#Chapter 9ish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rambleonwaywardson · 5 months ago

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Clegan Olympics AU - Loss/A Good Horse

Part 9ish. Read Morning After first!!!

Masterpost

Author's Note: A bonus chapter this week. Disclaimer: all main characters, including Whiskey, are FINE. That being said, this is written in memoriam for a friend's horse who was recently lost entirely too young. The horse world isn't easy on the body or on the heart, but we do it anyways.

---

“Gale? Honey?”

He hears Marge’s voice echoing down the aisleway, searching for him. He hasn’t yet decided if he wants to be found, but he knows he won’t push Marge away when she does find him.

He isn’t hard to find, after all, for those who know where to look.

He’s sitting in the back corner of Whiskey’s stall, on top of a quite frankly absurd amount of bedding, with his legs crossed in front of him and hay stuck to his clothes. He’s always sought out the same general hideaway since he was a child, for as long as Marge has known him. A horse’s stall has always been his safe space, the place he goes when the world hurts too much.

Whiskey is laying down in the bedding in front of him, her huge head in his lap like a dog. Her ears flick back and forth whenever she hears a bird or a voice or a footstep, but she stays right where she is. She knows her job: to take care of her person.

Everyone always says that geldings are less temperamental than mares. That they’re kinder and sweeter and more playful. More forgiving. More reliable. More loving. Sometimes, these qualities might even make them more trainable.

Gale doesn’t necessarily disagree with these statements, but he also knows they’re lacking nuance. Mares pick their people; that’s why many riders won’t call themselves a “mare person” – if a mare doesn’t pick you, she might not perform for you, and some people can’t stand that. But Gale knows better. If a good mare picks you as her person, there is nothing she won’t do for you. She will go to war with you. She will protect you. A good mare can tell how you’re feeling from the way your breath leaves your chest. She can read your mind, know what you want from her before you even have a chance to ask. A good mare will try her damn best to do everything right by you and she will never give up and she will never let you down. A good mare will work hard. She will love hard.

She will love you with everything she has.

Whiskey chose Gale as her person seven years ago. She can sense what he’s feeling by the set of his shoulders, by the tone of his voice, by the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands. He’s sad. He’s angry. He’s grieving. So she grieves with him.

Gale absently strokes his hand over Whiskey’s big ear, feeling the soft hair against his skin. She blinks up at him, huffing hot breath against his leg, and he smiles sadly, fighting the tears in his eyes. He can hear Marge’s footsteps coming closer.

For all that talk about a good mare, that doesn’t mean Gale doesn’t love his gelding just as much.

It doesn’t mean he didn’t love his gelding just as much.

Marge pokes her head into Whiskey’s stall, and she looks like she might cry, too. “Oh, honey,” she sighs when she sees Gale. She opens the stall door and goes inside to sit down next to him. She just leans back against the wall, looking straight ahead. She squeezes her eyes shut when Gale’s hand, the one that isn’t petting Whiskey’s face, seeks hers out, and she twines their fingers together on top of her knee.

“Benny told me,” she says.

“I figured.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I-“ Gale doesn’t have words. There’s no words that can possibly encompass this feeling. This loss. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

Marge feels her heart breaking, tearing at the seams for her best friend, practically a brother to her. “Sweetie, no. No. There is nothing that could’ve kept this from happening.”

Gale knows that. Somewhere. But it doesn’t change the fact that his heart has been ripped out of his chest, reshaped with a missing piece, and shoved haphazardly back in. He needs someone to blame, and there’s no one but himself.

“Gale,” Marge says, her voice sad and pleading. “Look at me.”

He does. He bites nervously at his lower lip, trying to hold himself together.

“It’s not your fault,” Marge insists, squeezing his hand. “It’s no one’s fault. It’s just… it’s just awful, awful luck.”

Gale nods dumbly. Luck. That’s what took his gelding away from him.

Apollo. The sweet little gelding that Gale had been bringing along. The same horse that colicked right before Gale flew to the Games. The one he stayed up with all night, making sure he was okay. The one that had landed him on that plane with John Egan.

It happened again. He started showing severe colic symptoms in the middle of the night stateside, and the barn staff did everything they could. By the time the vet made it, it was probably already too late. They’d called Gale, asking if he wanted them to try the surgery, and he’d said yes. But the horse died on the table.

And Gale wasn’t there.

Sometimes Gale wonders if the heartache of this sport is worth it. It’s taken years off his life, he’s sure. Raising and training a horse is like dedicating your existence to trying to keep together an animal that's intent on finding new ways to tear itself apart. They always find new ways to hurt themselves or get sick or otherwise need special attention and care. Every day it’s something new with these horses, and losing one isn’t like simply losing a pet. It’s losing a partner, losing a child.

But then Gale looks into Whiskey’s eyes, and he knows. It is worth it. It has to be. Every single second. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Marge squeezes his hand again, a silent I’m here, and he squeezes back. But she knows her friend. “Do you want to be alone?”

He nods wordlessly. He just needs to sit here with Whiskey and grieve. So she kisses him on the cheek, stands up, and she leaves him be.

“Marge?” he says softly as she closes the stall door behind her. She looks back over at him, a silent question. He meets her eyes. “I was supposed to meet John for lunch.” He’s late. And the thought of Bucky standing alone, wondering where Gale is, drives another spike through his chest. He feels empty. So tired and defeated. He doesn’t have the words or the energy to explain this cruel twist of fate to a man that he loves too deeply for such a short amount of time and yet who he isn’t convinced will stay.

He doesn’t know if that’s unfair to John, or maybe unfair to himself.

Marge nods. “It’s okay,” she tells him. “I’ll let him know. He’ll understand.”

And Gale knows that he will.

–

Gale doesn’t look up again until a good hour later, when a shadow blocks the light streaming into the stall from the windows in the aisleway. Whiskey stood back up some time ago and is munching on hay in the opposite corner, but Gale hasn’t moved. He’s just been watching her, worried that if he takes his eyes off of her, she’ll leave him, too.

When he was just a kid, no older than ten, one of his father’s horses broke a leg. She was a lovely little Appaloosa mare, about 15 years old. She was the sweetest thing, one of the first horses Gale himself learned to ride on. He loved that mare to pieces, and he thinks she loved him back.

