeks as he folds his lips, shoulders curling in embarrassment. “I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it…” he mumbles.

“You kidding me?” Jean wheezes, “You’re more obvious than Levi and Hange. And that’s saying something.”

The pair glance to the side to see Levi stepping off the dancefloor, ambushed by a tipsy Hange. They ply him with chocolate-covered strawberries as Levi’s cheeks turn pink under the cataract of golden lighting.

“Am not.” 

“Totally are,” Jean snorts, “so? What’d she say?”

“Haven’t talked to her since,” Eren bites.

Jean pulls a face. Eren knows it, he’s just too busy scoping you out through the cleaved sea of people as you jump and laugh in Annie’s arms. You’re a beacon of light, eclipsing everything around you.

“Go talk to her.”

“Later.”

“Go,” Jean shoves Eren in your direction, taking his camera from him, “I’ll give this back after.”

Jean departs without another word, off to his wife, who welcomes him with a noogie.

Eren reorients himself before shuffling towards you, wringing his hands, cracking his knuckles. Annie heeds his approach and unsarls herself from your grasp, leaving your side as she heads for the grazing table.

Eren’s by your side before you can question it. He rests his arm on your shoulder, watching Jean and Mikasa flail around to the current song.

Once your fleeting surprise disappears, you smile. “They’re quite the pair, aren’t they?”

“Owe it all to us,” Eren giggles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

Eren holds his hand out, a feeble smile on his face. His eyes are blown wide, the emerald pool of his irises eclipsed by love-imbued pupils. His gaze is garnished by the sparkle of hanging curtain lights.

“May I have this dance?”

Of course, you slip your hand into his, and titter as he kisses the back of it. Eren leads you onto the dancefloor as Waterloo by ABBA plays. His skin burns the silk of your dress as he squeezes your love handles, gliding his palms up your arms before settling them on your shoulders.

The two of you slow dance like stillwater despite the upbeat song that plays. Eren weaves his fingers behind your neck in order to draw you close, anchoring you to his chest. You mould your hands against the curves of his lithe waist, tugging him forward.

A part of you swears that the earth’s final kindle gets snuffed out, and thus reduced to just you and Eren. He rests his forehead against yours as he smiles that goofy grin of his and, just as the song draws to its end, you latch a hand behind Eren’s neck, thrusting him into a theatrical dip.

A peal of laughter pools out of Eren’s mouth, the sound putting the tune of Bee Gee’s Night Fever to shame.

Eren juts out his neck, brushing his nose against yours. “That was awfully extra of you.”

“How could I resist?” You joke, standing him back up.

Eren shuffles closer, and uses his thumb to brush away the crumbs of meringue flecking your bottom lip. The sweetness mixes with the taste of his flesh, and you’re overcome with the urge to bite, to keep biting, and to inhale him entirely.

Eren lifts his hand and slots his thumb over his tongue, sucking your taste off his skin.

Your breath hitches. “Y’wanna get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he grins.

You assure Eren’s wrist in your grasp and giggle as you lead him away from the party. Your heart stutters—not because of what’s to happen—but because of what’s already happened. His speech echoes in your mind, reverberating in your heart. The fuzzy furore of love trickles down, pooling like lava in the heartbeat below your navel.

The murmur of the ceremony drowns out as you enter the lodge. It’s seemingly a blip in time; the inn is empty, save for just you and Eren, and reads like your own little paradise. You’ve made your own liminal space as you trudge upstairs, tripping through the halls.

“I need to get my toothbrush,” Eren pants, tightening his grip on your hand.

You loop an arm around his bicep and tug him close, sliding your palm down his willowy chest. “I can’t wait any longer, Eren.”

“I don’t want my kisses smelling like chicken,” he smooths his hand over the hinge of your jaw, skating it down your neck, over your collarbone, “and I… I wanna taste you.”

Your knees go weak as you ensconce your forehead on Eren’s shoulder, whining a punched-out “Fuck,” under your breath.

And so Eren pulls you into his suite and nudges you over the threshold of the bathroom, handing you a spare toothbrush. You scrub your teeth, impatiently bump your hips together, and giggle at your reflections in the mirror as you rinse your mouths.

It’s a far cry from the tight space of Connie’s junior year car, the wall that Eren pushes you up against. He cants his head down—causing the scent of mint to sluice down your face—and cages you between his arms, interminably trapping you in a corral of Eren, Eren, Eren.

“That speech,” you slur, “it was about me.”

“Of course it was,” Eren gasps, gripping your cheeks in his hands, “it fucking always was.”

You press yourself against him, revelling in the thickening bulge that rubs between your thighs. Eren pants, his spritzer-frazzled breath washing your face, clouding you delirious. Your orientation is impaired, all as Eren skates a large hand beneath the silky material of your slip dress and chucks it over the curve of your ass, moulding your flesh in his bare hands.

The next thing Eren moulds is his mouth against your lips. He devours you—your flaws and your virtues—and as you melt in Eren’s embrace, you feel as if you’re a drowsy child again, being carried to your bedroom on a chilly evening to a summer’s end in the arms of someone warm and loved and trusted.

Eren threads his fingers in your hair, tugs on it to lever your head back, and walks his teeth down your throat.

He flirts with the flimsy strap of your dress; you pull him closer by the lapels of his suit. It feels so natural, feels so right as Eren slews his hand under your panties, working his fingers between glossy folds. Your head swims. It’s a culmination of champagne, arousal, and love.

You toe off your shoes and bully Eren backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress, sending him flopping onto the bed.

He draws his hands up your hips and pulls you between his legs, running his fingers over each divot of your spine—each divot he commits to memory.

“Can’t wait to get this off you,” he huffs.

“What happened to fucking me against the window?”—You cut yourself off with a gasp as Eren yanks your dress down to take your breast into his mouth, tounging at your nipple—“Thought you wanted everyone to see?”

“Want you all to myself,” he moans, “waited so long for this, had to sit through all your shitty boyfriends you introduced me to.”

A muted buzz crawls up your spin as you pull away, cradling Eren’s face in your hands. You pant, but your inflexion is doused in seriousness. “If you told me how you felt, I would’ve left them. All of them.”

Eren stares up at you, eyes glazed over with a lustre of love. And before your next breath, your vision is whirring by an abundance of degrees, and your back is suddenly sinking into the plush foam of the mattress. Eren reigns above you, his lips against your mouth.

“We’re here now,” he mumbles, “that’s all that matters.”

Eren crawls off of you and unbuttons his shirt, capitalising off your rapt attention as he makes slow work of peeling back his clothing, unbuckling his belt. The clanging metal sends shockwaves to your pussy, sticking your panties to the lips of your dewy cunt.

Eren shoves his pants down and haphazardly hops out of them, palming his erection. His fat cock distorts the fabric of his boxer-briefs, causing moltern to slip its way under your skin and wreath around your heart.

Eren creeps onto the bed again, pressing his lips to your legs. He sucks a mulberry-red mosaic over your thighs. He kisses a trail up your legs, and sinks his teeth into your flesh; he nips the hem of your panties, and presses a chaste kiss to your clothed clit.

He pinches the front part of your panties between his thumb and forefinger, bunching it up. Eren draws his hand up and down, back and forth, letting the soft gauze of your thong slip between the fat of your pussy, and slide over your puffy clit.

The string of your underwear cuts into the slit of your cunt, catching onto your nub. Embarrassment flares over your face as you spread your legs, squirming at the sticky sound of your pussy. Eren furrows his lips and blows, expelling a cold breath that unfurls upon your folds.

You twitch and gasp and loll your head to the side, shrinking under Eren’s predatory gaze. He grins, sharp fang teeth peeking from the hood of his pink lips—his pink lips that he puckers, lowers levelled to your cunt, and brushes over your clit.

“Your panties’re fucking ruined, baby,” he croons, pulling at your panties, relishing in the way your back arches as the froth of your intimates rubs over your hole, “you’ve soaked ‘em.”

Eren tugs your panties off and tosses them behind him, lowering to his chest. With his dominant arm, he slides his hand between your folded fingers, grounding you, and with his other, Eren slips the tip of his thumb under the hood of your clit, rolling circles over the engorged pearl.

“You’ve got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” Eren mumbles, brushing a feather-light finger over your sticky folds.

He swats your pussy and drinks in the scent of your arousal, dragging his nose over your drenched hole. Your thighs quiver as your wetness coils over your clit, each sensation causing your toes to curl.

“Wanna taste you,” he swears, gently rutting his dick into the mattress.

You reply with a tight groan, fingers twisting in his hair as you hook your legs over his svelte shoulders, shepherding him close. Eren digs his fingers into your skin, kneading the chub of your thighs in his hands. He leans close, noses at your clit, and flattens his tongue against your pussy, licking a fat stripe up the slit.

Eren loses himself in your taste, gloating at your sweetness that soaks the buds of his tongue, gleams his lips, and trickles down his chin.

His fingers cut into your flesh like the sands of time as you drag your pussy against his face, fucking yourself on his tongue.

Eren’s calloused hands bite down on your skin as he grips your hips, holding them in place.

He’s attuned to your every whimper, your slightest twitch. Eren’s lips move in sequence to your smallest needs—adding and relieving pressure where you need it most, sucking where you want it most, kissing where you demand it most—you move like the ocean with a shared heartbeat.

Your heart and stomach synchronously capsize as he snags your clit between his lips to suckle, slurp, and twirl his tongue around. Eren makes slow work of tasting you; of gushing his tongue up your every curve; of spreading your hole open around his tongue.

Your cunt drools over his lips, to which he gladly laps up, muffling his moans in your folds. Your eyes gloss over upon pulling Eren closer, fucking his face for your climax.

He’s in awe at how your face screws into pleasure. You reel the edge of your orgasm and, simultaneously, a wave of heat washed through Eren, and before he know it he’s soiling his boxer-briefs because your pussy is literally gushing on his tongue, his head locked between your thighs.

Eren wails as he creams his underwear—all from eating you out—as he humps the bed, his resonant mewls ringing in your ears.

You go slack, ribs rattling with each leaden-footed breath. Eren slides out from underneath you, palming his neglected cock.

He snivels as he speaks, squeezing the aching balls that swell from his underwear. “Want you to cum on my dick next. Can y’do that, baby?”

Eren cages you with his arms, kissing your forehead. You nod—or, at the very least, produce a jerk of your neck that permeates one.

Eren tugs his underwear down, groaning at the friction of froth against his cock. His dick springs out—angry, red, tip pearling with precum—and bobs in place as he settles himself in front of your pussy.

He locks his lips with yours, carding his tongue past your mouth, curling it over your teeth.

He kisses your hole with the flared tip of his cock, sliding it up and down, coating his dick in your arousal. He slaps your pussy with his cock as he folds you in two, sinking into you, concurrent with the moment all air from your lungs is seized.

Your lips pop open, your back arches as he glides deeper, filling out your every crevice.

“Wait–!” Eren chokes out, “Are you– fuck– serious?”

Eren’s pupils flare as he gawks down at you. You squirm as he bullies his cock into you, squeezing past your pussys first ring of muscle. You claw at his arms and palm at his chest, simultaneously sucking him deeper and pushing him out.

He’s big. He’s so fucking big. 

And Eren’s hard, he is so damn hard.

His thumb finds your nub at the same time he falls into a rhythm; keeling his hips, rolling your clit between his fingers.

Your legs dumbly flay as Eren batters your insides, fixated on how your pussy pulls him in, gushing around his dick. He stretches you to your limit with his fat cock and swallows your salacious moans, pawing at your bouncing tits.

Eren fucks you like he’s been looking for you for a lifetime. He holds you close as though he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers. He fucks you with acute, deep thrusts, with strokes that you feel in the sizzling pit of your belly and in the curl of your toes.

He leans in close and licks your ear, his quivering balls excruciatingly salient as they slap against your ass with each thrust. Your skin is searing, embers dot your bloodstream, your marrow goes numb.

Neither of you are going to last. Not when you can barely last the weekend apart; not when you can’t last an afternoon without your hands on each other.

You force your eyes open as you crest your second orgasm, straining through a tearful gaze to gape at Eren’s face.

His hair is wild—wispy and tousled—bouncing like spun-thread sepia as it frames his face like a halo.

Eren grins as if he’s not stuffed balls deep inside of you, pummeling your pussy.

Your legs tremble, and even before you’re able to voice a warning, you find yourself spurting all over his chest and thighs. Eren slows his circles on your clit, drawing out your orgasm before you go slack.

