#damn why does he look so good for his age this is iLLEGAL

[iid-smile]

can't get rid of me , fushiguro toji

a strong legacy to be left behind , chapter one

the series masterlist. | previous | next

cw: profanity, mentions of pregnancy (pills) but filtered for megumi's sake, mentions of violence in prison, you're broke, smoking cigarettes

author's note: sigh... im out of my fluff era 😞 (sorry guys) kinda wanted to write something that i think would actually happen in some sort of alternate jjk universe and um idk how far to go because this kind of stuff does happen in the manga, but writing it feels illegal??? idk...

"mom?" megumi peeks out from around the corner in the hallway. "who was calling?"

another groan escapes your lips, around the fifth one in the last three minutes, and you silence your phone once again. "your— excuse my language, shitty deadbeat dad keeps wanting to call me." you slap your hand across your forehead and lean back on the couch, a small creak coming from somewhere below. "apparently he's getting aggressive in prison. shut off the house phone, but they still found my number..."

your son comes closer to you, and you scoop him up, placing him by your side. he glances up at you, and you swear your fight or flight instincts nearly kicked in, (not that you'd be able to fight of a guy as big as toji anyways) flinching slightly from his sharp gaze. it sucks how he looks so much like his dad, because you loved megumi so much. but the image of that guy was almost too much to bear, and he's the spitting image.

"shitty?" he repeats. for a well-behaved kid, he really doesn't respect your words.

"don't say that megs, it's bad language." you swear around him all of the time, so what's the point in scolding him? "only your mama can say it."

"don't tell me what to do."

wow. okay. why do you feel threatened by a six year old? "damn, you've got his attitude too." you mutter, but you've only got yourself to blame for that. you knew you were never cut out to be a mother, so your ways of parenting weren't the best.

he snuggles closer to you, and you openly accept, moving your free hand to his hair to rub over it. "why can't i see toji?"

ah, this lovely story again. "because he left me as soon as you were born, love." really, you couldn't and didn't want to stop yourself from wrapping him up in your arms, feeling the need to protect him. "at this point, he's dead to me. seems like he doesn't feel the same though... i'm so sick of his ass." you also knew it wasn't good parenting to rant to your child about adult issues, but you've only got him to talk to.

that hug was out of comfort then. why are you lying to yourself?

he looks up at you with an irritatingly cute but blank face. "why?"

"god, i hate how many questions you ask." you speak under your breath once again, looking up at the ceiling from any sort of help from a higher being. the amount of times you've had to family-friendly-ify things that have happened isn't even funny. you're not naturally rated u for universal. it's more embarrassing when he recites those same stories to his teachers, and you get called into the school for a little talk.

yikes... here we go. "he lied when he said he gave me the right magical candy after we visited the stork. tried to make it drop you off back to where babies are made in heaven, but i wanted it to deliver you to me, whether he liked that or not." the story's got to be a little filtered somehow. you'd rather not get yourself in the principal's office again. "you're my little hero; a miracle to me. i would've given up on myself ages ago. your dad is a bad, bad man."

the type that would kill. if he found where you lived, or perhaps where megumi goes to school...

"and now i'm left broke in an apartment that barely functions, yet i still spoil my little hero." you sing-song, leaning your head back. "and with what money? i'm broke as hell, megs. can't even make both of us breakfast in the morning cuz your elementary school is too damn expensive."

"is this my fault?"

"...no. no, baby, of course not." you furrow your eyebrows more, a small pout in your lips. "if anything, you made my situation a bit more fortunate."

it's a selfish way of thinking, using your child to avoid solving your problems, using your child to wail and complain about how much you hate your life, but you've got nothing to lose. nothing to lose except for the one person you love.

you can feel your phone buzzing again.

"you stay here and watch tv, okay? mama's gonna go to the kitchen and talk to her friend." he seems a bit relieved as you let go of him, and you stand up.

you hear him mutter. "it's only playing the news though..." no shit it only plays the news, you can't afford to get a good television company that has any kids shows. that is, unless you wanna get scammed out of all of your money.

begrudgingly, you make your way to the kitchen, confirm that you closed the door completely, and answer the vibrating device. "hello?" you sigh, placing the device over your ear.

the other person on the call replies quickly. "is this miss—"

"yeah, yeah, it is. what the hell do you want?"

"um... we apologise, but we strongly suggest that you come to the prison building. he—" the guy's voice cracks. must be really nervous. "pardon me. he's been physically assaulting other inmates and guards, he doesn't follow orders, he never leaves his cell unless it's to visit the closed visits room. you know, in hopes that you'll come..."

obsessed much? where was this energy six years ago? "that's got nothing to do with me."