The thing about Gale is he spends so much time acting unemotional, like nothing phases him, when in reality, he feels too much. It’s how he’s always been, since he was a kid. He loves hard, and he cares deeply. Neither of those traits were valued by his father.

So when that pretty little mare that Gale loved so much broke her leg, Gale knew what his dad was going to do. He watched his dad take the rifle out of the safe and walk outside, towards the barn. And hell if Gale didn’t throw himself at that man, grabbing at his arm and begging him not to do it like that. Begging him not to stand that mare by a tree and look her in the eye, so scared and innocent and in pain, and put a bullet through her head.

His dad had tried to throw him off, to shove him away, saying “this is the best thing for her. Quick and easy.”

But little Gale Cleven could not fathom doing that to any animal, no matter the reason, especially one who was loved so deeply. So he begged.

He begged and begged and begged even though he was certain he’d get a beating for it later. He tried to pull the gun away with his little hands, tried to block the stall door, cried even though he knew his dad hated tears.

He threw his arms around that horse’s neck, and he begged.

To his surprise, his dad looked at Gale, his son who loved too deeply and cared too much, and he sighed. He set down the gun. He called the vet, even though the house call fee alone was exorbitant.

Gale watched, trying not to cry too much and failing miserably, as the mare was humanely put down, and that was one of the few kindnesses his father ever afforded him. Gale didn’t even get a beating later. All he got was his father’s hand on his shoulder, the words “I’m sorry, son,” ringing in his ears.

That was the only time Gale’s father ever did that. The next horse that had to be euthanized, he said he couldn’t afford the vet fee, no matter how much Gale protested. Gale learned to say his goodbyes first, and ride off into the mountains so he didn’t have to watch, a gunshot echoing behind him.

That’s what Gale is thinking about, a sick feeling in his stomach as he stares at Whiskey, when that shadow appears. He frowns and squints at the silhouette on the other side of the stall door. “What are you doing here?”

“Marge called me.” Bucky gives a weak smile, motioning to the latch on the door. “Can I come in?”

Gale wants to snap. Say that he just needs to be alone. That he can’t deal with this right now. But one look at John, and he knows that isn’t quite true. The truth is, Gale doesn’t know what he needs. He hasn’t felt this small since he was just a bruised and banged up kid trying to break his way out of Wyoming. So instead he nods silently.

Bucky settles down beside Gale, where Marge had sat an hour ago. But instead of taking his hand, instead of just silently being by his side, Bucky wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, and that’s when Gale breaks.

He tucks himself against Bucky and cries against his shoulder, fingers clutching too tightly to the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He shakes as he tries not to make too much noise, hearing his father’s voice – quit cryin’ boy, you’re too old for that. But small gasping sobs tear out of his throat here and there anyways, making him flinch in anticipation of a reprimand that won’t come.

Instead Bucky’s other hand moves up to cup the back of Gale’s head, stroking his hair soothingly and pulling him closer. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale mumbles, sniffling against Bucky’s neck. He’s embarrassing himself.

Bucky shakes his head and presses his lips into Gale’s hair. “Don’t be sorry. I’m right here with you, darlin'.” The kindness makes Gale lose control that little bit more, choking on a sob as he clings tighter and tighter to Bucky. Bucky just keeps running his hand over Gale’s hair, calm as can be, as he whispers “You’re okay. You’re okay,” and holds Gale through it.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” he says.

When Gale eventually pulls away and settles back against the wall, still sniffling quietly, he looks up at the rafters above. Bucky looks at him.

“Sorry,” Gale says again.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Gale shrugs. “Crying’s not somethin’ that was accepted in my family,” he admits.

Bucky sighs and strokes the sweaty hair back away from Gale’s face. “Look at me, Buck.” Gale does, and Bucky tries to force every ounce of sincerity he can into his expression. “Do not apologize for that. Okay? You have no reason to apologize.”

Gale can’t really fully comprehend that right now, but he nods anyways to make Bucky happy, and he thinks maybe he can learn to understand what Bucky’s trying to tell him. If Bucky will stay.

They sit in silence for a while. Bucky is once again struck by the fact that they’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks, and barely that. They talk and laugh and kiss and comfort each other in a way that feels so familiar, like they’ve known each other for years. And yet there’s so much about one another that they don’t know. So much beneath the surface, slowly clawing its way up in bits and pieces that reveal themselves all out of order.

Bucky wants so badly to know more. It hurt, the way Gale flinched every time he so much as made a sound as he cried in Bucky’s arms. As if he expected to be punished for it, as if he expected Bucky to be angry with him for being devastated by a devastating loss.

But he watches Gale watching Whiskey, and all he can do is keep his arm wrapped over Gale’s shoulders, holding him close, and try to reassure him that whatever he’s feeling, it’s alright.

“Tell me about him,” Bucky says. “The horse.”

Gale is quiet for a long time, and Bucky thinks he’s not going to answer. That’s fine, Bucky thinks. He’ll just sit here as long as Gale needs and they can talk or they can just be quiet, listening to the sounds of Gale’s mare still very much alive and well. That’s fine.

But then Gale’s mouth tries to do this thing where it frowns and quirks up in a smile at the same time, and Bucky is fascinated by it. He gently plays with the soft hair curling at Gale’s nape, trying to offer comfort.

“His name was Apollo,” Gale says. His voice is carefully controlled, but Bucky can hear the faint tremor in it. “He was only four. This absolutely beautiful bay Thoroughbred. Harding and I bought him as a yearling, planned to bring him up the levels and maybe get him here someday. He had so much potential, John.”

“How can you tell, that young?” Bucky asks. He’s worried for a second that he shouldn’t have asked, should’ve just sat and listened, but Gale looks at him, and he looks sad. But his eyes are also so full of love.

“The way they move. The way they look at you. The way they’re built. There’s so much you can know about a horse before you even get on them.” Bucky doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of listening to Gale talk about horses, because his voice changes, when he does. He sounds open and joyful with this wistful, loving look, like he’s endlessly in awe of them even when he's falling apart. “They tell you everything you need to know if you know know how to listen.”

Gale leans his head against Bucky, and it makes Bucky feel warm. He’s never had this before, someone who looked to him for comfort like this. But holding Gale like this feels so natural, and for a second they aren’t in Paris. They’re not at the Olympics. The world isn’t expecting great things from either of them. They’re just them.