Eren gets thwacked with the cusp of his orgasm not half a second later. With his cock snug inside your walls, Eren rockets his release inside of you. He coughs out an animalistic groan, pressing a hand down on your navel as he rocks himself deeper—as if that’s even possible—seized by the rattling of the hotel bedframe and its wailing of bedsprings.

He spills into your tummy, filling you so full. He shoves himself so deep that he pushes you up the mattress, curving your back. And once his balls are empty, once you’ve milked his cock dry, Eren cries, collapsing against your chest.

Your hand finds his hair as his cock marinates inside of you—twitching, softening.

He twists his neck, staring up at you.

“Hi,” he whispers, not wanting to ruin the post-coital lull.

You smile, giggling. “Hello, Romeo.”

“In case I haven’t made it clear,” Eren continues, “I’m in love with you.”

He slides his cheek against your tits, walking his lips up your chest.

“And I love loving you,” Eren mutters against the murmur of your pulse, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock slips out of you, leaving creamy strands of your mixed cum to trickle down your thighs and pool upon the sheets.

Your heartbeats click together in sync. You card a hand through Eren’s sweaty hair, smiling at him. He looks down at you, rich face mounted with muted love.

“Did I tire you out?” He asks.

You snivel out a drawn-out whine, moving to cover your face with your arm—but Eren’s quicker. Quicker with the way in which he catches your hand and swipes it toward his lips, plastering a kiss over your knuckles.

“You’re breathtaking,” he admits. 

And you believe him.

You lean in close and work your jaw against his lips, pulling him towards you.

“Say something,” he nudges you, whining into the kiss.

“Do I need to?” You ask, biting your lip to suppress your giggles, “I think we’ve said enough. For long enough.”

Eren petulantly pouts. “I needa hear you say it.”

You click your tongue and cup Eren’s face—holding your world in your hands—as you slowly brush his tears away.

“Eren Jaeger,” you purl, squishing his cheeks, “I think I love you more than life.”

[flowersandbigteeth]

Can we have more about Hugo?! I think that was one of my favorites!

Yes! I am a bear girl and I am willing to write a lot of Hugo <3

Werebear (Hugo) x female reader

Word Count: 2k

🌶️ NSFW MASTERPOST 🌶️

W: attempted sa, xenophobia themes between fairyfolk and humans, implied violence, vaginal and oral sex, anal play, nsfw were bear smut, dubcon

"I'm sorry, Hugo, but Rod is making me go to this birthday thing,” you groaned into the phone as you pulled up to the bar where your boss was holding his non-optional birthday celebration after work. 

At the very least, everyone who attended got a free beer, so you’d pulled a clean sweater out of your locker after work and fluffed your hair. Now you were slapping on some lip gloss so you didn’t look like you’d literally just come off the factory line even though you had. 

“Come home, you worked two shifts. You are exhausted,” he growled, “you shouldn’t even be driving. I told you I would come pick you up!” 

“I can’t!” you snapped back, “I have to go and I’m perfectly fine to drive.”

“You are tired and going to drink!” he hissed back, “I’m coming to get you.” 

“Do not come get me!” you said.  

“Where is it?” he growled.

You glanced at the giant red plastic sign of a dancing crab out of your front window. 

“Timmy’s Crab Bucket,” you read the name of the joint off of the screen, “but don’t bother coming down here. I’m not staying long. I’m just going to get a beer, tell Rod happy birthday, and come home. I’m beat,” you sighed, “I probably won’t even drink it.” 

He snorted and the line went dead. 

You rolled your eyes at your grumpy mate, but were too tired to call him back. You just wanted to get this over with so you clutched your purse to your side and headed into the restaurant.

Greeted by a few of your also exhausted coworkers, you made your way to the bar to grab a beer and pretend to settle before you could make your excuses to leave. 

“You smell nice, (Y/N),” Rod said, standing a little too close as he eased a bottle in front of you, “I’m thrilled you made it!” 

You gave him a wan smile holding back the retort that it wasn’t optional. 

“Happy Birthday!” you said instead, holding up your beer. 

Rod was your average middle aged, middle management bloke. He wore tapered jeans with a brown belt and grey New Balances. His flat, brown hair was thinning and his blue polo had a stain on it, but he wasn’t a bad looking guy. If you hadn’t met him at work, he was the sort of person you’d run into at the hardware store giving women unsolicited advice on products. 

His eyes drifted all over you. You noted the moment they landed on the bite on your shoulder, your oversized sweater revealed and narrowed. It was only for a second and they quickly moved on to your chest.  

“Lemme get a kiss for my birthday!” he said, pulling you in for a hug and forcing your face to his cheek. 

You instinctively stumbled back out of his arms after smashing the corner of your mouth awkwardly against his. 

“S-so got anything planned for the next year in your life?” you asked, trying to slide away from him. 

He caged you in against the bar, with his arms. Rod wasn’t massive or built, but he was bigger than you. Taking a step in he leaned down to you, so you could smell the hard liquor on his breath. 

“Maybe start a new relationship,” he said, “there’s a pretty girl I’ve had my eye on.” 

Your eyebrows went up. 

“Need another drink, sweetheart?” the wolf bartender asked you, to your relief, glaring at Rod and seeming really eager to take the beer in your hand away from you. 

You took the opportunity to manoeuvre out from under him and took a few steps down the bar to talk to the bartender. 

“I think I’ll just have a glass of water,” you said, passing the beer to him. You suddenly felt too uncomfortable to drink. He gave you a worried look and took it, returning with a glass of water. 

You wandered away to try and talk to a few coworkers, feeling someone’s eyes on you. Warily you glanced up as Rod threw a few shots back at the bar with some of his buddies. They were gesturing and looking at you, seeming to be getting more and more upset about something. Feeling weird about the whole thing, you decided it was time to go and said your goodbyes to your coworkers. Abandoning the cup of water at the bar, you quickly made your way to your car through the empty parking lot. 

“Where you running off to doll?” Rod’s voice behind you made you freeze, just as you got to your car. You turned slowly, squeezing your eyes shut and wincing before schooling your features. 

“Just tired,” you said, your eyes darting to the two other guys standing by him, “figured I’d head home early. I work first shift tomorrow.” 

“You weren’t even gonna say goodbye to me?” he pouted and they all took a few steps towards you, backing you up against your car. A finger drifted over the bite on your neck. 

“You animal fucking whores are so stuck up,” he slurred with a growl, “what’s wrong with human men? Sick girls like you only wanna fuck pigs and dogs. There’s got to be something wrong with your brain. Daddy touch your princess parts when you were a little girl or something? That why you’re so fucked up?”  

You took a step back only to run into your car. 

“What?! Rod? What the fuck are you talking about?” you hissed. Rod had mentioned his anti-Fairyfolk sentiments in passing, but never like this. You’d just ignored it and kept your silence because he was your boss and you didn’t want to piss him off, but this was way over the line. You turned around and fumbled with your keys. 

“Look, you’re drunk and I’ve got to go home,” you said, trying to get your door open, “fuck off!”  

“Ahh!” you cried as he grabbed you roughly by your hair and pushed you against the car. 

“Let’s give ‘er some human cock,” one of his friends chuckled, jerking your wrist painfully and pressing your hand to his crotch, “That’ll fix er.” 

“Get off!” you howled, but no one heard that. 

What they all heard very clearly was the roar that rose up behind them. A roar you recognized. 

“Hugo!” you gasped, collapsing against your car as the pressure on your scalp released. 

You didn’t know where the men went or what Hugo did with their bodies, not bothering to turn around. Covering your ears you tried to block out the screams until there was silence. Flipping back around Hugo was stomping across the parking lot, blood splashed on his chest, his eyes flaring. 

You took a step back into your car, your heart fluttered. He looked utterly feral, his muzzle wrinkled and his teeth bared. His claws were out and his arms raised as all eight feet of him thundered towards you. 

“I told you to come home after work,” he growled, looming over you. 

“I- I- had-Rod…” the words died on your lips, your eyes were wide and you were shaking. 

The reason you had to show up to this thing was probably dead, your excuse was meaningless. 

“Then, I told you I would come and pick you up,” he hissed, “you didn’t listen to me either time because you are an insufferable stubborn ox.” 

He pulled you up to face him sniffling your cheek. 

“His scent is all over your lips,” he snarled, “did you kiss him?!”

Tears leaked down your cheeks. 

“I didn’t want to, he grabbed me!” you stammered. 

A deep rumble rose in his chest and he pushed your head down. With a quick flick of his wrist, his cock popped out of the sweatpants he was wearing and he shoved it past your lips without another word, his hand buried in your hair. He as so tall he didn't even need to push you onto your knees, just shove you against the car so you were hunched a bit.

Instinctively, your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth watered at your mate’s familiar scent and taste. Groaning you sucked him to the back of your throat. 

Clutching the back of your head he fucked your face, his balls slapping wetly on your chin as you drooled on the massive cock you could barely fit in your mouth. He jerked you off of him, leaving a trail of spit and precum leaking down your chin. Flipping you around, he threw you over the hood of your car. 

You screeched as his claws shredded your leggings, leaving your ass bare to the blessedly empty parking lot. 

“I’m gonna fuck the sense into you, woman,” he snarled, slapping your ass with his massive hand. 

“No! Hugo! Stop! Not here!” you howled, but he was already shoving his tongue into your pussy to get you ready for him. 

“I’m not putting you in my truck smelling like that bastard,” he growled into your pussy, his voice ragged and hoarse, “his scent is all over you. Did you let him touch you anywhere else?” 

“No! No!” you whimpered. 

He wasn’t listening, his tongue roughly lapping at your clit, pushing the hood out of the way so that the pebbled flesh was torturing your tender nub. Your pussy leaked at the rough treatment and you cried into the cool metal of your car.

His hot breath made clouds of steam around your cunt as he devoured it until you were soaked, aware of the hot wet streaks making their way down your thighs. When you came a rush of hot fluid poured out of your pussy drenching the scraps of your leggings. 

Standing, he grabbed you by the back of your head with his thick hand and shoved you into the hood, mounting you. You screamed his name as his cock stretched you, mercilessly. 

“That’s it, honey cake,” he groaned, bottoming out inside of you, “I want them to hear you screaming my name inside.” 

He slammed his hips into you, more confident now that he’d taken you a few times. He knew how hard he could push you and how roughly he could batter your tight little cunt. It never got old to him. He could fuck you slowly, quickly, sleepily, it didn’t matter. Each time his cock got painfully hard and his balls heavy with the urge to pump his cum into you. 

He was manic with blood lust and needed to seed you, shoving your much smaller body over and over into the hood of your car as he used your pussy. You gasped as his thick finger found your asshole, something he’d never done before. He’d been waiting to explore this, but suddenly he needed to punish you a bit for disobeying him. The large digit speared you, making tears come to your eyes and you spat out incomprehensible curses. 

It didn’t feel bad, it was just an unexpected invasion and there was a slight pinch of pain at first. Soon he was pumping his one finger, then two inside of you at the same pace as his cock fucking your pussy and you could only drool and whine. 

His heavy body came down over you, not squishing you, but pressing you firmly into the hood. Your clit ground against what was left of your panties, driving conscious thoughts from your mind. 

“You’re my woman, (Y/N). I own every part of you. You’re gonna listen to me when I tell you to come home,” he snarled in your ear, “say yes, sir.”

You bit your lip, trying to resist his little power play, but he thrust into you extra hard, scissoring his fingers in your asshole and the words tumbled from your lips. 

“Y-yesssiiiiii….ahhh,” you groaned, your ass and pussy clamping down on him as you came in a breathless rush. 

He roared, emptying his hot load into you as he pulled you up to his soft chest. You went limp in his arms and he held you for a few minutes catching his breath. 

“Uh excuse me?” a familiar voice chimed in with a cough. 

Hugo pulled you to his chest, cradling your slack body for your dignity. You glanced up to see the wolf bartender standing there. 

“You two should probably get out of here so I can call the police about the bodies in the ditch over there,” he said, “I saw a wild brown bear attack them. It’s not safe to hang out around here with those sorts of animals creeping around in the dark.” 

He shot you and your werebear mate a smile before heading back inside. Hugo snuggled you to his chest and stroked your hair, carrying you to his truck. 

“And you’re not going back to that factory,” he grumbled as he arranged you in his lap and started it up. 

“Then what am I going to do,” you bickered softly, “sit around and eat bon bons all day? I’m not quitting the factory.” 

“Yes you are,” he grumbled, kissing your head, “you’re going to follow me around all day and look cute while I work.” 

You rolled your eyes even as you closed them, too tired to fight anymore. 