"please, ma'am. he won't listen to anyone, and we are unable to place him into special facilities as he doesn't emit any cursed energy." ah, he's begging? that's a first. you never would've thought you'd hear a person who works at a prison begging.

cursed energy, cursed energy, this talk again and again and again. "urgh..." you take a deep breath. your options are limited, and they won't stop calling until they can get that lunatic to calm down... surprise, surprise, you really don't want to go.

but if you were really uninterested in him, wouldn't you have already spent the bail money that's been sat on the counter for ages, neatly concealed in an envelope? wouldn't you have paid off all of your debts already? "will i— hm..." choose your words carefully, goddamn it. "can i get a reward of some sort if i go? money?"

"yes, yes! please do visit. there's nothing we can legally do to him in check anymore." ...you think this guy sounds a little too eager.

damn toji and his "supernatural powers", or else you wouldn't get yourself into this mess. finally, after your moment of silence, you respond. "okay. i'll visit."

"thank you—!" you cut off the line.

"fucking bastard..." you drop your phone on the counter, running your hands through your hair and over your face. "stressing me out for what? you don't even love me." your words turn into whispers. with haste, you rummage through your back pocket, trying to find those last few cigarettes, but as your hands were occupied, your eyes moved over to the ashtray that was collecting dust on top of the microwave. oh, right... you don't smoke anymore because there's no ventilation indoors.

you'd have to head out if you wanted to, but then megumi would be in the apartment on his own. and nobody can babysit, because you don't have anybody to ask to babysit. great, you can't smoke until monday. it's a friday afternoon. you have two whole days to get through!

you know for a fact your addiction won't hold out for that long.

[pennyellee]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐗 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader

genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings (preview only): minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, implied age gap, hoseok-sshi being tired of yoongi, …

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 646

release date: 7/12/24

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

author’s note: WELL AT LAST INNIT? Y'all I swear I’m as impatient to put this out but also so nervous. This is the longest chapter of Lacrimosa to this date and there is a reason. A lot is going to happen here and in part two. That’s why I decided to split this into two parts, and perhaps if this would be only one part I would have to write “the end” which I’m still not contemptuous with soooo yeah. But this has been such a long ride and looking at the almost 300 pages long document I’m sitting here like damn. The first draft of Lacrimosa can be traced back to 2021 and I can’t believe we are almost at the end of it all.

ANYWAY - for those who asked a lot about Y/N’s and Yoongi’s age gap, kudos for your patience. Also, I have another fic that is setted in the world of champagne confetti [now i’ll know if you’re actually reading these notes hihi] of which preview will come, probably this week too, or maybe the next one, again, very excited to push it out finally AND, yes to all of you if you’re still reading this note - CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI [now you just looked up to see what i’m talking about right] will come around as soon as i’m finished with UNI this year. If yall be good I can pull out a preview out of my sleeve for Christmas. SO, see you all on 7/12/24, the usual time :))))

previous NEXT

….

“You don’t just do that without having something bigger planned.”

Seokjin’s eyes flickered to observe Yoongi’s reaction to their brother’s words. “He is right, Yoongi. She has always been emotional, and driven by her heart. But this—" He shook his head. “It’s different.”

Jimin shifted in his seat, looking between the men, the concern in his eyes growing.

Hoseok stood straighter, his expression softening as he spoke with conviction. “She had a choice. She could have walked away or stayed neutral, but instead, she chose to act. And what she did, Yoongi, was not just for herself. It was for all of us. For you. Do not dare to doubt her loyalty, when she worked hard to finally be contemptuous here!”

Jungkook, his voice quieter than usual, spoke up listening to Hoseok’s words. “She did what she had to do. And whatever her reasons are, I trust her.” His gaze met Yoongi’s. “You should, too.”

Yoongi’s expression hardened, trying to keep his emotions in check. His mind raced, the weight of everything that had happened in the past hours pressing down on him.

Taehyung’s voice broke through the silence once again, more serious than usual.

“She has changed—” Yoongi exhaled sharply, his mind still reeling. “I just need to understand why. Why now? Why this?” His voice dropped to a near whisper, the vulnerability slipping through despite his best efforts to hide it. His heart... his heart wanted to believe in her, wanted to believe she was doing this out of devotion, not manipulation.

“Of course, she has changed!” Hoseok’s frustration was bubbling at this point. "You were nine when she was born," he continued the quiet force in his voice, not backing down.

“Nine years, Yoongi. You have had that much more time to figure things out. To live your life, to become who you are now. She did not have that—” Yoongi’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. The truth was there, raw and unfiltered, and it stung.

“She had three pathetic years to enjoy what life can be and then she went to be your wife.” He took a breath, trying to steady himself. Y/N had spent so much of her life suffocated by the things that had shaped her, by the violence and manipulation that had plagued her existence long before she ever crossed paths with him.

The silence that followed was thick, the air heavy with unspoken emotions.

His voice was quieter than it had been, softer, as he spoke the words he wasn’t sure he was ready to say. “I just… I need to—”

“Even if she is plotting some grand escape, we will stop her, Yoongi.” Yoongi’s head snapped up at the interruption, his eyes narrowing at Hoseok’s words. For a moment, Yoongi’s chest tightened, the idea of Y/N plotting against him threatening to undo everything he’d been trying to hold together.