Two people, sharing a moment, sharing a loss.

Gale sighs. “He was a real good horse. Not like Whiskey, but damn close. We could see when he was just a year old, he had this incredible trot. Looked like he was floating. And he was the sweetest thing. I loved him immediately, and…” he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I started riding him a year ago, when he turned three. And I was right, John. He was perfect. He moved so beautifully. He wanted to do the work. He wanted to learn. He was-“

Gale shakes his head against Bucky’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know.” Bucky knows too well, and his heart breaks for Gale. “It’s not fair.”

"If I’d stayed with him-"

“No,” Bucky says, echoing Marge’s words. “It’s not your fault, Buck. It’s not.”

They sit quietly, and every once in a while Gale says something else about Apollo.

“He liked sour patch kids.”

“I think he would’ve been a great jumper.”

“He had the softest ears.”

“The first time I asked him to canter he bucked me off and then stood over me like ‘what the fuck dude.’”

“He was a damn good horse.”

And sometimes he laughs the littlest bit as he talks, a wet, bubbling little noise that breaks through the sadness in his voice. “Ridiculous creatures,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

Bucky isn’t sure if he should, but he repeats the words that Gale said to him before: “A miracle they’ve made it this far.”

Gale nods, every possible emotion coursing through his body and showing plain as day on his face. Love and sadness, anger, pain, grief, joy for what he had. “But I’m damn glad they did,” he sighs.

I love him, Bucky thinks. I love him.

“Thank you for being here,” Gale says quietly, after they’ve sat in that stall watching Whiskey putter about for who knows how long.

“Of course,” Bucky says. Of course he’s here. Of course he wants to be here. Of course he feels far too many emotions about the fact that, of all people, Gale wants him to be here.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

#clegan olympics au #clegan #masters of the air #mota #john egan #gale cleven #buck x bucky #bucky egan #buck cleven #clegan fic

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grassbreads · 1 year ago

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I’d love to know about Yulma and how important it is to representation in shounen manga

This has been sitting in my askbox for a couple months (because I am incapable of punctuality), but anon sent this to me back when I was talking about Yulma over on my vnc blog. For those unaware, Yulma refers to Yu Kanda and Alma Karma from the manga D.Gray-man.

So the thing is, to be honest, I don't know if you can say Yulma is/was important for representation. They don't tend to get brought up as an example of representation (except by diehard d.gray-man fans like me, lol) in shonen, and their whole thing is complicated enough that I feel like the queerness of it all flies over a lot of people's heads.

However! They're very important to me personally, and I do think it's kind of remarkable their story came out in like 2010. Because even though their queerness gets overlooked a lot, it's like. really there no matter how you interpret it.

The short version of their very complicated story is that Kanda and Alma are a couple who were resurrected into new bodies. Alma was a woman when they were originally together in their past lives, but is physically male in the present. Kanda is still very much in love with them by the end of their story, which, depending on the reading, makes Kanda very bi and/or Alma very trans.

This sound like something you want details on? If so, let's talk about how D.Gray-man's fan favorite edgy badass toughguy character briefly became the star of his very own heart-wrenching tragic queer romance.

Here's a brief crash course in Yu Kanda and Dgm for the uninitiated:

D.Gray-man is a manga about a group of exorcists (in the loosest and most anime sense of the term) in the 1890s fighting a holy war against mechanical demons powered by the souls of the dead. There are two things you need to understand about this plot for me to explain Yulma:

The Black Order, the secret branch of the church that exorcists work for, has a long history of committing horrific human experiments to further the war effort.

Due to complications of world building, only a tiny number of people can become exorcists, and tracking down new ones is extremely difficult.

Yu Kanda is one of the exorcists, and though not the actual main character (that's the lad in my icon), he's a very important secondary character. Arguably he's the most important secobdary character, since he's the main guy's biggest foil and the first character to play deuteragonist in a major story arc. He's also a huge fan favorite. The character popularity polls that Jump used to do always had him and the mc going back and forth over who won #1 most popular.

Kanda was also a classic edgy toughguy character. His first two scenes are him almost murdering the main guy because he thinks he's an intruder, then complaining about people grieving for their friend too loudly. He never smiles. He argues with the righteous mc about wasting time/energy protecting civilians. He threatens (and delivers) violence on anyone that annoys him. He looks like this:

TLDR; Kanda was an adored-by-fans mean badass archetype in a 2000s shonen manga. Not generally the guy you peg for starring in a piece of queer romantic storytelling.

And for the entirety of the original anime adaptation's 103 episode run, for the first 188ish chapters of the manga, you do not learn a single thing about his early life. You learn he joined the Black Order very young, and you meet the mentor that took him in at that point, but although there are little hints, a couple cryptic mentions of him searching for a certain person, his early origins remain a complete black box.

Then came the Alma Karma arc.

This is the point where I start getting into spoilers.

To make a very long story short, the Alma Karma arc reveals that Kanda is one of the Black Order's human experiments. The Order ran a secret project 9ish years before the start of the series in which they essentially tried to re-use dying exorcists (since finding new ones is so hard). They took the bodies of dying or recently deceased exorcists and harvested their brains, implanting those brains into new magically grown child bodies.

Key to this project—the second exorcist project—is that these newly grown second exorcists were not supposed to remember anything from their previous lives. Kanda, however, recovered a few hazy memories from his past self. Most importantly, he can recall an unclear image of the woman that his past self was in love with. This memory gradually becomes Kanda's reason to live. He wants desperately to find and meet that person.

Now, aside from Kanda, there was one other successfully revived second exorcist. This was a boy named Alma Karma.

Over the course of their brief shared childhood, Kanda and Alma become extremely close. However, due to a series of horrible events that I'll spare you the details of, Alma is eventually driven to murder-suicide. He wants himself and Kanda to die together to spite the Order, and Kanda almost lets him do it.

The one thing that keeps Kanda from letting Alma kill him, the thing that drives him instead to kill Alma, his most beloved and only friend, is that he can't bear to die without finding that woman again.

Have you figured out the twist yet?

9 years later, in the present, Kanda discovers that he didn't actually quite kill Alma. The Order kept Alma secretly half-alive in order to do more dubious experiments. And, more importantly, when they meet again, Kanda discovers the truth. The woman that he's been searching for his whole life, the woman he's in love with, the woman he tried to kill Alma in order to find, was also killed and made into a second exorcist. And her brain was placed into the body of Alma Karma.