“Okay, Hugo,” you murmured, finally drifting off to sleep on his chest. 

[chimivx]

yellow. (6)

pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Female!Reader (and always ot7)

summary: It's finally happened, you're living your dream. You've landed the job of your wildest fantasies, doing it beside someone who means a hell of a lot to you. It's only been a few months, but it's been pretty easy to settle into this way of life- the constant on the go, the always working, the barely sleeping. Your relationship has been flourishing as well, you and Yoongi working together better than ever... It seems, until now.

words: 5.5k

warnings: none for this part, still 18+ for nsfw occasional themes, if i missed anything please let me know!

a/n: I didn't mean to get angsty... but... I did. Thank you for being here! (Also, want you all to know that with what they're doing in this part- I don't have exact dates/I can never find exact dates. So if some timing is off because I don't have the actual facts, I apologize. )

~ sometime in february, 2016 ~

“Put them in front of the camera, play the track, and let them go nuts,” you mumbled, chewing on your thumb nail while you studied a couple of shots the crew was monitoring. 

The man dressed in all black who had asked you what you wanted to do next wasn’t walking away to do what he was told. Instead, he eyed the folded piece of paper in the hand that was folded over your chest, and lowered his brows ever so slightly.

Shifting your gaze over to him, you frowned. “What?” The man met your eyes and shrugged.

“Just thought there would be more, that’s all,” he said. “Usually there’s more detail involved.” His voice tapered off, and the tone he used was equally hesitant. All day every single male on this set had been speaking to you as if you hadn’t a clue as to what you were doing.

Well, every single male excluding seven of them.

Tilting your head to the side, you cross both of your arms and sit in your hip, raising a brow at the man. “There’s no detail involved, get them into that swimming pool, put a camera on the ground, and let them- and I mean it! Let them go nuts.” 

From over his shoulder you spot some of the boys reviewing choreography while the others mess with the set. Sunny was on the sidelines, comb in hand, ready to jump in the moment someone needed a touch up. Her dark eyes were sharp, focused on the boy's details. Work mode on, you knew there wouldn’t be any getting through to her until after the shoot had wrapped.

Behind Taehyung, who was goofing off for a camera capturing behind the scenes footage, Yoongi lingered beside Jin, half listening to his friend while he watched you from across the set. Dressed in a bright orange shirt and ripped jeans, your silver haired boyfriend scrunched up his face and raised his fist, gesturing to the man who walked away from you.

Holding up a finger you widen your eyes and smile, telling him no with a single look. You could handle this yourself, you were a big girl. You’ve done this before, you’ve dealt with the men before, and you’ll have to endure it for the rest of your life. The curse of being a woman.

On the set of Run, the entire company was concerned where things were going, and where the concept was being taken, but you didn’t care. You didn’t let any of their opinions stop you from creating your art, even if you improvised most of it.

Sure, the company created the storyline. The company gave you guidelines and the basics of what to do and when to do it, but everything in between? Well, that was up to you, and you ran with it. 

Run was your baby, and it will be forever. It’s chaotic, it’s over the top, it compels emotion. The boys were acting, the boys were having fun, the boys were smiling and laughing- and to you, that’s a win. You’ve seen how their shoots go when it’s just the other director on set. They exhaust themselves faster and don’t have nearly as much fun between shots. Bringing you and Sunny onto the team was the best thing the company could’ve done for these boys.

Yoongi smiled, then he drug his eyes up and down your body. You were dressed in all black and he was having a field day. The leggings you wore clung to your curves just right, and the long sleeved shirt that hung loosely off your figure belonged to him. Showing up in it this morning he had smirked at you and asked you where you had gotten it, acting like he didn’t watch you pick it up off of his floor mere hours before you both had to be on set.

Heaving a sigh, you walked away from the screen that replayed the shot of the choreography and took your time getting over to him. Eyes were on your back, you could feel them watching. Yoongi waited patiently, his smile growing the closer you got. 

“What was his name, I’ll kick his ass,” he said with a smile once you were a few feet away from him. 

“No ass kicking,” you said. “I can handle them. Drop the fake smile, I know you’re in pain.” 

His smile didn’t fall, but it did falter. “I can handle it.”

The shoulder had been talked about twice since you heard the full story of what had gone down to keep him living in this everyday hell. The first time was shortly after you found out, when you caught him taking pain meds he swears he never has to take in a bathroom at the company between rehearsals. Brushing past it quickly because it seemed to get a rise out of him, you preferred if he didn’t get mad and would hopefully talk about it later.

He didn’t.

This was the second time it’s been brought up.

“I’m good,” he shrugged. Pointing at the piece of paper in your hand he found a way to change the subject, fast. “What’s this?”

Taking him in for another couple of seconds, your eyes letting him know you couldn’t believe he wasn’t taking his injury seriously, you unfold the paper that had scribbles upon scribbles written on it from late night cram sessions.

“Notes,” you said. The boys' names, and nicknames, were all over it along with random ideas that weasled their way into your brain at inconvenient times while you were away from your projects. This sheet of notebook paper was the ‘inconvenient thoughts about Fire’ paper. It had been folded so many times that it wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and some of the corners were torn because it was poorly handled most of the time.

You were an artist. The state of which your notes were in didn’t matter, as long as the finished product was perfect.

Yoongi took the sheet from you carefully and held it close to read your tiny, scribbled writing, his eyes squinting to pick up the faded pencil marks. “Holy shit, you’re thorough.”

Folding your arms over your chest you nodded. “I am.” Your tone struck him, making him look up at you with softened brows. 

From somewhere in the back your name was called, a member of the crew beckoning you back to look something over so that they could move on. Leaving Yoongi without a word, he watched you walk away, and flattened his lips. Folding up your notes gently, following the creases that were permanently wrinkled into the paper, he starts toward you to return it, but in turn is summoned to wardrobe by Sunny and another woman.

The boys trudge over, Taehyung already stripping out of his jacket, but Yoongi hesitates. The way you were observing the shots on the screen, gesturing toward the equipment, speaking to the men like you were the boss, it was captivating. He adored watching you work, he adored getting to watch you make your art. He was proud of you, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had pissed you off.

“These shots are going to flash back and forth between the ones we’re going to film tonight,” you held both of your hands up to the screen, flipping one back and forth to visualize what you were thinking. “It looks boring now because it’s just one solid shot, but that’s also why we were zooming in and out so often.” The man who was sitting beside the screen held an empty stare. Swallowing a groan, you smile. “We needed one basic full shot of the choreography, if you get rid of this, I get rid of you.”

Now that caught his attention. His eyes shot open wide as he offered you meaningless apologies, turning toward the screen to make sure he saved every shot. You weren’t sure if you had the power to fire him. It wasn’t that you wanted to fire him, nor did you want to act like a bitch, but there was no way your point was going to get across if you didn’t threaten him with something.

“We’re done here for now, boys let’s change!” Sunny’s voice flooded the set, catching your attention for a second, but you didn’t dare look away from the men working around you. You could see Yoongi lingered behind. Wanting to see what he was waiting for, you held yourself back from giving him what he wanted- your attention.

It boggled your mind that he didn’t want to discuss what happened to him. In some ways, you can see why he wouldn’t want to, but at the end of the day, who can hold onto something so horrific and not talk it out? Seeking help through the boys, you asked every single one of them if Yoongi had talked about it since he first told them, and all six of them said no. Jin was the only one who had heard more, but it wasn’t like Yoongi acted as if it was a big deal.

If he could keep this hidden from you, and act like there wasn’t anything wrong with keeping it hidden from you, you were worried he’d be able to keep other things from you. And now that you were finally feeling a little bit excited about life, you weren’t about to let him get away with shit.

“Back everything up, please,” you said to whichever crew member was listening, and followed the boys and Sunny into the building you were set to shoot in next.

In the tiniest room all seven boys were changing, and getting their hair fixed and their makeup touched up. Elbows were bumped and chairs were knocked into, but this room with tile for walls was still bigger than some dressing rooms the group had been shoved into on the road. 

Pulling the creaky door open with force, it was heavy as shit, you almost walked head first into Jungkook who was shirtless and adjusting his belt while the woman who worked with Sunny toyed with his hair.

Barging into the room, your simmering anger- if you could call it that- fueled your feet, and you collided right into the kids chest.

A muffled “Whoa!” came out of you both, and though your voices were hushed, they carried around the room that was full of low chatter from everyone else.

Stiffening your hands by your side, you didn’t want to think twice about what you had accidentally touched, you looked the boy up and down and laughed. “Sorry, Kook.”

That toothy grin reassured you that you had nothing to worry about. “Why’d you look so mad?”

“I’m not mad,” you breathed, giving your shoulders a shrug. 

Jungkook furrowed his brows. “Yeah, okay. What’s the matter?”

Looking over his shoulder you spy Yoongi checking himself out in a little square mirror, adjusting a hat that covered his hair. As he turned around to button the shirt he had slipped into, you figured he’d want your attention like he did outside, but he didn’t seem to notice you were there.

“You guys fighting or something?” Jungkook asked, sneaking a glance at your boyfriend.

Fighting wasn’t it, that wasn’t the word you’d use to describe what was happening, but you definitely were not on the best of terms at this exact second. Actually, for the past month or so things have been off. Part of you wondered if it was the two of you adjusting to a new life. Well, you were adjusting to a new life. Yoongi was adjusting to having a girlfriend.

Still, the way these weeks have been going by, melancholy and a little stale, aside from the combined hours you’d spend between your sheets, it was a total flip from the second half of last year.

You wouldn’t be lying if you admitted the fear you had in the start of all of this was haunting you.

Popstar bored with his latest conquest.

Rockstar getting sick and tired of the same old, same old.

Twenty two year old male got what he wanted out of a twenty two year old female and is pushing her away so he didn’t have to be the one to send her home after she literally uprooted her life to take her dream job, one he unfortunately is heavily involved with…

“You are not okay,” Jungkook's quiet voice broke you out of your thoughts. He had a shirt on now, his outfit was complete all the way down to the accessories. Meeting his gaze, he was worried. The cheesy grin and crinkly eyes were gone, replaced with concern and furrowed brows.

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” you choked out. “We’re fine, everything is fine.”

Jungkooks hardened glare refused to let up. “You’re an awful liar, Honey.”

“I could say the same about you,” your tone was laced with snarkiness. “Where’s Jimin?” Glancing about the room, you finally break into a giggle when you watch his expression go wild.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he sneered.

Popping your brows, you smiled. “Exactly.”

“No, seriously, what are you talking about?” Jungkook stepped closer to you, but you reached for the door behind you, pushing it open. “No, no, you’re not escaping, get back here!” With a laugh you fled from the makeshift dressing room and hurried out toward the empty swimming pool that was in the center of the giant warehouse.

Circling the edge of it, you came to halt and could not hold back the screech that came out of you when Jungkook grabbed you by the waist, almost knocking you into the concrete abyss that was only five feet deep. “Don’t run away from me when I’m talking to you, especially after you say something like that.” You could hear the grin on his lips.

Lifting you away from the pool while you laughed like crazy, he carried you to a quiet corner and put your feet back on the ground, turning you around to lecture you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said for what felt like the umpteenth time. Jungkook groaned, tipping his head backward.

“Why did you bring up Jimin?” His big, doe eyes bore into yours, genuinely asking you. Quirking a brow you tilt your chin a bit to question him. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t make me say it.”

Gulping, you gave him a slight shrug. “Do I know what you’re talking about?” This was not where you thought you’d have this conversation, on set, surrounded by crew members, while the very boy you spoke of had wandered out of the dressing room with the others god knows how long after you ran away from them.

Yoongi included.

Jungkook's lips tipped down a bit. The sight made your heart twist. “I swore you knew… What I was talking about… What you were… talking about… God.” Scrunching up his face he gripped his forehead and groaned again.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, putting your hands over both of his wrists.

“Thought I wouldn’t have to say it to you, the words, because I don’t know how to say them, and if you already knew then it’d really help ‘cause I dunno what the hell to say-“

“Jungkook,” you said louder, cutting him off, though you’d never heard the boy ramble like this before. He dropped the hand from his head and scrambled for your hands, squeezing them as tight as he could. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you… panic.”

He took a deep breath, one that helped you relax some. “I can’t…” Pausing, he sucked down another breath and shook his head. “I can’t say it.”

“Okay,” you nodded, dragging your thumbs over his hands. “That’s okay, you don’t have to.” He swallowed hard, beginning to nod with you. “Can I… Can I ask you a question? Just to make sure that I do know what you know?” 