He stepped forward, his hand resting gently on Yoongi’s shoulder, an attempt to ground him in the present. “You all are too busy doubting her, instead of trusting her.” Yoongi flinched slightly at the rawness in Hoseok’s tone. He had been too caught up in his own doubts to truly see the bigger picture.

“Maybe you are right,” Yoongi muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling back to the surface.

“She is not running, Yoongi. She is not playing you. What is happening now is what happens when you have been given enough time to think.” Hoseok’s gaze softened, his expression becoming more contemplative.

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi allowed himself to take a breath, to breathe out the doubt, and let himself hold onto the belief that maybe, just maybe she was done fighting him for good.

“I genuinely hope that you are right, Hoseok-sshi.”

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coming soon

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

PS: Taehyung and Xiaoli 🤭🤫❤️

keep in mind - I'm not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneyyyyyy - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts - @seonghwaexile - @catlove83

[gardens-light]

Finding Peace

Taking shelter in an abandoned petrol station, tension builds between you and your family. As blame and arguments raise- not like you didn't feel guilty enough already. You didn't ask for this- any of this! You just wanted to help Optimus. And it's not like the Autobot leader didn't have problems of his own. Being hunted down by humans for reasons yet unknown was bad enough- but ignoring the yearning of his Spark has slowly become problematic. Occasionally shaking his helm attempting to get you out of his processors, trying to convince himself that a 'Sparkmate' was nothing but a romancide idea that the younger bots came up with. Or is it?...

Content: Minor coarse language. Event's take part in Transformers- Age of Extinction. (Leading to major spoilers in Part 4.) Optimus x Human F/Reader. Fluff. (Reader insert.)

Sparkmate Series- Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

"Well... on the bright side." Tessa's voice lowly spoke, while sitting upon a dusty bar. Playing with some fairy lights. "You two have finally met.."

"Where's he from?"

"I told you. He's a driver from Texas."

"Texas?" Cade scoffed at Tessa's words. "Where? Dublin, Texas? Shamrock, Texas? So why does he sound like a leprechaun?"

Shane's brows knitted together, as he leaned against the bar. "You'd get your ass kicked in Ireland for saying that."

"Well we're not in Ireland, Lucky Charms. We're in Texas." Cade's attention turned back onto Tessa. "So he drives? What's that supposed to mean? Like he drives for a living?"

"Yeah... at least he makes a living."

Tessa's words caused Cade to fall silent. His eyes flickering up to you, frowning as you tried to avoid him.

"How old are you?" Cade challenged, approaching Shane.

"Twenty."

"And my daughter is seventeen. So as far as I'm concerned, this can go two ways." Cade leaned on the other side of the bar, glaring at Shane. "One, I punch you in the mouth right here, right now. And you call the police on me."

"Dad!-"

"Or two. I just call the cops on you because this is illegal. She's a minor!"

Steady... Steady... your thoughts wandered, while trying to focus on making a 'house of cards' out of beer coasters.

"We're protected by the 'Romeo and Juliet laws'-"

"We dated for a little while." Tessa explained, cutting Shane off. "I was a sophomore, and he was a senior. It's fine."

"We've got a pre-existing juvenile foundational relationship. Statute 2705-3." Shane took out his wallet, showing Cade the small card stating the law. "We're above board."

Cade sighed, "Romeo and Juliet, huh? Do you know how they ended up?"

Just... one more coaster...

"In love-"

"Dead." Cade turned to you. "And you, Y/N?"

Shit...

An unamused expression fell across your features as the coasters came tumbling down.

"Don't look at me like that, young lady. How long have you known about this?"

Cade rubbed his temples as you silently responded with a small shrug. "Well tell me. Days? Weeks?-"

"Months."

"Months...? And you didn't think that I would of wanted to know about this?-"

"Dad. Tessa is a full grown ass adult." You groaned. "She's capable of learning from a mistake or two."

"I trusted you. Both of you-"

"To what?" Tessa butted in. "Never have fun. Take a risk. Be a normal teenager like you?"

"I am your father, okay!" Cade firmly spoke, turning his attention onto Tessa. "And I've been busting my ass to take care of you and your sister!-"

"Oh so is that why I'm busting a gut trying to juggle two jobs?" You scoffed. "And here I thought, I'm the one who took care of this family."

"Is that what you were doing when you continued working on that damn truck?" Tessa spoke to you. A frown forming upon her lips, "all you had to do was report it.-"

"You know I couldn't do that-"

"And now we're forced into hiding. And my life is over! So 'thank you', Sis. You've taken 'real good' care us-"

"None of this would of happened! If you just kept your fucking mouth shut!-"

"Don't talk to your sister like that!" Cade stepped in.