After quite a lot more violence and tragedy, Kanda and Alma end their story arc by running away together on their deathbeds. Alma dies, for real this time, in Kanda's arms, and his last words are to tell Kanda he loves him. These words are presented as something Kanda hears from both the boy and woman versions of Alma's soul.

So! At the end of a very long and complicated story, one thing holds true: Kanda and Alma are in love. As passed down from their past selves, they are specifically in romantic love. They were a couple. And to speak as a fan, the sheer absolute devotion to how Kanda's love for Alma is presented is seriously intense and moving.

Now, given the absolute hell that is Alma's life, gender identity is frankly the last thing they have time to worry about, so it's hard to say how the whole "literally a woman's brain in a male body" thing might have settled for them if given time to think about it. But that is inherently a pretty trans narrative. And given the whole Alma gender situation, there's simply no reading of their whole situation where neither of them is queer.

If you take present day Alma as a guy, which is more or less how he's presented in canon (though again, who knows how he would've felt about that male body in different circumstances), then congratulations! You've got mlm in your shonen manga. They were straight in a different life, but now one of them's a dude, and they are still deeply in love with each other. They've even got not one but two "let's forget it all and run away together" scenes, just as every mlm couple seems to have.

On the other hand, if you go with the angle that Alma's still a woman based on her mind/soul, even in her new body, then Kanda may not be canonically queer, but Alma is inarguably trans. Again, literally a woman's brain in a male body. It may not be how most people end up trans, but that doesn't change the facts of her situation.

You see what I mean about how they're undeniably queer, but also kind of easy to miss? There's so much other insane shit going on in their story that Alma's whole gender situation can get passed over. Plus, you can look online to this day and find people arguing that Kanda's not "technically" explicitly in love with the present day male version of Alma, since he doesn't 100% unambiguously say as much. I love reading comprehension.

Also! As a possible extra reason for why people don't talk about them much, the official English translation of the manga translated Alma's final "I love you" very differently. There's always a lot of nuance and argument when it comes to translating "大好き" into English, but given the full context of their relationship and the scene it's in, Viz's handling really sets off the censorship bells in my head.

Here's the different versions (Japanese then fan then official), if you want to compare:

Nothing more classically queer than censorship by way of questionable translation 🙃.

At the end of the day, Kanda and Alma are in kind of a strange middle ground. They're each in love with the other one, but the whole second exorcist brain transfer situation makes it complicated enough that people argue their feelings aren't explicitly romantic (and thus not gay) in the present. Alma is literally a woman's brain implanted in a male body, but we don't have time to dwell on the gender complications of all that because of the hell that is the rest of their life. They're canon but not canon—queer people whose stories don't have space for them to be queer.

However, given that all this messy, tragic ambiguity was published in a fairly popular shonen manga back in 2010, it still feels kind of remarkable to me. Alma is somewhat an antagonist (it's complicated), and he dies at the end of his arc, but once again, Kanda was/is the fan favorite! And when he re-enters the main story after Alma's death, he's more important than he's ever been, and his history with Alma continues to be a huge part of his character.

Katsura Hoshino took the much-beloved edgy toughguy character from her long-running shonen series and, after keeping his origins secret for such a long time, confirmed that his whole life has revolved around love this entire time. Almost every facet of his character can be traced back to his love for his lost best friend or his yearning for his past life's missing partner. And then she reveals that the best friend and the partner are one and the same.

You can go back and forth about the degree to which they work as representation, but in any case, I think their story is something people ought to know about. It's romantic and it's heart-wrenching and it's fucking wild, especially given the context in which it was published (a Shonen Jump spinoff in 2010). I never see anyone besides the few remaining hardcore dgm fans talk about them, and I think that's a shame.

So anyway, that's tale of one of the most insanity-inducing romances I've ever seen put to paper. I love queer people.

Here's some choice pages if you want to cry with me (the last two are a sequence):

#followers!! I know my demographic #I know that most of y'all are Tragic Queer Romance Enjoyers #and if that describes you. you should read this post #come learn about a truly wild piece of manga history #I bring you the gift of discovering Yulma without having to read almost 200 chapters of shonen manga for context #don't pass this up <3 #dgm #d.gray-man #yu kanda #yulma #alma karma #invasion of the frogs #also I really hope that at least one of the besties reads this and has a Realization about who/what my queue tag is a reference to #maybe I flatter myself to think that anyone remembers what my queue tag is. but I just think it would be funny <3 #also also. I really did not intend for this post to turn into an entire essay when I started writing it #so uh. whoops #ID in alt text #anon #ask

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theragethatisdesire · 1 year ago

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much ado about nothing chapter 2 - eren x reader - 18+!!

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.

welcome back to the much ado universe for our second installment! this chapter is just a lot more yearning and getting to know everyone in the uni, fleshing out the mysterious eren a little more, but there's a treat at the end ;)

@toxrez was kind enough to make some LOVELY fan art of this chapter, please find it linked here i am so appreciative so go send her some love!!!!

specific cws: tee tiny pinch of smut, drug/alcohol use, swearing, historia plotting on your downfall like the meddlesome best friend she is

“O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” - Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare (Act II, Scene 2)

A solid week or two passes and…nothing. You chastise yourself for being disappointed at Eren’s radio silence, especially since you hadn’t exactly given him a way to contact you. He knows Historia has your number, but he hasn’t reached out to get it from her. And why should you expect him to? the annoying, self-doubting voice in your head corrects you every time you dare to hope, you’re not exactly his usual type.

It’s true; since your run-in, Historia’s been busy doing reconnaissance on anything Eren-related she can pick up from the rumor mill. His dating history is a near-blank, but his “hoe history” as Historia lovingly dubs it, is colorful, full of rave girls and bar rats and Instagram models. You’d drank enough that night that it was entirely plausible you had imagined the excited sparkle in his eyes as you rambled on about misrepresentations of theme in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He had come to Scout’s to work after all, not on the prowl for a sex-starved literature student who couldn’t hold her tequila.