His brows met in the center of his forehead. “Um… Yeah,” he answered with a sigh. “Sure, ask me.” The way his shoulders rose made him appear like he was bracing for impact. 

This was going to be hard. Getting him to break out of whatever norms he was used to was going to be a challenge. You knew already, you have for a while. You didn’t have to ask him about it, or torture him anymore by talking about it longer than he wanted, but he needed your help. He had to talk about it, or he would be stuck in this place forever.

Much like somebody else.

“I’ll… take this slow. And careful,” you said.

“Thanks,” Jungkook sighed. “It’s my first time.” He truly was an eighteen year old boy. Cracking a laugh at his stupid joke, you squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. He was thankfully wearing a smile when you looked up at him.

“When you see me with Yoongi, do you want that?” Your question sucked the humor out of the moment. His lips pulled together curiously. “That type of… relationship? With a girlfriend?” His lips were sealed now. “Kookie, it’s okay,” you smiled, shaking his hands so they’d swing by your side. “Nothing’s gonna change.”

You were once again reminded of the separate worlds you and these boys came from. You grew up in New York, and spent most of your life in the city. In Manhattan for that matter, literally where everybody no matter what version of queer you were came to celebrate themselves.

Jungkook parted his lips, hesitating big time before he whispered, “It’s terrifying.”

“I know,” you said. “And that’s okay, it’s going to be. But, I can tell you right now that I will still love you no matter what, and I know damn well those six idiots over there, fully clothed in an empty swimming pool,” he giggled, “They will still love you. You are their pride and joy. Do you know how easily you could get away with murder with those guys on your side?” A laugh is shared before quiet falls around the two of you.

The voices of the six idiots in the empty swimming pool echoed through the warehouse, their words getting muddled in the air.

“You don’t wanna say it,” you began, and Jungkook rapidly shook his head. “I know,” you started to smile. “But… can I?” His face twisted with discomfort, or disgust, or he was cringing… You couldn’t piece it together. “I won’t say the word, relax,” you said. “I just need confirmation, I don’t want to get this wrong.”

A nod was all you were going to get from him.

Lowering your voice to the point where you weren’t even sure he’d be able to hear you though he was standing five inches away from you, you whispered, “You like boys.” 

A sharp inhale ripped through his chest. His face remained stone cold as he jerked his chin up and stared at the ceiling for all of three seconds before scoping your surroundings. Letting him have his moment, you knew he’d come back to you when he was ready. And he did.

Another small, meek nod was all you were going to get from him. And it was enough.

“Kookie.” A grin was plastered onto your face. He attempted to smile as well, but he wore his nerves… everywhere. “You did it, you just told me. That’s huge.”

He gasped a breath and huffed a laugh. “Technically you told me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you squeezed his hands, throwing them away to wrap your arms around his growing body. He was getting more muscular everyday. “I’m proud of you.”

His arms snaked around your shoulders. Placing his chin on top of your head, he took a deep breath, one that made you rise and fall with his chest. His heart was racing, you could feel it pounding between his ribs. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Always here for you, Kook.”

“Honey!” Sunny’s voice shouted toward you, echoing against the roof, vibrating the walls. The sweet nickname she gifted you with when you were twelve had a way of sounding incredibly menacing when she forced it from her glossed lips with a bite.

Pulling away from Jungkook you looked toward her and the way she’s standing at the edge of the pool, gesturing into it.

“It’s like herding toddlers who just learned how to sprint,” she raised her brows. “They are all here, it’s now or never. The sun sets in three hours.”

“Let’s go,” Jungkook said, nudging you with his shoulder as he started toward the pool.

Following close behind him you watched as he jumped over the edge fearlessly and landed on his feet, rushing to Namjoons side. The leader threw an arm around the youngests shoulder and gave him a smile, one that Jungkook returned.

Bumping into Sunny, standing as close to her as possible, she eyed you curiously and asked, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He will be.”

Shifting your gaze over each boy to inspect what they were wearing and to ensure they were camera ready like Sunny declared, you find Yoongi looking up at you, your eyes meeting for the first time since you spoke outside. You couldn’t read him.

Hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he was clenching his jaw so tight his teeth could crack. It was hard to tell whether or not he was angry, or upset, but he seemed it. Everything about his energy was… off. Like the past few weeks.

If he was miffed at you for whatever reason he could conjure up, you were certain it wouldn’t be as good as yours. All you wanted to do was talk to him. At this point in your relationship, you should know a whole bunch about him, not be discussing your days for a mere twenty minutes after work just to have sex and either fall asleep or go home.

Gritting your teeth, you sent a reciprocated chilling glare back to him, as much as it hurt your heart.

“Okay! Let’s go,” you called out to bring everybody back into the shoot, breaking the stare when it became too much to handle. “Bring it boys, let’s have some fucking fun!”

There was about an hour spent around the pool, you and Sunny either sitting on the edge behind the cameras, or jumping in to fix something or adjust the details. Both you and Yoongi fought to not look at one another, and you wondered if anyone else was being suffocated by the air in the room.

When you approached Jungkook to shift him over, adjusting the spacing so that he wasn’t covering too much of Hoseok, you felt his eyes burning into you. Like you putting your hands on the teenager's shoulder made him want to burn the place down. You swear the earth rumbled.

You couldn’t help but feel a tad guilty. The two of you had spoken about Jungkook before, or Yoongi’s made jokes rather. He didn’t know what you knew, and now it was confirmed that Yoongi had nothing to worry about when it came to his friend. He just had no idea.

By the end of this style of shots, after watching the seven of them cruise through the choreography again and again, your eyes wandered to Yoongi when ‘cut’ was called. He rolled his left shoulder backward, frowning as he did. Folding your arms you joined the camera team behind the screens to monitor what they had captured, keeping your peripheral glued to your boyfriend who shimmied something out of his pocket.

He was coming toward you. He was looking directly at you, coming toward you. Turning your chin, nerves shot up your spine as you took him in. Not a single word was spoken. Looking into your eyes, he slipped something into one of your hands, paused for half of a second, then followed the boys out of the pool.

You waited until he stalked off to look at what he had given you. Opening your hand you found your folded up sheet of notes that you forgot you gave him. Shaking your head the slightest, you open it up to see if anything on it would spark your inspiration, and down in the corner, in the last available blank space, ‘I love you’ was written in his chicken scratch.

A lump lodged in your throat, one you attempted to swallow away. Folding the paper up quick, you glanced out to where he had walked away to, but he was gone.

The shoot wrapped up around two or three in the morning. No one was paying attention to the clock, everyone was having way too much fun. This video was carefully calculated chaos dipped in mischievous partying- The exact image BTS was aiming to articulate. And you did that.

After thanking the crew, thanking the staff, and thanking the boys, you ventured into the dressing room where seven exhausted bodies were still shouting at one another. It usually took them a good hour to wind down after something like this, especially if it were a show. Both you and Sunny knew that the second their heads hit the cushions in the car they’d be out.

Except Yoongi. Another thing you both shared, the inability to get good sleep. Unless you were beside one another.

Letting the heavy door shut behind you, the scene of the boys stumbling over their feet while they changed into their cozy clothes made you want to smile. Taehyung was already laid back in a chair fighting to keep his eyes open while Hoseok straddled his lap, dancing around to the latest trend to try to keep him awake. Jungkook was slipping into a hoodie, Namjoon was helping Jimin wipe off his makeup, and Jin was hovering over Yoongi, blocking him out of your view.

Sunny wasn’t here, she and her assistant stylist had cleaned up their things already to give the boys their space. The two were combing through the set now, making sure they didn’t leave anything behind all while cleaning up after the boys. There wasn’t much for you to collect aside from the piece of paper in your pocket.

You came in here for one more thing.

As the shoot went on it seemed Yoongi loosened up, the two of you shared the occasional laugh when something would happen, but other than that you didn’t speak. By the end of it all your heart was positively broken, watching him walk away from you with the boys without a second glance back. 

Not many of your past relationships made it past this point. Once you hit the first bump in the road it was split city. None of them had been as invigorating or exciting as this one has. You used to be able to see this coming, the relationship's demise hovering toward you like a cloud in the sky, letting you know it was all about to go to hell.

You didn’t want this one to go to hell.

You wanted this one to work out.

You weren’t sure what your future looked like quite yet, but you knew you wanted to figure it out with Yoongi. When you were with him, he knew parts of you you weren’t even sure you knew yourself. He could see you, he could hear you, just as you could see and hear him. Which is why this doubt started hanging over you in the first place.

Brushing past each of the boys who hit you with a generous thank you in some way or another, you only had a small smile to offer them. By the time you shuffled toward the back of the room and reached Yoongi and Jin, the eldest of the two took one look at you and scurried away.

“Nice,” you said quietly, watching Jin as he glanced about the room, looking for something, seeming to ask the other boys where to find it. “Was I a bitch today? Or…” Yoongi, who had his arms crossed over his chest where he sat, sighed heavily and shook his head, screwing his eyes shut.

“No,” he mumbled. Holding your hands behind your back you looked down at him and thinned out your lips, hoping he’d say more. Beneath your gaze he could feel it, the need for him to say more, to talk about it, to talk about something. “Honey, I… Listen…”

“I’m listening,” you whispered, barely moving. Yoongi threw his arms to the side.

“Why am I in trouble here?” His eyebrows furrowed over his eyes, just visible under his messy silver hair. The stiff tone of his voice sent a chill over your skin, and signaled to the boys that it was time to leave the room.

“Never said you were in trouble,” you said. The door slammed shut, echoing against the tiled walls. Jungkook was the last to leave, sending a longing glance your way, but you missed it.

“Then why act like I did something wrong,” Yoongi said, sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “All day you’ve been treating me like I’ve done something to you, and I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is.”

After a deep breath you mumbled, “Yoongi,” but he cut you straight off.

“I’m so happy that you have this job. I’m so happy you are doing what you love to do, and you’re creating, and you’re making the art that you want to make. You’re changing the game for us, for the industry… For me. You’re breaking boundaries, you’re taking it a step too far, and it’s so damn exciting, Honey, it really is.” He paused to look up at you. His wide, pleading eyes lost in more ways than one. “I feel like I take the fun out of it for you.”

You didn’t miss the way his voice cracked, the sound hitting you straight in the heart. “D, please, don’t do that,” you whispered, taking a step closer to him. He drug his hands over his face.

“How can I not?” he shrugged. “You have more fun with Jungkook, you don’t speak to me, and when you do I somehow turn it all to shit.”

“D, what the hell are you talking about?” Taking to his side, you crouched beside him and rested your arms across his lap. He couldn’t look at you, his focus was elsewhere. “You do not turn it all to shit.”

The way he looked at you pained you like a slap to the face. “Don’t try to make me feel better when I know you’re pissed at me.” Narrowing your eyes, the only thing you can do is shake your head. “I know everything you want me to do. And I won’t do it.”

“You can do it, you just have to-”

“No,” he was firm. “I won’t do it. I don’t want to.”

Standing to your feet you tucked your arms behind you like they once were. His words were confirmation enough. If he wasn’t going to speak, if he wasn’t going to communicate… If he wanted to just brush over everything as if it were nothing, and continue living in ignorant bliss, acting like everything was fine… It was over.

What once was bliss and ecstatic euphoria had hit a dead end. This gorgeous face and beautiful mind that had shown you in many ways what it was like to live, to live for yourself, was giving this up.

Granted it’d only been a few months, and you’re certain you both said ‘I love you’ way too soon, but it was authentic, it was real, it was you. It was Yoongi. From the start you’ve moved way too quick, you’ve been sprinting since the day you met. It was a whirlwind of dramatic excitement, and it was everything you had ever wanted, everything you ever wished for.

But, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe living in fast forward was what pushed this over the edge. Jumping headfirst into a relationship with a complete stranger from an entire different world, falling in love with them in mere weeks, moving across the globe, running from a life you used to know…

It wasn’t meant to be.

And that thought alone nauseated you.

You wanted him to be your forever.

Walking toward the door without looking back, you did your best to ignore the fact that he didn’t even try to stop you. He let you walk away.

He let the relationship crumble to pieces right in front of him, and he didn’t do a thing to save it.