"Sure Dad. Take her side... you always do."

"Y/N-"

"Look! I get it!" you raised onto your feet. "I know I'm 'the disappointment', 'the let down'-"

"Sweetie, I've never said that-"

Your eyes wandered over your dad's disappointed expression. "You didn't had to..."

---

Sitting upon the petrol stations' roof, the gentle breeze of the cool night air felt refreshing against your skin. Soft chirping of crickets eased your headache, your eyes gazing out into the dark empty road. The sound of small grunts and sighs caught your attention, briefly gazing over your shoulder. Rolling your eyes, once seeing Tessa struggling to climb the ladder with a mug in hand.

"What do you want?" you sighed, turning your attention back onto the road ahead.

"I thought- ouch!- that you could do with a hot drink."

The sound of the metal roofing warping and creaking, under Tessa's feet suddenly felt loud. As she approached you, taking a sit upon the roof's edge, leaving a small gap between you.

"I made your favourite." She kindly spoke, handing you the hot beverage. "I couldn't make it exactly to your liking, but it's the thought that counts. Right?"

Her weak smile faded as you remained silent. Speechlessly accepting the mug from her and holding it in your hands.

"You're not a disappointment." Tessa spoke after a brief hesitation. "For if it wasn't for you, we would of lost our home ages ago."

Tessa bit her lip before continuing, "I... did tell a friend about the truck. B-But I honestly didn't think he would believe me! If I knew- I wouldn't of..."

Your side glance caused her voice to trail off into silence.

"Well... what I'm trying to say... is that I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Sipping the hot beverage, feeling the gentle warmth fill you inside. Tessa followed your gaze, a small smile returning to her lips.

"You're worried about him. Aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes." Tessa teased. "Like a lovesick girl."

You returned her smile, playfully pushing her away. "Oh shut up. You're talking nonsense, I'm just concerned about him. That's all."

"Uh-huh?" Tessa raised an eyebrow. Seeing a glimpse of you trying to hide a shy smile behind the mug.

"So... What's Dad doing?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

"Playing with some drone that he stole from the one of the guys. Dad's convinced that they would of truly killed us."

Tessa's heart sank as she watched you pull your legs close to your chest, hugging your knees a little while resting your mug against them.

"B-But that's just Dad's crazy thought." Tessa's guilt weighed on her heart a little more. Starting to wish she never said anything.

"Everything would of been fine, if only I watched what I was saying." You buried your head, resting your forehead against your knees and hiding your face. "I-If I didn't panic..."

"Shhh. Shhh." Tessa cooed, closing the gap between you. Placing her arm around your shoulders and resting her head against yours. "It's not your fault. You have a big heart, Y/N. Never be ashamed of that."

She gently pulled away, cupping your tearstained face and making you face her. "You are a rare treasure, and that Transformer better know that."

Finally smiling through your tears, Tessa rested her forehead against yours. The sound of a horn blaring in the distance broke the silence, while bright headlights burned the darkness away. You quickly raised onto your feet, causing Tessa to catch the falling mug while the hot beverage spilled onto the ground below.

You placed both hands against your chest, while gazing at the oncoming truck. Feeling it flutter with joy, as the sound of a faminular engine came to your ears.

Tessa rose onto her feet, giving you one last soft glance before leaving. A knowing smile forming upon her lips. You've got it bad...

Optimus carefully reduced his speed, as he walked out of his altmode. Trying to slow the pulsing rhythm of his spark as he approached you. Being mindful of each step he took, so it didn't appear like he was in a rush to be beside you again.

"Optimus..." your voice was low. Trying to hide the excitement within your tone.

"My deepest sympathies for your home." His soothing tone washed away the doubt and worries, that had been building up inside you. "And for leaving you so promptly. But I had to confirm we weren't followed."

You speechlessly nodded, trying to hold a relaxed expression as your eyes took in the sight of him.

Oh my...

Rust and dirt no longer coated his exterior, instead deep blue metal plates framed his chrome fisque, like pieces of armour. Your heart skipping a beat as your eyes wandered over him, taking in every detail of his broad shoulders and strong biceps.

Red flames danced across the gauntlets, but it was his torso you couldn't look away from. Your cheeks matched the warmth of Optimus' spark, as you gazed at his chest plate. Hands clutching onto your shirt, stopping the urge to reach out and run your fingertips over his toned form. Knowing that your touch wouldn't just stopped at that chromed waist of his.

"Loving the upgrade." Forcing the words out of your mouth, after swallowing your nerves.

Optimus got down on one knee, as you edged a little closer to the side of the roof. His blue optics studied you for a moment.

"You've been crying..."

Something inside him ached a little, as you temporarily turned away from him.

"It's nothing." You assured, brushing the dried tears off your cheeks. "I've just been... a little worried that's all."

"And I admittedly have been concerned about you."

That little sentence erupted butterflies in your stomach. Simply gazing up at him with wondering eyes.