The fact was, he wasn’t interested, cemented after your night out to Scout’s on Halloween. Historia had gone to the trouble of dolling you up in an appropriately slutty outfit on the premise that It’s like, one of the biggest party nights of the entire year. There’s no way he’s not going to be there. But, the bar had been devoid of intoxicating cologne and green eyes, and you’d gone home empty-handed and far more drunk than you’d intended to.

The surprise comes a few days after.

You’re sharing a cup of tea with Historia as she paints your toenails on the couch, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly and enjoying the pampering. As you're moving your thumb to like Sasha's Instagram post, Historia reaches for her phone suddenly and knocks the nail polish bottle over, spilling it all over your– again, hand-painted coffee table. After four years with her, you can only contrive a semblance of annoyance; you’re surprised the table even lasted this long with no major casualties.

“Stor!” You scramble for the bottle, righting it, but Historia’s typing madly on her phone, muttering under her breath.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”

“What?” You can hardly contain your impatience, trying to quell the hopeful flutter rising in your chest. Historia bites her lip, grins wickedly at you.

“I told you. I told you.”

“Told me what?”

In lieu of an answer, Historia turns her phone to you. You squint to read the texts through the recently-cracked screen.

> Pregame at my place for min’s birthday tn u in?

> for sure! what time?

> 9ish u know the addy?

> yep! we’ll be there.

> See if ur friend wants to come too.

“Your friend?” you scoff, pushing her phone away in painfully feigned disinterest when in reality, your heart is pounding in your throat.

“That’s you,” Historia wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully, as if you weren’t already aware of the fact.

“I resent that,” you say, picking up your phone to continue your mindless scrolling until Historia snatches it from you, fixing you with a pointed look. “What? He can’t even use my name? What a douchebag.”

“That’s just how boys text,” Historia swats your concerns away. You bite back your scathing reminder that Historia has been a loud and proud lesbian since her teenage years and has no idea how “boys text”. Sure, you might be grasping at straws to hate him, resist the temptation rising in your throat, but you’re determined. He humiliated you once, and he won’t get the chance to do it again.

“We’re not going,” you say at the same time as Historia talks over you: “We’re going.” You scowl.

“We have to,” Historia shakes your shoulders, “he was all over you at Scout’s, not to mention that mysterious eight inch claim.”

“He’s had more than a week to reach out, and this is how he decides to do it? Summoning me through you?”

“Maybe he was too shy,” Historia shrugs, returning to painting your last few toes.

“Eren doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s too chicken to ask for a girl’s number, especially after everything you found out from Ymir.” Historia’s girlfriend may have been a bit on the anti-social side, but she somehow knows everyone and everything. Despite her bristly demeanor, Ymir possesses the god-given art of pulling the juiciest gossip out of complete strangers, and it isn’t a talent any of you have let go to waste over the years.

“He might surprise you,” Historia looks up at you through her lashes, “this is all just to get you laid anyway, so don’t think too much into it.”

You bite your lip, allowing her to work on your toes as you slip into thoughtful silence. If you’re honest with yourself, like, really honest, you’re not the best at “just getting laid”. In college, you were always the one stuck on the giving end of a one-sided situationship, and your only solution when it would inevitably fall through was to start anew with an equally terrible guy.

As you’ve leaned into your graduate years, you’ve been able to avoid your past pitfalls, sleeping with guys who are far enough away from your type to avoid heartbreak but cute enough to catch your interest, a category Eren should fall into. Something about him has you trapped, though, the same way you used to be. He makes your head spin, renders your normally pin-sharp thinking null and void, makes you say stupid, stupid things. Things like:

“Okay, fine. But an hour, max.”

You reflect on your stupid mistake as you stand on Eren’s porch with Historia and Ymir, in another cute-but-not-cute-but-not-trying-to-look-not-cute (or, at least, you think that’s the criteria) outfit of Historia’s choice. Historia had insisted on bringing her girlfriend to leave you free to “couple up” with Eren, but you realize all that means is you’re arriving to a party full of strangers as a third wheel. Great.

As Historia knocks, your stomach erupts in a bout of nervous grumbling. Not only have you forgotten to eat, but you haven’t been to a drug dealer’s party since you were probably nineteen. It’s actually quite a cute little house, homey brick with a red door and a well-kept lawn, not the trap den you’ve been envisioning all afternoon. The scene is eerily quiet, no LED lights shining in the windows, the low hum of music at a reasonable volume bumping through the walls. It’s not what you expected, but then again, you’re still on the wrong side of the door.

“Coming!” A voice— a feminine voice— echoes through the inside of the house, and one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen flings open the door. Just fucking great. “Hi, you guys are…?”

“Historia,” Historia chirps, not thrown off in the least. You smile timidly, trying to absorb some of the confidence that rolls off of her as she introduces Ymir and then you. The girl eyes you in particular but not threateningly, a hint of a smile playing on her face.

“Mikasa,” she opens the screen door, letting you inside, “Eren mentioned that you were coming.”

“Really?” Historia’s friendly grin grows devious, and you pinch her arm behind your back. “Ow!”

“You okay?” Mikasa frowns over her shoulder.

“Yeah, just stubbed my toe.” Historia scowls at you.

You round a corner to the source of the music, feeling a little like you’re going to puke, but you’re pleasantly surprised by the scene in front of you. It’s not a rager, and there’s nothing suspicious out except a handful of red solo cups and a couple of expertly-rolled blunts being passed around hand-to-hand.

Armin offers you a small wave from where he’s parked on a loveseat beside a striking, intimidating-looking blonde woman, failing miserably to flirt with her. Mikasa falls into an armchair beside another pretty brunette who’s wearing some sort of work uniform and an apron; her name tag reads Hitch<3. You faintly recognize the guy hitting the bong, his name might be John, and the dude beside him is one of Sasha’s best friends, Connie, who’s been posted on Barstool an impressive four or five times.

Eren comes strolling out of the kitchen with a half-eaten piece of pizza hanging out of his mouth and holding his phone, which he’s squinting at, away from his face like an old man. He looks so ridiculous you almost snort.

“Would you just get some glasses already, dude?” John coughs, waving the smoke out of his face and passing the bong to Connie.

“‘On’t need ‘emph,” Eren’s words are muffled by the pizza as he disproves his point entirely, moving his phone back and forth in the air until it seems he can finally see it. When he finishes his text, he takes notice of you, pulling the pizza out of his mouth with a crooked grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you try to come off nonchalant, but it doesn’t work, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“This is—“

“I introduced myself while you were stuffing your face,” Mikasa waves him off, leaning in to look at something on her friend’s phone. Eren scowls at her, moving along.