VEGAS TAGS! <3

( I'm a slow updater. If I missed your tag please let me know. )

@jewelrnicorn @yoongisducky @all-american-fangirl @funkylittlebisexuall @ahewlett @damn-u-min-yoongi @my-dark-happy-place @wobblewobble822 @kaitieskidmore97

thank you so much for reading! i'd love to hear what you thought about this piece <3

comments & messages really help to keep your author's spirits up, don't forget to send your fav one a heart & a pat on the back!

my masterlist

my nav

<3 plum

[miekasa]

imagining. just and only imagining. househusbandifying nanami and he starts filling out a lil and lets his stubble grow out sometimes. starts wearing henleys and looser, more casual pants.

he massages your back and rubs your feet after a long day !!@$@! does your daughters hair every morning, puts pigtails in them.

memorizes your schedule and the times of when you get home, and is somehow able to cook dinner so that it's hot and ready right as you get home. when you get home, tired and peckish, you're able to just go straight to the dining room where your husband serves you a delicious and prettily displayed plate of food. he'll sit right nect to you and watch your reactions, hoping that you like it and praise him.

ok anyways

Real tears are forming GOD I love him so much.

The first time Satoru sees Kento in a pair of light wash jeans, he nearly alerts the media. Kento thinks he’s dramatic, you might be relishing in all the teasing but you’ll never tell. It truly is a new look for him—his wardrobe previously limited to slacks and tapered pants and darker denim; when you see him begin to relax not just emotionally, but in his style, in his vocabulary, in his overall lifestyle, that’s when you can truly see the effects of staying home on him. He still holds his slightly stubborn and upright personality, but it’s cushioned by a happiness that provides comfort for the man you love.

Kento doesn’t just Do your daughter’s hair, he’s running a hair salon at this point with one very loyal customer and one very determined stylist. He literally comes prepared with a booklet of pictures he printed out from Pinterest or whatever so your little girl can choose her style readily. Sometimes he asks her if he can just try something just to prove to her and himself that he’s capable. He doesn’t rest until she’s satisfied—never fearing he’s raising a diva, only concerned with providing the absolute best for your daughter. You often tease the duo about how your daughter is the only client in the world who can pat with kisses, but Kento doesn’t mind at all.

He takes care of you just as well, too. Massages, dinners, desserts, gifts, errands—anything and everything is provided for you. He just loves you and your little family so much :(( he’s willing to do anything to make his girls happy :(( because honestly, this is the happiest he’s ever been. His priority gets to be his loved ones and that’s all Kento has ever, truly wanted in life

[silent-raven13]

Well, imagine that! 🩷💜💙 2

(Part 1)

"Okay, guys! Gather around, it's time for Spin the Bottle!" Gayatri giggles holding the empty bottle, her brown eyes spotted her boyfriend's friends and students from her school sitting around the circle. "Remember, 7 heaven in the closet, when you get picked!"

"Spread out everyone. Oh Miles, you can sit with me." Gayatri said wanting everyone to mix into the circle.

Pav sat next to Hobie, "This is exciting and nerve racking! I feel my heart pounding so hard against my chest!" He turns to his closed friend as he touch his chest to feel his heart raced. "Do you get that, Hobie?" No response from the Spider-Punk, "Hobie?"

The Indian teenager spotted Hobie staring longing at Miles, no surprised there. "Hey," He pokes his punker friend.

"Huh, what were you saying, mate?" The punker snapped out of it for the moment.

Pav grins widely on his face, "Dude, you were staring at Miles, again. Why not ask him out?" He whispers lowly.

"Me, staring at Peter Pan? Nah, I was admiring that tacky painting over there." Hobie lies.

"Come on, man. Why do you deny it so much?" He quietly asked, noticing Miles busy talking to Gayatri. Then, saw Hobie softly smiling at the way Miles would shyly laughs or his big wide addicting smile while talking to Pav's girlfriend.

"It's not easy... I want him to be honest about himself." Hobie admits, "I rather wait."

"Are you sure?" His friend asked being skeptical, "Your the jealous type, dude. I saw how upset you got when he mentions about him and Ganke kissed. Also, will you handle it with this game."

"I'm all for Miles to experience as much as possible, mate. I'll be fine." Hobie casually said trying to shrug off the conversation.

"Okay, just letting you know there's a lot of cute guys and girls in this circle." Pav hums with his eyes around the group, he spotted Gwen talking to a random girl.

"Okay, everyone! We ready!" Gayatri asked out loud.

"Wait! I like to join!" The group looks over to where the voice was coming from, it's a very handsome student from their school, Hari Oberoi.

Hobie's body tensed as he saw Miles gawking at the guy. Hari Oberoi, Pav's Harry Osborn, in the world the teenager boy is known for his good looks and charming gaze. His brown hair in a lazy slick back with gel glistening by light in the room, he got taper fade and clean long stubble beard that suit well on his face. His skin tone brown, eyes almost golden and perfect white straight teeth, with expensive shirt, jeans and Jordans.

"Hari! Okay, just sit around. Guys make room." Gayatri smiles happily, she seems to know Hari through their modeling career, before she got with Pavitr. Many of the girls in the circle were excited to get the chance to kiss Hari Oberoi, he's such a handsome guy and a part time model.

Of course, Oberoi family are rich with all their powerful connections, they had to put their handsome son on a modeling agency. It's one way to keep the family's name on good terms, even if Nalin Oberoi is Green Goblin. But no one knows that except for the Spider Band.

"So, who wants to go first?" Gayatri started off checking to see who wants to go first, she saw know one brave enough. "Okay! Okay, I'll start." She offers, having to spin the bottle first.

It landed on a girl causing everyone to, "Oooohhh," at the two. The teenager girl blushes as she and Gayatri got up to go in the closet and kiss for seven minutes.

"Wow, Gayatri is so brave. I don't know I can do it." Pav said with awe, "My palms are sweaty."

"Lad, you need to relax." Hobie said in a calm tone as he took out a joint, then spoke out loud to the group, "How about some real fun, eh? Anyone do to share spliff?" He took out his lighter to lit up his joint, he did the first puff-puff then pass it to Pav.

Pav gasps, "Smoking! Hmmm..."

"Oh come on, Pav. You either do it or you don't!" Gwen groans.

"Okay. Okay. Fine!" Pav smoke a bit of the joint before passing it around, he started to cough out loud making Hobie laugh.

"You good, mate? Sounds like you took it good." Hobie teased already feeling his high coming, his eyes on Pav with a smirk on his face. The Indian teenager's eyes suddenly turned red already feeling it.

"Whoa!" Pav rub his eyes already feeling weird, "I never gotten high! Is this what it feels.. feeelllsss... fffffeeeeeeeeeellllllssssss...sss like? LYKE? LllIike? Why does that word sound so weird?" He lost his train of thought. "I feel so relaxed and giggles." He hugs Hobie's arm having to snuggle against him.

Miles' watched the two getting all touchy and close, he'll be lying to himself if he says he wasn't jealous. The way Pav happily wraps around Hobie's arm, slowly snuggling against him with his face buried in his crush's chest. The sixteen year old nibble the inside of his bottom lip, he's envious of Pav. To be so openly confident, and speaking his mind, Miles wishes he can do that. It's hard for him to do it.

Soon the joint came to Miles' hands, he felt Hobie's eyes on him. "Gonna smoke it, Peter Pan?" He asked with a gleam in his eyes.

Miles felt bashful, "Yea..." He placed his lips on the crutch of the shared joint, then inhale twice, before exhaling two smoke rings. The group were impressed at him.

"Wow, ain't that a lil neat trick, luv." Hobie smirks widely, knowing Miles had smoke before.

"Nuthin' special." He shrugs feeling a bit glad his crush is impressed.

"Wow, Miles. How do you do that?" Pav asked.

Gwen said, "That's new."

"Me and Ganke always smoke at parties." Miles said, tasting the weed on his tongue. He could feel his high coming- Whoa, Hobie carry some strong shit.

Soon Hari got the joint, then took the crutch around his lip inhaling the product. Soon he blew out a smoke shaped like a jellyfish. "Wow." Miles stood surprised with the other group.

Hobie rolled his eyes, "Show off." He thought. The slick back hair teenager gave sheepish smile as he passed it to the next person.

"How did you do that?" Miles finally asked the guy.

"You do the O method then push it with your hands then you follow it with the ghost method. It's much more cooler with a vape." Hari grins at Miles, having his eyes on him.

"Wow, maybe we need a bong." Miles said.

"Maybe." Hari chuckles showing off his charming smile.

Gwen looks at Hobie with a sly grin on her face, her punker friend looking mad-mad. The way he's glaring at Hari talking almost flirting with Miles.

Soon Gayarti and the other girl came out of the closet with their seven minutes up. The group grins widely at how bashful look. "What did we miss?" She asked.

"We passing around joint, baby!" Pav spoke out first, he noticed her lips swollen from all the kissing. Hobie ended up with the joint then offer to the two that didn't try, "We to give it a go, mate?"

"Sure!" Gayatri said as she take a couple of hits then passed it to the girl she made out. She coughs, "Ohh, wow. This stuff is strong!"

"Only the best." Hobie cooly said.

"Oh Miles, you wanna go next?" Gayatri passed by the joint to Hobie as she went back to her seat alongside the other girl.

Miles' eyes widen having a warm deep tint on his cheeks, "Uhhh- Sure?" He went over to spin the bottle, he's hoping to land at Hobie. He could feel his palms sweating from being nervous.

The bottle spinning around the group. "Who's it gonna be?" Pav asked being excited for his turn the suspends gets him so hype.

The bottle landed on Hari, causing everyone to gasp and oohed with a much louder tone. Some of the girls giggles seeing how two cute boys were gonna make out. "Ooh, Miles!" Gayatri nudges him with her left shoulder, "Look at you being lucky. I heard he's a great kisser."

Hobie's hear that having his body tensed up. Jealousy spikes through his veins, seeing the cocky bloke getting up as he run his hair trying to play it off cool.

Pav gasps, "Even the way he gets up is so cool."

Hari stood with a gleam in his eyes, a perfect smile on his face. Miles got up being shy, "You can do it, Miles." Gwen cheers for him.

Mile gave a weak grin when he got up he didn't realize how tall Hari was. "You ready?" Hari asked him.

"Ye-yeah?" He stuttered being overwhelmed by the part time model, he's more majestic closed up.

Gayatri giggles opening the closet room for them to go in. "Have fun, but not too much fun!" She chimes as the two walks inside the room. Hobie could only glare at Hari, watching their backsides going in the dark room. "Seven minutes in Heaven!"

Miles hears Gayatri after she closed the door behind them, he slowly breathe taking in the room's scent and Hari's expensive cologne. The two were quiet... too quiet...

"Come on, do something Miles! You done this before." He said to himself being nervous. His hands was going to take Hari's handsome's face, until he stopped hearing the teenager's voice.

"Hey, if you're nervous, we don't have to kiss." He finally said.

Miles eyes widen hearing Hari's voice, he sounds so kind? Really off putting with his face. "Oh, um... I'm sorry." The young Spider-man finally said unsure if Hari didn't want to kiss him, or is a straight guy. Good thing, it's dark enough that the other teenager won't noticed his expression.

"No! No, don't apologize. Actually..." Hari quickly turns to Miles trying to reassure him, "I never do stuff like this. I rarely go to parties."

"Oh... have you ever kissed a boy?" Miles asked, "Because I can get why-" Har said, "I've kissed people before, but doing this... it's all new."

"Hey man, it's cool. We don't have to... we can lie." He said hearing Hari sigh in relief.

"Thanks... it's just I thought I would look cool joining, but I didn't expect to be picked so soon. I should've stayed home and play my video games."

"Oh, you play? What kind of games?" Miles asked, he hopes there's games he knows in this world. "I like Street Fighter."

"Oh me too! I'm into a lot of fighting games like Mortal Kombat and sports games like NBA 2K22."

"Sweet. Those games are fire. Do you play Fortnite?"

"Yeah, I'm not good at it. I still have my first generation outfits." Hari chuckles feeling comfortable talking with Miles. "Say... what's your name? I haven't caught it."

"Miles! My name is Miles. Yours?" Miles asked, he already know his name but it's best to be polite and asked.

"Hari. I'm friends with Gayatri, because we have the same agency." Hari casually said, "You know her through her boyfriend, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm friends with Pav."

"How did you two meet?"

"Online. You know him, he's always social."

"Ha, yeah. I don't know where he gets it all. I get too nervous meeting new people, and I still get nervous around my small group of friends. I rather just stay at home and read my comic books."

Miles gasps, "You read comic books! I mean, sorry, man. I just- I'm a fan of comics too. I collect figures."

"Me too!" Hari's eyes widen finally meeting someone with the same taste. "I have five figures in my collection room. I'm planning to buy this expensive Chung Lee one, but I really want to buy some Copic marker set."

"Do you draw? And I collected some stuff like Power Rangers, G.I Joes, and Transforms way back but I do want to get some One Piece ones. Zoro is my favorite."