How the stars sparkled in your eyes almost caused Optimus to choke on his own breath. Warmth begun to build beneath his metal plates, as his yearning spark called out for you.

His head tilted slightly as his scanners picked up something. Your body froze as he slightly hesitated before reaching out to you. Optimus' servo curled into a relaxed fist, your eyes peering down at it as he gently placed the knuckle of his index digit under your chin. While his thumb rested against your cheek.

His spark skipped a beat as a loving sigh slipped out of your mouth. Enjoying the cool touch of his metal against your soft skin.

Optimus carefully turned your head from side to side, studying your features. His scanners picking up the bruise that begun to form upon the bridge of your nose.

"That bastard hurt you." The small underlying anger within his tone caught you off guard. "I promise... I'll make him pay for what he's done to you."

"Optimus." You cooed, placing your hand on the back of his servo. Bringing it to the side of your face, resting your head against his digits.

His fans tried to push the warm air out of Optimus' vents, as the heat beneath his plates begun to build. His spark aching with a yearn he could no longer deny.

Closer... The word played on his processors. Causing him to fully kneel against the concrete ground, leaning in a little more.

Your loving eyes met the soft glow of his optics, as his servo slowly trailed down towards your waist. His thumb tracing the curves of your thighs, hips and waist.

The butterflies in your stomach tangled your nerves, your heart fluttering against your chest as a small gasp slipped from your lips. Eyes lingering over his features before closing, as you rested a hand against his chest plate.

As your heart matched the beat of Optimus' spark, syncing in harmony. A beautiful glow enveloped the pair of you, creating a warmth that made you almost forget about the world, as your lips ghosted over one another.

"Mr. Leader of the Free Galaxy is back!" an unknown mechanical voice caused you to quickly jump away from Optimus. "I knew you'd make it! I never doubted."

Crosshairs... Optimus' processors sighed. Trying to hide his disappointed expression as the leader faced his joyful Autobots. The sound of their roaring engines calming, before stepping out of their altmodes.

"We've got your warning." Drift greeted, "we've been waiting."

"Hell yeah! Boom time!" Hound cheered. "We've got the gang back together."

Drift tilted his head to the side, as his blue optics switched between you and Optimus. Smiling to himself as his processors picked up, the afterglow that slowly faded from the pair of you.

Optimus cleared his throat before speaking, "Autobots. The humans have asked us to play by their rules. Well... those rules have just changed."

"Humans, bunch of backstabbing weasels." Hound groaned, causing the ground to shake as he disarmed. Throwing heavy weaponries onto the floor.

"Hound, find your inner compass. Loyalty is nothing but a flower in the winds of fear and temptation."

Hound raised a brow at Drift's wise tone, "what the hell are you saying?"

The blue Autobot smiled, "it's a haiku-"

"Cut the crap! Before I drop a grenade down your throat."

You backed away from the edge of the roof, as Drift unsheathed his swords. "Try it" he challenged, "you'll be dead."

"Oh please do it." Hound taunted. "I wanna see you do it."

"You know what?" Bumblebee's radio buzzed, "it save us so much time."

Optimus gave you an unimpressed expression, as you gazed up at him, raising an eyebrow. A small chuckle left you as he speechlessly gestured to his Autobots. As to say, 'look what I have to put up with.'

"Well raise your hand, if you're thoroughly disenchanted with our little 'Earth vacation.'" Crosshairs spoke, while circling the petrol station. His green optics studying you, "so who's the spy?"

"Whoa! Whoa! Put those things away!" you yelped as Hound and Crosshairs immediately withdraw their guns, and pointing them at you.

"Stop, Hound! Both of you!" Optimus commanded, stepping in front of the building.

Both Autobots gave their leader a puzzled expression, as he continued. "Y/N, risked her life for mine. We owe her..."

Drift gave Bumblebee a playful nudge, discreetly pointing at you and Optimus. While Hound and Crosshairs briefly looked at one another, and turning their attention back onto their leader. Watching him stepping aside, and silently encouraging you to return to the roof's edge.

"Has there been... any sign of the others?" Optimus asked.

"No..." Hound sighed, withdrawing his weapon and settling himself upon the ground. "We're all that's left."

"They're picking us off, one by one!" Crosshairs explained.

"We're the pathetic, dirty foursome." Hound joked, "and you make five."

"Is this our best-case scenario?" Shane's teasing voice questioned you. Your eyes gazed at him, watching the Irishman climb onto the roof. "Autobot witness protection?"

"Hey Lucky Charms." you spoke, placing a hand upon your hips. "You're welcome to leave at anytime."

"Well, for the record, Super Sister. I'm not hiding with you." Shane gestured towards Optimus, "I'm hiding out with that big guy."

Tessa and Cade followed Shane's lead, as the three of them approached your side. All looking at the Autobots and they chatted among themselves.

"Sensei, with your fate unknown Bumblebee has held command." Drift's optics gazed at the yellow scout.