“Hitch,” he points to the name tag girl who offers a friendly wave, “Annie,” the blonde girl beside Armin on the couch, “Armin— well, you know Armin. Jean,” the mullet dude who’s still coughing, “and Connie.”

A chorus of greetings sounds off from around the room.

“Thank god we’ve finally got some more estrogen around here,” Hitch says to your little group, “these guys are insufferable with anything less than an equal ratio.”

Historia laughs, bouncing over to make further conversation and dragging Ymir behind her. You want to throttle her as she situates herself on the leg of the armchair (that’s already squeaking under two people’s weight) because now you’re left alone with Eren, who ducks into the kitchen and returns, holding something out to you.

You recognize the label of the local beer you’d been drinking at Scout’s the night you met, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

“You drink this, right?” Eren squints at the bottle, examining it. “I thought I remembered, but there was a million others at the store that looked just like it.”

“It’s my favorite,” you admit, accepting it from him with a little flutter in your chest. He grins again, toothy and pleased with himself.

“Good. Well, get comfortable, sit wherever, smoke whatever. I’ll be right back,” he holds up his pizza crust meaningfully, and you stifle a laugh. Eren Jaeger, the intimidating drug dealer apparently known around campus for his giant dick, doesn’t eat his pizza crusts. The thought eases your nerves; he may be the gorgeous, bad-news guy you’d flirted with a couple weeks ago, but he’s also a real person.

You follow his instruction, sitting beside Connie, not so close as to give the wrong impression, but close enough to invite a conversation. He offers a friendly hand.

“You’re Sasha’s friend, right?”

“Yeah,” you shake it, “Connie?”

“I’m surprised you remember. I’ve been backpacking through Thailand for the last eight months, thought everyone would’ve forgotten me by now.”

“Backpacking through Thailand?” You’re impressed.

“He’s only bringing it up so he can talk about it some more,” Jean grunts, shooting Connie an annoyed glance.

“I’d love to hear about it,” you say honestly, “I’ve never traveled.”

Connie launches into a detailed story of his flight over, being crammed between two families with crying babies, the different cities he visited, his bout with food poisoning on a twelve hour bus ride on his side trip to Cambodia. He’s funny and energetic, and it soothes you, lets you relax into the couch a little as you listen intently, asking a question here and there. You’re so caught up in his antics you don’t notice Eren sauntering over, plopping down beside you on the couch.

“Are you talking about Thailand again, bro?” Eren groans, wiping a hand over his face. Connie’s face flushes pink as he frowns.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Jean directs his red-eyed glare at Connie.

“Don’t stop him,” you argue, feeling bad as they dogpile on their friend, “I’m listening, Connie.”

Connie smiles gratefully, continuing on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. Eren sighs, resigned to his fate, and settles into his seat to your left, throwing an arm carelessly over the back of the couch, and, coincidentally, around your shoulders. You feel awful because now you’ve lied; you’re not listening to Connie at all, too encapsulated by both the physical and the emotional weight of Eren’s arm around you. No, you reprimand yourself, he’s just getting comfortable. Don’t read into it.

The hour you promised Historia flies by. You’re thoroughly entertained by Jean, Connie, and Eren’s dynamic; Jean seems like a bit of a hothead, bickering with Eren at every opportunity, but Connie balances them out nicely, providing comedic relief at the perfect moments. When you finish your first drink, Eren’s quick to offer you a second and eventually a third, heading off for the kitchen and throwing your one-hour rule right out of the window. One more won’t hurt, you think, especially since you’re actually enjoying yourself. With the lack of distraction, you’re now free to look across the room where Annie, Armin, Historia, Mikasa, and Ymir are all huddled in a circle around a phone. You hear Historia’s drunken giggle and decide to interfere.

“What are you guys doing over there?”

Historia and Ymir exchange an inspired look that makes you sick to your stomach as Eren returns, throwing his arm back over you and peering at the screen in Historia’s hand. “Is that that Truth or Dare app?”

“You know it?” Historia’s eyes sparkle; you can feel it in your bones that’s she’s just concocted a fresh form of torture for you.

“Sort of.” Eren scratches his head, unwitting to the plot you can see unfolding right in front of you.

“Play with us, then!” Historia smiles innocently, beckoning you over. You know better and start to hesitate, but Eren smirks at you.

“What? Too chicken?”

You scowl at him childishly, and turn back to Historia, gesturing to her to bring the game over to the center of the room. You all get re-settled with the new focal point of Ymir’s phone as Historia explains the rules: the phone will pass from player to player, and whoever is holding the phone gets the opportunity to read a truth or a dare prompt to someone in the circle. Simple enough, you think, relieved that Historia won’t have the creative liberty to think of anything humiliating.

“We’re playing the spicy version,” Ymir smirks, “hope you guys don’t mind.”

Fuck. So much for that idea. You try to stay calm under Eren’s arm, praying he doesn’t feel your body tense up.

Historia goes first, daring Connie to reveal his body count. The phone moves to Armin, who has to dare Annie to kiss him on any body part of her choosing, a pink stain erupting on his cheeks when she leans in to peck his nose. The dares progressively get worse until you’re all in stitches laughing at Ymir and Jean tentatively touching tongues, Ymir retching into her hand dramatically afterwards.

“Okay, I’m not that bad,” Jean frowns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I have an aversion to men,” Ymir hisses, narrowing her eyes. Historia pets her girlfriend’s hair soothingly.

“Down, girl. Go, Armin!”

Armin presses the little rolling dice icon on the screen, and the game chimes as it arrives at its decision. Wide, blue eyes meet yours, and he says your name, asks the question.

“Truth or dare?”

You want to pick truth, take the safe route, but after a couple of drinks and Eren calling you a chicken, you can’t convince yourself to. See, Eren? I can be fun.

“Dare,” you answer confidently. Historia winks at you; you ignore her. Armin reads the screen, the corner of his mouth curling up mischievously.

“It’s daring you to sit on Eren’s lap.”

You blanche. The lap-sitting dare’s already been called several times: Armin himself is reading your dare out from where he’s perched on Hitch’s thighs. But Eren? Surely, Historia rigged it; you look to her in a panic, but her face is simply split into an anticipatory grin. You’re frozen for a beat until Eren shuffles around beside you.