"You like One Piece!" Hari's eyes gleamed, showing his nerdy Otaku side. "I'm sorry, I rarely get to meet a fan. I normally don't talk to a lot of people... my dad is very strict."

Miles could hear the excitement of Hari's voice washed into a soft bit of sadness when mentioning his father. Yeah, no kidding, he's dad is Pav's nemesis, the Green Goblin! "Well, I can be your friend. Who's your favorite One Piece character?"

"Ugh, my queen, Robin!"

"Ah, nice!" The two sat on the floor talking to each other, then the next thing, they know- Hari cup Miles' face with his thumb softly rubbing against his plump lips. The young Spider-man let him lean over to kiss, soon they were tongue kissing.

Miles could feel his heart pounding against his chest, as Hari took control of their kisses. Their mouths not willing to let each other go, which made him more surprised. He likes this. "Wow, kissing Hari is so different than Ganke." He could feeling his body being excited like all of his worries melted away.

"Mmm." He let out a soft cute moan to breathe slowly pulling away from Hari's lip.

"Heh, that's cute, Miles." Hari went back to kissing him on the lips feeling their salvia parting on their lips. Miles merely took the kiss falling on his back, they were too into it at this point.

Outside of the door, the group waited for the two come out. "They been in there for ten minutes!" Gwen finally said.

Gayatri giggles, "I guess, they are having so much fun."

Pav nodded, "Wow, I didn't know Miles can be so- Hobie, what's wrong?" Noticing his friend going over to the closet with a beer in his hand, he had enough of this.

Hobie roughly kicks the door open without giving a shit, "Hobie! We're in Gayatri's home, you don't kick people's doors like that!" Gwen shouted.

"Gwen, it's fine." Gayatri actually liked seeing Hobie all jealous for his crush, she was hoping for him to do something about it three minutes ago.

Hobie turns to Gayatri, "Sorry, luv. Seven minutes is the rules!" He kicks the door open again having to breaking the latch using his Spider-man strength.

This caused Hari and Miles to jump by the sudden burst of the door being swung open. Hobie had a dark look on his face witnessing his crush being lay on the floor by that fucking wanker. Hari lift his head up being surprised still breathing heavily almost drooling, even his hair and clothes became a bit out of placed. "Huh? What's wrong?" He finally asked.

Miles cover his mouth trying to maintain his breathing after such an amazing heated kiss. He got all hot and bothered, forgetting this was a game. "Hobie?" He finally asked being embarrassed his crush had to look at him like that.

"Aye, you two get out. It's been ten minutes. Having fun, Peter Pan?" Hobie asked a bit more rudely, his tone sounded annoyed.

"Oh shit, right! The game." Hari smiles bashfully, he got up taking Miles' hand to get him up. "Sorry, didn't know it was a big deal."

"No, it's fine." Miles added, he finally show his swollen lips a bit plumper from all the kissing. "You're a great kisser, Hari."

That ticked off Hobie a bit more, he chug his beer, "Hah, right..." They're not together. It's okay for Miles to be polite and flirty with other men, still it pisses off the punker.

So, Hobie did what he do best, he slouch on Miles' shoulder giving a dark glare at Hari already giving him a 'fuck off, he's mine' look. "Luv, are you really that impressed? I feel a bit cheesed off since you haven't got to try," his hand lift Miles' chin up as their lips get closed, "me."

"Huh!" Miles' eyes widen almost feeling Hobie's breath on his lips, their lips being closed until Gayatri playfully nudges Hobie away from Miles.

"HAHAHAHA! You wish! You gotta play the game, Hobie! Miles. Hari, sit back down! We're still playing." She grins widely cockblocking the punker. Miles pouted being disappointed he didn't get the kissed he wanted, but shrug it off having to sit back down.

Hobie grunts on Pav's girlfriend, "Aye, why did you do-" Gayatri's merely smiles having a sort of glare on her face, "That's for breaking my closet door, and you have to play the game to get to kiss Miles!"

"Ugh, hunky dory, mate." The punker grunts knowing she's pissed off at him, he rather avoid her lecture. Lips meet the rim of the glass bottle beer to take another swig of beer, his eyes on Miles.

The sixteen year old Spider-man gave him a sheepish smile and shrug. Better luck, next time! Hobie gave one last glare to Hari, who avoided his gaze. Geez, it's not like he knew Miles' was taken.

The game went on with more twists and turns!

[flwrbo]

lights, camera, acción. (drabble)

eren x f!reader. oral m receiving! sex on camera

When Eren walks in, you’re on the floor. You fold your clothes on the plush rug in your bedroom, music playing softly in the background. “Hi, baby!” You move to stand to greet your boyfriend, but he interrupts you. 

“No, princess, stay right there,” He requests as he walks over to you. “Perfect.” He softly grabs your face in his hands as you look up at him through your eyelashes. 

“How was work, Rennie?” You ask, leaning your head into his palm. He hums in thought, running a thumb over your cheekbone. 

“It was okay. I’m happy I’m away from dumbass customers,” He shrugs.

You kiss into his palm, lips making their way to his wrist before leaning into him. He smiles at you when he feels your arms snake around legs, resting your hand on his upper thigh. 

“Can I take care of you, Ren?” You plead, eyes widened. “Pretty please?”

Eren chuckles out, bringing his thumb to your lips. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”

You nod against his thigh, smiling happily when you notice him slowly hardening in his pants. You lean into him, kissing him through his jeans. 

Your boyfriend reaches into his back pocket, grabbing his phone. You tug on his pants as he opens his camera, pointing it at you. “You look so pretty, princess.” You bite your lip at the sight of his hardness through his black briefs. “Gonna make me feel good?” 

You nod against his cock, putting on a show for the camera in front of you.

“Take me out, baby, I wanna feel you.”

You comply with his request, licking at the tip of his head to gather the precum there. You giggle at his neediness, laying a fat kiss on his head.

His hand comes to your face again, a little meaner this time. “You teasin’ me?” He asks. You shake your head in his grasp, pouting at him. “Good. You’re gonna make me cum in this pretty little mouth, right?” He nods your head for you before you have a chance to respond.

You waste no time, diving right onto his cock. You gather as much spit as you can on your tongue to get him as wet as possible. He watches the camera shake as he feels the plush warmth of your inner cheeks, groaning out. “Bein’ so good for me, pretty girl.” 

You suction your cheeks around him, sinking down as far as you can until you gag at the intrusion at the back of your throat. You moan out at the feeling, swallowing around his thick cock when you hear him grunt above you.

He grips your hair in his free hand, thrusting into your warm mouth. “Touch yourself,” He groans out, grinding his hips into you. Your hands come up to brace yourself on his thighs as he uses your mouth as a flashlight. “Touch your fucking pussy, baby, c’mon,” His sentence tapers off into a whine.

He angles his camera into your face as best as he can with his shaking figure. You look so pretty, so ruined, with your mascara under your eyes. It makes him want to fuck you up even more, bend you over the bed and have his way with you. He settles with this, though, watching your cock drunk eyes and messy hair as you reach down a hand to touch yourself through a shaky lens.

[taperjeangirly]

[erodasfishtacos]

hiiii.

this is the first two parts of an exclusive trope i have on pateron. it is completed and all together eight parts.

if you’re interested in the rest, you can sign up here for $3USD and have access to 100s of stories and blurbs.

++

YN doesn't know why she thought that a hockey game of all things would make her feel any better about her breakup with Adam.

YN really can’t imagine that anything will lessen the sour taste of her high school sweetheart getting another girl pregnant.

All YN had known was Adam which she was now realizing how much she had been missing out on experiencing through her earlier twenties.

While Adam snuck around behind her back to experiment, hook-up, and do whatever else with other woman.

YN, unfortunately, only knew Adam intimately.

YN always knew that had been lackluster, always more to desire because he chased his own needs and very rarely helped her reach her own pleasure.

It was bittersweet.

There’s a massive relief that she doesn’t have to imagine her entire life with him and open it to new possibilities.

However, the hurt that came with his infidelity still ached enough that she sometimes physically felt her chest twinge.

A hockey game with a few of her close friends.

Her best friend, April, worked for the arena which meant that she was able to secure pretty close-to-the-ice tickets for a fourth of the price.

As they sat down, a few of them had already had a drink or two in them, and YN didn’t want to mix alcohol with a broken heart so she stuck to a soda instead.

After they’ve filed into their seats, YN was at the one end of her group which meant the chair next to her would be filled by another attendee.

She didn’t think anything of it, leaning across her friend Henry to chat to April, her back towards the empty seat.

YN does not realize that someone is trying to sit down until someone bumps her in the back with their elbow, not hard enough to hurt but enough that YN glances back.

“Sorry for that,” The most gorgeous man she’s ever seen apologizes, a big genuine smile that makes dimples pop in his cheeks, “Got my hands full.”

And he did, he managed to carry three bottles of beer by the neck in one hand, his other filled with a tray of food.

His friends follow shortly after, tugging the beers one by one out of his hand until he can sit down comfortably with his carton of food on his lap.

“It’s okay,” YN assures him, trying to not make it too obvious that she’s giving him a sneaky once over because damn.

He was in a pair of well fitting jeans, a shirt that looked vintage but hugged his broad shoulders tight, looser as it tapered down.

The man continues to smile at her as his friends appear to be quite a rowdy group in comparison to him as they settle in.

“You’re pretty,” The stranger tells her, no shame in his words but not much meaning because he’s already turning back towards his friends like he didn’t just rock her world.

YN questions whether she heard it right because did he just call her pretty?

She tries desperately not to hyper focus on it like a schoolgirl with a crush but it’s hard when his shoulders are so broad, his biceps were built.

It was impossible for their bodies not to be frequently touching.

YN attempts to focus on her friends until the game starts, having to face forward and not be able to have her back to the man.

“You want a fry?” The stranger asks randomly after a few moments.

YN assumes that he’s talking to a friend until he nudges her with an elbow, “Do you want a fry or a chicken strip?”

YN normally wouldn’t accept food from someone she didn’t know but their dinner had been disgusting and inedible which meant her stomach was rumbling.

He’s offering the basket up to her, letting her pick out a fry, and his smile was still just plaster on his face as he watched her.

“Thank you,” YN replies after she’s finished it, giving him more of an unsure grin back.

“Help yourself,” He tells her casually before he’s placing the basket between them so she could grab a fry or strip more easily.

This was weird.

After a few minutes, YN hesitantly plucks up another fry, and the man next to her doesn’t acknowledge that she’s eating out of his basket at all.

When YN’s hand hits paper, she looked down in utter embarrassment, “Oh my god. I am so sorry. I didn’t even realize that I was eating all your food.”

The guy looks over at her for a moment, confused until he glances down at the basket balanced on his leg, and then back to her.

“I’ll go grab you another one right now-“

YN moves to stand up and his hand lightly comes to her shoulder to keep her sat, his expression is somewhat unreadable, somewhat amused.

“I offered them to you? Why are you apologizing?”

“You didn’t offer for me to eat the whole basket,” YN points out with a heat in her cheeks, this was embarrassing.

“Are you still hungry? I could go grab more,” He asks easily, it wasn’t a jest or teasing, he was being a hundred percent serious.

If YN would have ate Adam’s food, he would have demanded she go immediately to get more and then bring it up for the rest of the night too.

This man, who was unfairly attractive but more than that, suspiciously nice even though it didn’t come off as creepy or predatory.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m sorry again,” YN apologizes again for good measure as she picks anxiously at her thumb.

“No apology needed,” He shakes his head with a laugh as he puts the empty remnants on the ground in front of him and swigs from his beer.

YN has to keep her eyes on the ice, she is much too focused on every time his shoulder brushes or his knee knocks in hers because he has to spread his legs an ungodly amount.

There was no conversation between them until another attendee who was further into the middle row was attempting to exit by their side.

The man was a bit wobbly, there was surely a lot of alcohol running through his system and he wasn’t being careful.

He trips over his own feet, over the debris on the ground, and rumbles right on top of YN who yelps in surprise.

The man next to her is quick to action, standing up and tugging the guy back up so that he was standing off his feet.

He was visibly annoyed with the drunk, voice sharp as he warns, “Watch where you’re fucking walking, mate. You could have hurt her.”

The guy mumbles an apology before staggering up the stairs, most likely to get more alcohol.

“Thank you,” YN says once again to him, adjusting her top and brushing off the pants of her leg, heart still pounding.

“Harry, bro. Johnson almost scored!” One of his friends pats his arm excitedly.

Harry.