Bee fist bumped the air, while Drift rolled his optics. "Despite his complete and total lack of anything resembling warrior discipline."

An annoyed whirl weeze out of Bumblebee, as his optics narrowed on his comrade.

"He's like a child-"

"This 'child' is about to kick your ass!" Bee's radio buzzed. Landing the first hit against Drift's helm.

"Cage fight." Hound whispered to you, slightly leaning against the petrol stations' roof.

"What's the matter with them?" Tessa lowly asked, reaching out for your hand.

"They're on edge." You briefly explained, allowing her hand to slip into yours. "Who could blame them? They're being hunted."

"Am I the only one who sees through this puppy-dog act of yours?" Drift taunted Bee, while holding him in a headlock. "It's beneath you."

"Yes, I've been waiting for them all to dispatch each other." Crosshairs cheered. His servos gently clapping, "so I could take charge with no trouble at all. Just me. Reporting to me."

"Well, it sure looks like you've been missed." You said to Optimus.

"Autobots, humans are hunting us down. We need to know why."

"Listen..." Cade spoke, stepping towards Optimus. "I don't know why, but I might have an idea about who..."

---

"This drone I stole recorded footage of an Autobot raid." Cade explained.

You placed an affectionate hand upon Optimus' knee, as he sat cross-legged upon the floor. His servo clenching into a fist, as the dragonfly-like drone projected the video footage.

"It's in pieces, but watch what happens here." Cade pointed out, "they ripping them apart."

"That's Leadfoot." Hound spoke, as he placed a part of his helm over his spark. Feeling the saddened energy sink within his chest plates. "Savages."

"And later, this truck comes to haul him off to K.S.I. Kinetic Solutions." Cade continued. "They're creating defenses, aerospace, government contracts. They designed this drone."

"So these government guys are hunting you down, and then passing you of to this K.S.I?" Shane questioned.

"Do you know anything else?" Optimus asked.

"Only that their company headquarters is in Chicago." Cade spoke.

Perhaps... There's a chance of the Autobots being taken there. You thought.

"No way to get inside without a battle." Hound thought out loud.

"What if you had some human help?" everyone looked at you.

"Sweetie, no." Cade protested. "Besides, what are you two partners now?"

"Dad, we're targets now too." You spoke, feeling his worried stare on you. "We need to know why, or we'll never get our lives back."

"Y/N. You have done more than any of us could've asked for." Optimus kindly spoke. "I do not-"

"I'm coming." You gently argued. Seeing Tessa's encouraging smile from the corner of your eye.

"It's going to be dangerous." Drift warned, as he lend towards you.

The blue Autobot stiffed as you placed a comforting hand upon his knee. Giving him a warm smile, "you're important Optimus. Therefore, you're important to me.

A suttle warmth radiated from underneath Drift's metal plates.

"Autobots." Optimus spoke, as he raised onto his feet. "I have sworn to never kill humans."

"Big mistake." Hound mumbled

"But when I find out who's behind this. He's going to die..."

Tag List

@ursamajor17

@crowleysthings

[kcyars19992]

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Always remember this part:

I want y’all(yes every single last one of you, heck even the aliens if they exist among us) to realize Tory had the opportunity to take a plea deal and serve damn there no time.

Megan lied to police to protect Tory immediately after he shot her, he slandered her in the blogs and so she decided to tell the truth to law enforcement.

The courts offered a plea deal, Tory threw it back in their face and dragged this out for years to keep the lie going and burned up his own money on legal fees and taxpayer dollars on a trial. The courts gave bail, Tory used that time to torment and harass Megan which only hurt his case and was a key factor in his heavy sentencing when the day came.

At every single turn the goodwill of the universe/God offered this man an opportunity to save himself — and he laughed at it and sabotaged it.

He could have owned up to his actions.

INSTEAD, he was so arrogant in the process bc he thought painting Megan as a liar on social media would hold up on trial. It backfired in the worst way possible.

The Tory fans, his family, even Tory himself may never publicly admit it — but he completely allowed his dangerous ego to land him in a cage for the rest of his 30s. One day he’ll have to face that.

He is the maker of his own self destruction, the creator of his own downfall, the artist of his own shortcoming, pride and ego led to where he is now.

and that’s why I don’t feel sorry for him, it’s not thoughts and prayers is sorrows sorrows prayers. It’s not prayers up but prayers down for him. He had an opportunity to not be CHARGED at ALL cuz she was willing to PROTECT his buck tooth hammer head toddler built bitch ass. She lied to protect that ungrateful piece of work, trying to prevent him from being another name , another hashtag, another life taken by the cops, another black man getting shot to death by the police or having his life choked out in a illegal chokehold as he’s screaming, “I can’t breathe!” , another black man screaming “ mother!”, another Trayvon, Sandra, tamir, Ahmaud, tyre, Mike, Eric, Breonna, George, Jacob, Elijah, and other black lives either taken away or forever traumatized and he repays her by being so cruel, and mean towards her having people hurt her for no good reason but to gas him up, and you expect me to feel some level of sympathy because he said that he had a difficult childhood, losing his mom at a young age and an alcohol addiction? yeah I don’t think so.