“C’mon then,” Eren grunts, hooking you under the armpits and scooping you up onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your stomach so your ass is pressed firmly into his crotch. You look over your shoulder at him, positive that your eyes are comically wide in surprise; you’ve been able to feel the ripples in his arms through his hoodie all night, but you hadn’t expected him to be so strong. Eren shrugs from behind you, an impish smile on his face. “‘S just a dare. I don’t bite.”

“Don’t believe him,” Mikasa deadpans from across the table, “he’s got rabies.”

That lightens the tension between you, and you exhale an easy laugh, wiggling around on Eren’s lap until you’re comfortable. You hear Eren suck in a sharp breath behind you, low enough that only you catch it.

“You okay? Am I too heavy?”

Eren meets your eyes, almost looking a little startled that you heard him. “No, yeah, m’fine.”

There’s a strain to his voice that wasn’t there before, but you opt to ignore it, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You have to force yourself to focus on the game and not the heat of his hands sinking through your shirt, unmoving from their station on your hips. The game continues amidst several roaring rounds of laughter: Jean has to “slide his hand up Armin’s thigh suggestively”, Mikasa has to lick Hitch’s neck, Historia has to tell everyone her favorite sex position.

Hitch gets dared to kiss you next, standing and walking to where you sit on Eren, giving you a chaste peck on the lips full of tipsy giggles. Jean, Connie, Eren, and Armin are rendered silent, much to the girls’ amusement.

“Hello?” Mikasa waves a hand in front of Jean’s unblinking eyes; he swats her away irritably. You peek at Eren to see a perverted grin splitting his face; he looks happy as a clam. You pinch his thigh, making him jump.

“Ow! Damn, what was that for?” He rubs his thigh, voice wounded.

“Being a creep,” you say, but the smile twitching at your lips betrays you. Eren’s eyes grow imperceptibly darker, in a private way that feels like it’s just meant for you.

“If you think that’s bad…” he trails off, shaking his head and wrapping his arms against your stomach, snuggling you into his chest. You kick your feet in protest, laughing as you try to shove him off, but Eren’s got you pinned to him, eyebrows raised in amusement at your struggle. He sneaks a hand to your ribcage, digging his fingers in to tickle you. “C’mon, you’re not even trying!”

“Stop, Eren- fuck, that tickles!” You manage to choke out around your furious giggles, worming around in his iron grip.

“Can you lovebirds cut it out?” Jean shoves Eren’s shoulder harshly, nearly knocking you both off the couch. You slide off of his lap, already having fallen halfway off in the struggle, cheeks burning as you come back to the room full of half-strangers and out of the little moment you’ve just had with Eren. You can feel Historia’s eyes burning a smug hole in your forehead. “It’s almost eleven, if we’re going out we need to get moving.”

“Shit, really?” Eren’s still catching his breath, pulling his phone out of his back pocket to check for himself. Sure enough, 10:57 is glaring white on the screen back at him. The past week hits you, and suddenly you’re so tired, unwilling to face Scout’s or wherever they’re planning on going. “Scout’s or Devil’s Paradise? What are you guys in the mood for?”

You feel the permanence of the few drinks you’ve had and the lack of sleep this past week setting in, eyes heavy. “I think I’m probably just going to head home.”

You’re met with a resounding round of protests from the group. Only Eren is there to come to your defense, swinging an arm around you and pulling your ear to his mouth. “Want me to take you?”

He’s only had one beer, safe enough and far preferable to stumbling through the cold streets half-drunk and alone. You nod; you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the exhaustion, but your eyes flutter, and you lean into his embrace.

“I’ll meet up with you guys later,” Eren says, waving his friends out the door; his tone leaves no room for argument. Ordinarily, you’d be embarrassed at the way he speaks for you, but you’re grateful for it now, legs draped over his while the rest of your party files out.

“Text me when you’re home!” Historia calls, she and Ymir making up the caboose of the line that files out of the door in search of more fun to be had. You’re not worried about missing out, content with the warmth of Eren’s body against yours. Once the door shuts, you two sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Eren scrolling on his phone and you drifting dangerously close to sleep, curled into him.

“Ready?” Eren’s inquisition isn’t pressing; he actually sounds more than happy to let you lay here for the rest of the night, let you take advantage of his status as a personal space heater and cuddle up for the next few hours.

“Ready,” you reluctantly sigh, allowing him to pull you to your feet and out the door. You let him practically carry you, leaning on him heavily until he buckles you into his obnoxious muscle car. Eren starts the engine only for metal music to come blaring out of the speakers.

“Fuck!” Eren jumps, scrambling to turn it down. “Sorry.”

You’re so tired you’re barely phased, laughing sleepily and pulling your knees to your chest, making yourself comfortable in the seat. “S’ok.”

The red LED lights lining the accents of the leather inside soothe you, the movement of the car rocking you softly as he pulls out and onto the street, driving you home. This is far too comfortable for a potential one night stand at best, but you’re too exhausted to care, little tidbits of Elizabethan English literature rocketing around in your tired mind. The car ride is short, your head bobbing against the cool windowpane as you watch the streetlights pass by. When you arrive, Eren places a hand on your knee, warming your skin through your jeans.

“Sure you’re okay?” You don’t miss the note of concern in his tone, smiling to yourself.

“Yeah,” you answer, shaking yourself awake as best you can, “I’m fine. Just tired, s’all.”

Eren looks dubious, searching your face. “You don’t seem like the type of girl to fall asleep at the pregame.”

“It’s school,” you admit, “and work. I’ve gotten like six hours of sleep in two days.”

“Want me to walk you up?”

“You don’t have to.”

“That’s not what I asked.” The authority in his voice isn’t something you’ll soon forget, feeding the flames in your core.

“I’m a big girl, Eren, I’ll be fine. I just have to hop through that door,” you point at the illuminated door in the parking garage, “into the elevator, and then third door on the–”

“Left. I remember,” Eren finishes for you, leaning onto the center console. He’s very close to your face, close enough for you to graze your hand over his cheek, which, you do, curiosity and beer outweighing your common sense. Your eyes are wide open now, studying him. You know you’re staring at his lips, too forward for your relationship as it stands, but you’re tipsy and far beyond tired and you can’t help yourself. In the low lighting of the parking garage, he’s gorgeous, eyes almost glowing.