Well, Harry gives her that signature smile before biting the corner of his lip, and his eyes stay on her a moment longer than acceptable before going back to his friends.

When a commercial break cuts, towards the end of the game, it’s the crowd's favorite time.

The kiss cam.

YN doesn’t think much of it, she’s not with anyone nor loving up on someone.

And it’s an area with fifty-thousand people, it’s next to impossible for her to-

But then her friends are squealing, shoving at her to look towards the Jumbotron, and there she is, projected on the screen.

The frame is decorated with corny swirling pink hearts, balloons popping, and most importantly bold letters that read, ‘KISS CAM’.

In the frame with her, however, is Harry.

As if they were a couple.

His friends must point it out to him because he’s glancing at the screen before he’s making eye contact with her.

Boldly, wildly, he grins and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

YN boldy, wildly nods ‘yes’.

He leans into her space then, big hands coming up to cup her face, and he pulls her into a kiss with an intensity that’s unwarranted but welcomed.

YN can feel her heartbeat in her throat, blood rushing through her ears, and her hand trembling when she wraps her fingers around his wrist.

It’s not chaste.

No, Harry is swiping his tongue against her bottom lip as the crowd goes absolutely insane, roaring and hooting.

Not to mention their friends.

At some point, the camera finds a new couple but YN is positive that they’ve kissed for much longer than they were on the screen before they both pull back.

His lips are puffy, pink, and his eyes are intent on her.

YN feels like panting and her heart jumps when he leans back in for another kiss, a shorter, more sweet one but his hand is grounding on her jaw.

“I’m Harry.”

“YN,” She smiles back at him, her hand still gripping onto him and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit as they just can’t take their eyes off each other.

“Would you want to get out of here?” Harry asks brazenly, hopefully as he appears like he wants to devour her.

YN who’s never been a risk-tasker, who’s never had a hook-up, or anyone other than Adam finds herself agreeing, “Yeah, I do.”

+ second part +

After Harry had opened his apartment door, the arousal and excitement has warped into a trembling nervousness.

What the fuck did a random hookup look like?

YN didn’t even know if she was good at sex because Adam only had a few trusty positions that he liked.

Harry locks the door behind them, the apartment is small but cozy and clean, it smells like his cologne and the lighting is just right for the mood.

He steps up behind her, leaning down to kiss her neck, and his hands on her hips, bigger and stronger than anything she’s ever felt before.

“Do you need anything first? Bathroom, food, water?” He asks against her skin, he was forward in the way that he was already pressing his hips into her backside.

YN shakes her head, trying to keep up, “No, thank you.”

Harry laughs softly, lips smooth against her pulse, “So polite. Let me know if that changes, baby.”

Baby.

They just met and it sounded sincere, not like a corny pickup line.

Harry moves in front of her, not once ounce of shyness as he crosses his arms over his chest and tugs his shirt up and off.

He was ripped.

Surprisingly so, not that he didn’t look fit with his shirt on but YN wasn’t expecting him to have abs, a sharp vee cutting towards his groin, nor the defined muscle near his ribs.

He looks like he walked out of a magazine.

Was she being pranked?

YN didn’t think this could possibly be real life where the most handsome man she’d ever seen was stripping for her.

He moves towards his jeans, unbuckling his belt, and shimmying them off his narrow hips before kicks them to the side.

Just in his briefs and socks, his groin was prominent, and YN’s heart lurches at that because she’s only taken Adam who was a little below average in size.

His wasn’t average, she could tell from here.

A nervous flip of arousal churns in the bit of her stomach, she wanted this man so much that she felt like clenching her thighs together.

Harry’s brow knife in concern when he notices YN stood like a statue, just staring at him, and making no effort to move.

“Is everything okay?” Harry checks cautiously, stepping towards her but not touching her as he looks unsure.

Fuck, she was embarrassed again.

“Uh, ye-yeah,” Her voice cracks like a boy going through puberty, “Just my first time.”

Harry’s eyes widen in alarm, startled, “Oh fuck, I would have done shit different if I knew that you’ve never-“

YN realizes she could have used much better wording and waves her hand, “No no, I’m not a virgin. I just got out of a long-term relationship. I’ve only ever been with him. This is my first time…just randomly hooking up with someone.”

A relieved smile crosses Harry’s face, “Shit, baby. I’m glad you chose me. How could someone let you go? Prettiest face I’ve ever seen, cutest set of tits too.”

“I just might not be the best but,” YN shrugs sheepishly, this has to be the most mortifying experience ever.

“Don’t be worried ‘bout a thing,” Harry assures her as he steps forward, “Now I gotta give it my all to prove m’better than your ex.”

YN decides to take a step out of her comfort zone, reaching forward to grip him through the cotton of his briefs, and he fills her whole hand.

“You weren’t going to give it your all before?” YN teases, feeling her confidence grow by the moment as she moves to thumb over the sensitive head.

“Fuck,” He curses under his breath, eyes meeting hers under his lashes, “I was always going to, baby.”

“Mhm,” YN hums, not convinced as he twitches in her palm, easy for her already.

“Gotta get you naked, my room,” Harry’s breathing is heavier as he reaches out for her hand, guiding her towards his bedroom.

Once they’re in, it’s surprisingly big, and has a comfortable looking king-sized bed that was actually made nicely.

“Please,” YN hears him asks after a moment of her being distracted, “Let me undress you. I’m fuckin’ dying to see you.”

YN can’t help but look over his body once more and she knew she was nothing in comparison to his athletic build.

However, pushing the insecurity down, she nods with a smile for him to undress her.

It was worth the nerves.

By the time she’s down to just her panties, Harry is groaning as he acts like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

“Knew you’d have the cutest set of tits I’ve ever seen,” Harry rumbles as he ducks down to cup them in his big palms, mouth wrapping around one and sucking.

It felt amazing.

Adam didn’t pay any attention to her body when they had sex, never had, and it did feel like her first time in a way.

She wouldn’t want it with anyone else but Harry.

His hand trails from her breast down her belly, fingers dipping into the front of her cotton underwear.

“Fuck, wait,” YN reaches down to hold his wrist, cheeks warm, “You don’t have to.”

Harry pulls his mouth back from her chest, frowning as he stands up straight again, “Do you not like that?”

“It’s not that, I just haven’t you know…” YN trails off, hoping that he would catch on.

He doesn’t.

“You haven’t….” Harry repeats back, he was still soft and gentle, unhurried and patient with her as she hesitated.

YN looks past his right ear as she replies, “I haven’t shaved in a while. We’ve been broken up for a few months and I haven’t maintained-“

Harry is letting out a humored snort, leaning forward to kiss her quiet before he’s kneeling down in front of her, mouth laying wet kisses on her belly.

“Baby, you’re insane if you think I mind hair. Anyway, I can get your pussy is fine by me. I like it, knowing I’m the first to have you like this in a while,” Harry replies, voice scratchier as his arousal grows, and his lips stay on her hip as he tugs the underwear down her legs.

Adam would refuse to have anything to do with her if she wasn’t freshly shaven.

Not shaving for the past few months had felt like the most freeing experience, she hadn’t ever thought she would be randomly having a hookup or she would have shaved.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Harry groans when he finally gets a look at her, his thumb coming up to smooth down the downy curls that were lightly dusting her pubic bone.

“Harry,” YN giggles anxiously, “You don’t have to act like -“

“Can I get my mouth on you?” Harry cuts her off, his eyes were glued to her center, where his thumb was pressing between her folds to nudge at her clit.

YN raises her eyebrow in surprise.

Adam had rarely done that, maybe five times total in their entire relationship, and YN never requested it because it didn’t feel good enough to want it again.

“If you want,” YN breathes out, still in a bit disbelief that this man was kneeling in front of her, asking to put his mouth if her.

“If I want,” He chuckles with a shake of his head before his hands are gripping his hips a bit firmer and keeping her still.

He doesn’t waste another moment, burying his face into her center, nose bumping against the curls on her mound as his tongue swipes through the split of her.

Harry knows what he’s doing.

His lips find her clit in seconds flat but he’s grunting at her, communicating without taking his mouth off of her, and shoulders her legs apart wider.

YN reaches for balance, finding his hair as something perfect to weave her fingers into, and hold steady.

He then just casually, again refusing to take his mouth away, hefts one of her thighs over his shoulder, and makes it possible to lick even deeper.

“Harry,” YN moans kittenishly, a sound she’s never heard out of her own mouth as she tugs harshly at his hair.

He lets out his own moan between sucks and licks, nose buried in the curls, and he’s taking heavy breathes because of his refusal of air.

YN has had orgasms when she had sex with Adam, occasionally, and with her own fingers.

This was the first time someone other than herself made her come.

Holy shit, it was life-changing.

“M’close,” YN warns but by the time she gets the words out, she’s throwing her head back and bucking her hips into his mouth as she rides it out.

His hands move to grip her ass hard, bruising enough as he pushes her as close as possible to help her feel it for as long as possible.

YN realizes just how much she was tugging his hair when her fingers ache, unwinding them as she pants, “I’m sorry. I pulled your hair so hard.”

Harry sits back on his heels, face shining as he swipes his thumb across his bottom lip before sticking in his mouth.

He was fucking obscene.

“Loved it,” Harry replies, voice raspy and deeper than ever, “You tasted just as good as you look. I think I’m in love with the bush.”

YN giggles as he helps her unwind her leg from over his shoulder, he stands up and kisses her hard.

It shouldn’t be hot that she can taste herself.

“Want to see you,” YN murmurs shyly, her fingernails trailing down his stomach, his abs twitching in response.

“Yeah, baby?” Harry goads as he watches her hand, “Hopefully it’s to your liking.”

YN takes that as permission to tug his briefs down his thighs, he was beautiful here too, unsurprisingly.

YN had experience with this.

Kinda.

Adam was less than half the size, not as pretty nor as thick.

It was a bit intimidating.

Harry must sense it, pressing a kiss to her lips, and huffing when she wraps her hand around him, stroking upwards.

“S’gonna fit, nice and snug, huh?” Harry whispers sweetly before he bites her bottom lip, he takes it upon himself to reach down again.

He slips in index and middle finger through her folds, crooking them up inside of her, and cursing under his breathe.

“Baby, you’re tight,” He tells her as he goes slowly, working her open as she pumps him in slow, firm strokes.

YN bites her lip, brave as she thumbs over his shiny tip, “Fuck me, please. Want it.”

“What do you like?” Harry asks as he walks them backwards to the bed, YN landing on her back and squirming up to the middle center.

“What do you mean?” YN asks between a gasp when she feels him brush against her mound, tip bumping at her folds.

“What position gets you off the best?” Harry elaborates as he peppers kisses over her collarbone, tweaking a nipple in his fingers.

“Whatever you like,” YN replies because none get her off.

Harry glances up at her, “But what position is good for you?”

“They’re all the same, aren’t they?” YN shrugs mulishly, “I don’t usually, well, I can use my fingers in any one.”

Harry looks at her like she’s grown a second head, voice sharper, “Did you ex really never make you orgasm during sex without you using your own fingers?”

YN tucks her bottom lip between her front teeth for a moment, “He said it’s easier if I just did it so yeah.”

Harry shakes his head, a scoff of disbelief, “How did he not worship this perfect little pussy, baby? I’ve never seen anything more magnificent.”

YN tries not to let the compliment go to her head, he defiently says that to every other girl he’s been with, it’s just a line.

“Your fingers aren’t going to be anywhere near your cunt tonight,” Harry rumbles as he reaches over to his night stand, rummaging until he finds a condom and rolls it over himself.

“Sweetheart, you’re drippin’ to your bum,” Harry laughs but it’s not mean, it’s fond as he has her bend her knees and spread them.

Harry paints himself up and down her entrance, hitting the heavy weight of it against her clit a few times before pressing in.

“O-oh,” YN gasps because he’s big.

It’s not painful but it is a stretch, as he makes room for himself, and he goes slowly.

He leans down, kissing her, and murmuring encouraging words to her.

Much too sweet for a causal hookup.

“Look at you, never had anyone look so pretty while taking my cock, baby.”

“See? S’room for me, hugging me perfectly.”

“Shit, darling. Never going to want to pull out, just want to stay all tucked up inside you.”

“Fuckin’ beautiful, I can’t decide whether I want to look at your pretty face or perfect pussy. M’spoiled for choice.”

“Please, please,” YN hiccups, she feels needy as he starts to put in more force behind in thrusts, and on every odd motion, he manages to hit a spot she didn’t know she had.