Fuck him. I don’t feel sorry for him. He deserves every bit of those 10 years . He should’ve been taken accountability for his actions, but no , he gone too big for his britches, and he chose to be a full blown psychopath and a sociopath .

Now look at this Canadian Bitch.

Ashy

Lace front looking like something out of the dollar store struggling to hold on to his head Down to the wig glue damn. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

Broke because his lawyers he got from craigslist Or Amazon or education connection

gonna be ****d by bubba in the showers or spreading wide for poptarts and ramen noodles soup

All because he can’t control his big ego in his small body of his and his violent tendencies

Oh well, maybe he should have just took a plea deal or better yet shut the heck up or here’s an even better idea 💡: never shot at her!

Meg cut him deep wit that “The only reason why your popular at the moment is because you are in a feature with Jack Harlow “comment and he with his violent tendencies and toxic masculinity couldn’t take it.

That munchkin is thinking what does he got that I don’t?

I don’t know, perhaps good looks, talent, a full set of hair, charm, attractive personality, and him not in a jail cell for the next ten years and possible deportation

That troll had the nerve , the audacity , to be talking about no weapons formed against him shall prosper, when shot a black woman who was walking away from him and then lied and gaslit her, slut shamed her, made up a misogynistic lie that another woman shot her out of jealousy, violated a restraining order, and antagonized her and her boyfriend through his music and you wonder why I don’t feel any ounce of sympathy towards him and others like him.

It’s one thing for a man to harm a woman because she rejected or criticized him and his work that makes him a coward but when that same man torments her even though she was generous and kind enough to not press charges against him then he is no different than the sadists who take pleasure from causing others pain

If anything he is the weapon and it was, and is prospering against him ! He didn’t deserve 1/10000000th of the consideration she gave him that night. She was too kind to him. People can really take other peoples kindness for weakness and you wonder why TV shows like snapped is on TV and it’s been around for like 33 seasons as of this year.

I’m not sorry that he’s suffering now. sorrows, sorrows prayers

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Before we start this: I’m Nonbinary, female presenting and into girls. I call myself a lesbian cause it’s less words. I come from this perspective when I discuss things.

Secondly: I do make references to fics I have read. I try to keep them vague but I’m a grown up and can admit you might see a fic you know. Or maybe you wrote it. I’m not going to spread it around.

Thirdly: some of this is technical help and writing advice. You don’t need to follow it but it’s helpful.

Alright, so we begin.

Things That Diminish/Damage How Good Your Fic is

- Whenever people are writing curse words and instead of writing them they go like f*ck or whatver? That instantly downgrades the quality. That one fic I mentioned that was 10/10 but became a 5.5/10? Yeah. That’s why. It instantly takes some one out of the mindset and is just jarring. I know in todays culture and with TikTok censoring works like fuck or shit is the norm. However it is terrible writing. Don’t do it, it’s awful. If you do not feel comfortable enough to write them I can think of several ways to get around it. (He said a word that his mother would wash his mouth out with soap for./The amount of cursing could make a sailor blush.) If you still don’t feel comfy… get out of the fandom. No seriously. If you do not feel comfy with writing cursing or work around that aren’t censorship, drop your writing and leave. They are quite literally just words with social stigma attached.

-Similar, if you don’t feel comfortable writing slurs or discuss illegal activities. This might be more controversial but for me, I find that people who want to have stuff like homophobia or transphobia or heavy discrimination and don’t use the words… it falls flat for me. It just does. Yes those words are disgusting and writing them may make you feel the need to shower. However, it comes to again the fact censorship and blocking out words is just… dumb. It’s really dumb and looks ugly in a story. Again I was reading an amazing fic, who censored a slur. Look I get being uncomfy again, but there are work around rather then doing that. (He continued his sentence with a word that made the room go silent and breaths stop.) As well you cheapen the experience your characters go through. How is a reader supposed to feel when you won’t go through with your writing?

-To long to get to the plot. This is really common with AU fics, such as fics where Izuku has a Quirk. People really want to expand on the backstory for this change, and it's understandable. What's not is when it takes 10+ chapters of his childhood. I have lost count of how many fics I just drop because it's chapter 10, and we are still age eight for Izuku. It's to damn long. If you feel that it's needed, then make it it's own fic. Don't combine it with the canon changes, becuase I promise you: a lot of us readers want to focus on the changes to the plot we know.

There are exceptions to the above. They're RARE though, and in my experience really what they do is expand upon All Might's training. Think about books, few if any would go into detail on the main character's backstory. At most, you're looking at perhaps 3 chapters before the plot-plot starts. Or at least the introduction to it.