You’re not sure who leans in, but you feel your lips brush together, tentative and shaky. He leans into you further, pressing his lips fully against yours. His mouth is even hotter than his hands were, searing as he kisses you deeper. You can feel his hand come up to caress your cheek, cupping your face and pulling you closer to him. You hate yourself for it, but a little whimper escapes you, pouring into him. Eren takes advantage of your open lips, swipes his tongue against your teeth, and before you know it, he’s pulling you over the center console to straddle in his lap.

He’s not too rough with you, but he’s insatiable, his hands traveling up your back, one landing on the back of your neck to hold you firmly to him and the other gripping your ass through your jeans, drinking you down like he’s a man starved. You nip at his bottom lip, wide awake now and grateful for the slight tint to his windows. Your hands run through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, and it earns you a throaty groan from deep inside his chest, making you smile against his lips.

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?” Eren murmurs, mouthing at your jaw. The sound of his voice grounds you a little, and you giggle breathlessly as he brushes over a particularly ticklish spot.

“Told you I’m a big girl,” you whisper, “what do I need you for?”

Eren smirks, dark and dangerous. “Might need me to protect you. Who knows? There’s all sorts of awful guys who would love to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm,” Eren’s half-hooded eyes flick down to your chest and back up to your eyes, making your regretful response twice as difficult to get out.

“I need to go to bed, and you need to go with Armin’s birthday thing,” you sigh, leaning back against the steering wheel. You’re well aware you don’t have the willpower to turn him down to your lips inches away, but it’s late, and you could use the sleep. Not to mention the 8:00 am lecture waiting for you first thing in the morning. “Isn’t he like, your best friend?”

Eren groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the headrest.

“Armin won’t mind, I mean,” he traces a hand up your body, fingers grazing you from hip to chest, “just look at you.”

“What?” You cock your head playfully. Eren rakes his gaze over your body, stopping in a few choice places, something wicked pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Really gonna make me say it?”

You smirk down at him. “Maybe.”

“You’re trouble,” he tackles you again, pulling you into another kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and giggles. Eventually you find the willpower to shove yourself away from him, knocking your spine into the steering wheel with a short honk that makes laughter spill from both of you.

“Okay, really, unless you would also like to wake up at 6:30, I should get going.” You dab at the little tears pricking your eyes, trying to catch your breath. “Plus, you’d be a bad friend if you didn’t head back out for Armin’s birthday.”

“Can’t have that,” Eren agrees, regret flickering over his face. He reaches for his door handle so you can climb out on his side, but he changes his mind, withdrawing his hand and going for his phone instead.

“What is it?”

“Before you go,” Eren slides his phone open, tongue caught between his lips— God, he’s so fucking cute, “lemme get your number.”

You can’t help yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, so now you want my number.”

Eren frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Could’ve asked Historia all week.”

An indignant flush rises in his cheeks. “I’m a man. I wanted to ask you myself, in person. Plus…”

The rest of his words taper off into a quiet mumble that you can’t quite catch. “Plus what?”

“I was nervous,” Eren raises his gaze to meet your eyes sheepishly, cheeks now bright red. Your heart thuds in your chest; he really is beautiful, with his long dark lashes and strong nose. You can hardly conceptualize the fact that he’d just kissed you- twice. A teasing smile tugs at your mouth.

“Nervous?”

“‘M not exactly your type, am I?” You can barely hold your laugh in, remembering your own cyclical, self-disparaging thoughts over the last few days.

“Give me that.” You snatch his phone and type your number in, handing it back to him with a smile. “Okay, I really should head up now.”

Eren concedes, throwing his door open for you to clamber off of his lap, stand in the doorway of his car, look down at him. Eren stares at you for a beat, running his eyes up and down your body. You start to step back, bid him goodnight, when he breaks out into a boyish grin, raises a hand to flick two fingers at you in a come-hither motion.

“Get back over here.”

You dissolve into giggles, feeling light as air, leaning back into the car to indulge him in one- no, two, or maybe three more kisses before you’re pushing yourself off of him with a quiet moan. “Eren, I need to go to bed, really, I do.”

“I know,” he sighs, leaning back into his seat. If you dare to look down, you can see where his pants are starting to tent, a thick bulge behind the zipper. You swallow hard; maybe he’ll end up living up to his impressive reputation after all. It takes every ounce of nerve in your body, but you step back from the car and wave meekly.

“Goodnight, Eren.”

“I’ll see you,” Eren smiles, shutting his door. Before you can even make it through the door, your phone buzzes, and you pull it out with a knowing smile.

> nice ass ;) sleep tight

It's so crude it makes you laugh out loud, turning around to see Eren snickering to himself childishly in his car. You toss him your middle finger as a response, only making him laugh harder. You don't hear the roar of his engine until you're already stepping into the elevator. The ride up feels long, exacerbated by your exhaustion, and you lean heavily on the wall, nervous butterflies dancing in your stomach as if you’d just had your first kiss. Your phone buzzes again, and you know who it is before you even unlock the screen.

> make it home safe? it’s ok if u don’t answer bc ur wrapped up in bed with ur boy toy ;)

Historia’s text would have ordinarily annoyed you, but you’re so giddy and love-drunk you giggle to yourself, thumbs trembling as you type back.

> he just dropped me off. he’s heading back to u guys now

> what???? nothing happened?

> i don’t kiss and tell

> aha! so u DID kiss him

> maybe…

Your phone buzzes close to a dozen times after that, but you pocket it, figuring you can just fill Historia in in the morning. You want nothing more than to collapse in your bed, but the lingering taste of Eren on your lips is distracting you. All throughout your skincare and your tooth brushing and your changing clothes, it still feels like his hands are ghosting over your body.

When you finally tuck yourself in, you slither a hand down your body and into your pajama shorts, rubbing mindlessly until you cum with the memory of Eren’s mouth and everything it might be capable of on your mind and his name on your tongue. You feel a lick of hot shame as you throw your shorts into the hamper, but a rush of elation follows it up. Eren wants you just as badly as you want him, and now, you’ve gathered enough evidence to do something about it. One good fuck, you decide, and he’ll be out of your system. Just one.

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