The spot that barreled her towards her second orgasm, nails digging to Harry’s bicep as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Fuck, there it is, pretty baby. Come around my cock, squeezing me,” Harry lets out a low moan when he feels her walls contract around him.

YN has never come twice like that.

When Harry reaches down to press a thumb to her clit, she squeals with the overstimulation but he kisses her and assures her that she can give him one more.

YN has pathetic, fat tears streaming down her face as her third orgasm hits her.

“There we go,” Harry croons, pleased as a peach as he kisses her damp cheeks, “Came on my tongue, on my cock twice, see how good you are for me? S’all mine, right? Only cock you’ve ever come on.”

The possessiveness in his words makes her stomach flip with something good, validating that she wanted.

“Just yo-yours,” YN manages to agree through bated breath, he was pounding into her now, barreling towards his own end.

“Good girl, fuckin’ making me come for you,” He grits out, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple as he stills, pulsing inside her, “Fuckin’ hell.”

++

YN wakes up before Harry the next morning, quietly as a mouse slipping back into her clothes, and leaving his apartment.

Was it a shitty thing to do?

Yes.

Did she do it to avoid him kicking her out after they used each other because it felt real to her and this was just plain fun for him?

Also yes.

YN guesses this is how hookups go.

[two-red-lungs]

Hands (Eddie x Reader Drabble NSFW)

He had… really nice hands. It was one of the first things you noticed about him. You couldn’t help it. You were a girl who knew what she liked, and you liked those.

They were long. Slender, pale, and strong. Broad-backed but not hairy, with rigid lines of uniform tendons making regular appearances from his wrist to his knuckles when he gesticulated.

Long fingers, too. Each knuckle defined by the pale length of smooth finger between it, ending in round tapered fingertips. His nails were boxy and short. Blunt. The skin around them usually in some state of bitten.

Sometimes he’d slam down at a table next to yours and launch into conversation at its occupants, and all you’d be able to focus on were those fucking veins, the soft powder-blue veins that stood out like velvet against alabaster. Veins that jumped when he flipped someone the bird.

And a guy like Munson was always using his hands. Infuriating, really. Gesturing with them, steepling them under his chin, running them back and forth energetically over the ripped jeans on his knees. Worst of all was when he ate: he’d fiddle with and break apart food with those phenomenal fingers, tapping his lips idly with his knuckles and popping bits of broken chips onto that soft, waiting tongue.

Rings glittered in the light. They clung to his knuckles like they belonged there. It was a new low, for you, to admit you were jealous of them.

Because late at night when the crickets were loud and you could fall asleep, you couldn’t help but imagine how good those strong fingers would feel inside you, teasing and exploring and constantly moving in that borderline ADHD-way of his. Just playing with your spongey walls, scraping and fidgeting and crooking until you were drooling fluids into the palm of his hand pressed against your entrance.

You KNEW he could fuck an orgasm out of you with two fingers, you sitting pretty in his lap. All it would take would be watching those lithe digits disappeared and reappearing out of your hungry, noisy pussy, slick and shiny.

“….llo? Hello? Uh, excuse me?” That fucking hand, the hot one with the rings and the veins, was waving in front of your face. You startled, and looking up.

Eddie Munson. Wild hair, permanent smug, anarchistic look on his face. “Hi. Yeah. Uh, kind of hard to get into my locker when you’re standing right in front of it.”

You flushed. Scooted to the side. “Sorry.”

And then those stupid sexy fingers were fiddling with the dial and you were scurrying away like he was venomous. Like if you walked fast enough, you could forget that every time you saw him you wanted to feel those fingertips trail up your thigh and sink into the heat that had been building there since you first laid eyes on him.

[cliozaur]

Valjean is a nice and kind man, but he knows nothing about children's psychology and trauma (like most people of his time). He forgot to undo what he had done to Cosette to make her keep quiet: "Jean Valjean had already forgotten the means which he had employed to make Cosette keep silent." The girl is cold and almost paralysed with terror. As soon as he reassures her that her personal monster is away, she immediately relaxes and even falls asleep when Valjean went to look around.

And then Hugo presents some Gothic piece. The interior of the hall with its arcades and pillars in the dim light of a taper is spooky in itself. Add to this "a human form" lying face down like a corpse, and you'll get an idea of a warm and welcoming place, as this convent is. No wonder, this sight sent Valjean into a state of "an inexpressible terror."

[hourcat]

piarles + bow!! for me!! 🎀

It's never been weird between them, Pierre swears, not once: they've been friends since they were small, growing up together on the same street, playing in the same parks as they'd agreed to be paleontologists or astronauts or footballers, and it'd never mattered once to him that Charles was a girl in all that time--even when they'd gotten shipped off to different high schools across town, it hadn't changed their relationship.

But now...now, as Pierre stands out in front of Charles' house waiting with his shitty Honda parked out front, all but trembling in this oddly-tailored suit for prom, he thinks the line of weird may have finally been crossed after all these years.

It's finally been crossed because Charles in her dress looks beautiful--not covered in dirt or wearing ragged clothes she'd stolen from her older brother, or even in her usual baggy jeans look, but really elegant in a way that Pierre had never even imagined her in before; red fabric that has to be satin spilling down her legs, tapering off at her ankles, a bunched up flower nestled in the perfect center of her chest. Her hair is curled intentionally and not just from humidity--ringlets spilling over her shoulders, a stunning red bow peeking out from behind her head to tie some of it back, and oh.

"What are you looking at," she deadpans, but her mouth is curved up in that usual smirk she gives him, and Pierre realizes that her lipstick matches her dress; he clutches the corsage case tighter and shakes his head, trying to play it off, but it's no use--she's caught him red-handed as she starts making her way towards the car, and when her smirk stretches into a full-on grin, he knows he's doomed.

[eddiemunsonscheckeredboxers]

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ ONLY, THIS IS FOR ADULTS ONLY, female/afab masturbation, descriptions of female anatomy, suggested smut

summary: eddie catches you in a compromising predicament after getting home from hellfire

a/n: eddie and reader are 18+. reader has female anatomy but no pronouns are used so can be afab as well

honestly i just needed to get this idea out of my head, so i figured i'd write it badly and put it out there lol but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless! not proofread

MASTERLIST

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

The soft light of your bedside lamp suddenly filled the room as you stretched over to turn it on. You had been laying in bed for a few hours now, reading a book to pass the time, and had only noticed that the warmth of the sunset has now gone when it became difficult to make out some of the words in the low contrast. You glance out the window and bid farewell to the faint light, low in the horizon, as it melts and spreads thin against the earth. You let out a satisfied breath and lazily turn your attention to the clock on your nightstand. Eddie had warned you that Hellfire would be running late this week as the party had approached a particularly tricky point in his campaign. But, nevertheless, he'd be there as soon as he was done. And not once has he ever broken that promise.

It was about a year or two ago when you finally worked up the nerve to speak to the rambunctious, but charming metalhead in your senior year (which was Eddie's second round of senior year). You were always taken by his effortless beauty: his wild mess of frizzy curls, boyish smile bracketed by his sweet dimples, and his soft stare that never failed in making you feel flustered. You thought at first he must think you're a bit pathetic, the way you would fumble over your words during the first few times you interacted. But there have also been moments that made you feel a bit more confident in yourself around him. At first, you just took his attentive gaze when you spoke as a part of his kind nature, but then you noticed the stolen glances as you would turn to face his direction. Or the way he'd hold your shoulder or your knee when he laughed at something you said. The way he wouldn't do that with anyone else. Hushed compliments sent your way through his enchanted smile meant only for your ears as you walked along side your mutual friends. It all made you fall a little harder for Eddie. Eventually, he had asked you out on a date where you two could be alone without your friends. Since then, you've been inseparable nearly every weekend. In the beginning it was pure. Dinner. A movie at the cinema. Eddie, of course, was always the perfect gentleman. But now you've been together for almost a year, officially, and your innocent dates have become more adult as you both became adults yourself. Especially since you were able to get your own apartment in town that you gave Eddie a key to for him to be able to come see you whenever. People still gawk when they catch the super-senior spending his time around town with a straight shooter like yourself. But they don't know Eddie like you do. They don't love him like you do. Christ-- right now he's playing D&D with his lost sheep on a Friday night which is a far cry from the satanic rituals he's normally accused of taking part in. You let out a sigh and spread across your bed, hands coming to rest across your chest which is glowing warmly, full enamored by your own sheep in wolf's clothing.

Despite all the struggles Eddie faces with his reputation in the town, he always lets it roll off his shoulder. It's one of the things you find so attractive about him; his ability to above all else be unashamedly himself. Well that, and way his torso tapers down to his waist, that's definitely a plus. Your hand starts to drift down from its resting spot on your chest lower down your abdomen. Or the teasing outline of his thigh muscles pressed against his well-fitted black jeans. You brush past the goosebumps that have erupted across the skin on your stomach, as your hand reaches lower. Or the way the edge of his chest tattoo peaks out from the neck of his shirt. Your hand slips past the waistband of your tights a little too easily. Or the way he absentmindedly plays with the rings on his thick fingers when he talks. You shudder as yours find that desperate bundle perched atop the mound there at your center. Or how the curve of his deltoids falls into the curve of his biceps when he stands with his arms crossed. You begin to push slow, languid circles over the bud. Or the way his plush lips wrap around his cigarette and the small smile he gives you when he catches you staring. You increase your pace and pressure, pleasure growing warmer in your chest and cheeks as blood rushing lower in your body to accommodate your need.

You held your breath thinking about the saccharine goodnight kisses outside your front door that gave way to heated kisses across the passenger seat of his van where you would try to delay your departure from him. The way his hands would roam, exploring the peaks and valleys of the curves of your body over your clothes. The excitement in your core building to near maximum levels-- until the sound of the key sliding in your apartment door ripped you from Eden.

"Hey, sweetheart! Sorry, things got a bit heated and I lost track of time," you heard Eddie call out to you among the sound of him toeing off his shoes and setting his keys on the counter. You quickly pulled your hand back out from your underwear and pulled yourself to sit back up against the headboard. You take one deep breath and try to arrange yourself to appear as tranquil as you could manage.

"That's ok, I, uhh, managed to keep myself busy in the meantime," you replied, hoping you didn't sound too tousled. Upon hearing his footsteps approaching the bedroom, your eyes scan your bed in a panic to find the book you were reading in an attempt to stage the scene to aid in your apparent innocence. Grabbing it quickly, you just make it in time to pretend to close the book and put it down on the nightstand as Eddie enters the room. When his eyes land on you, that familiar, lovesick smile softens his features. You can't help but smile back and take moment to internally gush over his adorable dimples and the crinkles at the edge of his eyes. Heart bursting, you didn't notice the way his eyes darted down quickly to observe how you seemingly actively control your breath as he pauses to remove his jacket and throw it on the chair in the corner. Eddie knows that you only get like that when you're anxious, or when you're building towards your climax. He quickly recovers his gaze to your eyes to search for any signs of distress. When he finds none, he moves toward were you lay on the bed.

"Yeah? What did you get up to?" he inquires as he nonchalantly reaches to place a finger on the book you just placed down, "Reading?"

You nod your head, all the while smiling sweetly at him. He moves to sit next to you on the bed as you shimmy over slightly to give him some more room to sit. He leans in, eyes trained on your lips as you instinctively dip forward to meet him in the kiss. He places a slow, gentle peck on your lips and pulls away slightly to mutter, "Is that all you got up to?"

You nod again with a 'mhm' as he leans forward slightly again for another chaste kiss. This time, as he kisses you, his hand comes up to cup the side of your face. He pulls back again to smile at you so as to not let you know he's onto you. His hand moves to graze your neck as he slides it down, fingers ghosting over your skin. You subconsciously tilt your head to the side to allow him more access to you while you shut your eyes. His heart soars at how you always so easily trust him after a lifetime of unwarranted abuse thrown his way. He continues to move his hand to your shoulder. When you feel his hand slip down to your triceps, your eyes snap open. His eyes are already on yours, watching for your reaction. You divert your attention to his hand as it continues to trail downward on its course to your hand. The hand that was just in your pants mere moments ago. His eyes remain fixed on your face, taking amusement in your alarm, as he does eventually take your hand in his. He raises your hand, palm facing out to his mouth. Never breaking eye contact, he places his pillowy lips to the inside of your palm, giving it a delicate kiss. A devilish glint then flickers across his face. He lifts his head to turn his nose toward your fingers. Your eyes roll as you smirk in defeat know realizing you've been caught as he lets out a dark chuckle.

"You were having fun without me," he growls in a deliciously low register.

thanks for reading :)

masterlist