-To long fics. I'm not talking word count. What I'm talking is a fic 100+ chapters without stopping. It's daunting, and honestly it feels... hmm... I think the word best used here is it feels unprepared. I also honestly think people are scared of splitting up their stories for some reason, which makes no sense. Series are beloved for a reason! Having them all in one story just makes most of us mentally check out of the fic, feeling exhausted, rather then invested.

-Stutters where it;s "l-l-like t-th-this'. You just ruined your own fic. I have no patience to read the damn thing now. It looks terrible, it's hard to read and honestly? Half the time it's with a character you just want to woobify (Izuku is the primary target of this.) I actually want them PUNCHED seeing this.

Trying to seem edgy/cool/woke

-I am so freaking sick of how many fics take 'Quirkless Discrimination' and ramp it up to RIDICULOUS levels. Like oh my god, my brain melts every time I read a fic where Izuku gets denied everything, gets emancipated at fourteen, has his parents beat him and make him sleep on the floor, the list goes on. Yes, horrific child abuse happens. Horrific tales of discrimination happens. But you're going to look me in the eyes and tell me that none of this isn't just you trying to be edgy? This is just... torture porn. A level of discrimination against Izuku is understandable. One thing I've found annoying about the source material is how we get told of the discrimination but recieve no actual evidence or proof. But again: some of ya'll go way to far to be edgy.

-Similarly, the Commission fics. Yes, they're corrupt. Yes they probably cover up shady shit. Yes, they raised Hawks as a weapon. But again, the level of drama ya'll include makes my eyes bleed. 'They run orphanages to create villains', 'they force heroes to work overtime', 'they would try and murder Izuku if he went as a Quirkless hero'. It again approaches the level of: to bleak, stopped caring. I think a fic would be way more interesting if a Quirkless Izuku gets roped into a Young Heroes program and blackmailed because the Commission wants to control him.

-Disclaimer again: I'm NB. But one thing that really annoys me is the amount of neopronouns introduced in a fic... only for them to never be used. And honestly, some are plain dumb. I am honestly curious if people try to use 'book/bookself/booked' as actual pronouns because I'll be honest: that just... doesn't work. But yet I have seen it included in fics. And again: no one ends up using them. Pronouns are tricky, I won't deny it. I use they/them, but accept she because I've been raised as a woman and thus experience the world as it as well. Some people use multiple but default to one. It's all valid. But it's REALLY obvious that ya'll are just trying to be woke or whatever when there's six pronouns like 'book' or 'vamp' or 'pup' but NONE are ever used. (I also have complicated feelings reguarding pup thanks to the comments I've heard comparing NB people to animals but that's just me)

-I said it before, and I'll admit there are actual exceptions but like... dude, the amount of times I get exhausted with a fic because everyone is trans is high. Again, exceptions are around, but the majority I find tend to have the vibes of 'I am so cool and edgy by having everyone trans even if nothing changes in the fic and everyone acts the exact same'. That is NOT making people trans, that's just wanting a pat on the back.

-Said it before... any fic where Bakugou is 'a sad baby uwu because Izuku took his advice' is an instant no because you just gave him man pain. "I'll be a hero for you," and then he's fucking canon? Nah, that's him deciding Izuku is a rallying cry, not him actually seeing his own faults.

This is just transphobic/homophobic/sexist

-Any gay fic where you make the female love interest a bitch. (I like to have actual onesided feelings and a nasty fall out but like... wow. Just fucking WOW. More so when you mix in shit like 'Uraraka is a gold digger after Bakugou so she'll try to break up BakuDeku uwu'. Dude if you want her to be a gold digger, Yaoyorozu is RIGHT THERE)

-I said this before but I notice that a lot of harem fics tend to have a bisexual Izuku but an all female harem. Look, yes preferences exist in real life. But fanfic is NOT REAL LIFE. You doing that is just a giant ass sign you're not okay with Izuku dating a guy even if you make him bisexual, which is pretty homophobic to me, no matter how many gay ships you slip in (which all get maybe like a second of screen time compared to the heterosexual ships). More so when you go for 1B girls. You have to basically make them OCs to have it work. No hate to OC/Canon ships, but like.... dude. I don't care if you didn't mean it like that, it is pretty fucking homophobic, because it isn't a real life person choosing it. It's you writing it.

-Said it before, but the amount of people writing NB Izuku fics which changes nothing but pronouns for Izuku and then going on about how making Izuku a girl isn't the same and it's way to much of a difference... transphobia much? You LITERALLY genderbent Izuku.

-Plus, again: I see way more transgirl Izuku being straight up fetishization where she dates all of the class 1A girls (dude we can tell what you're doing) compared to transguy Izuku. (It exists but it's rarer). A lot of NB fics (with exceptions again) as well give me sexist vibes by having it pretty apparent they consider it no different then canon Izuku but act as if him being a girl is to far. It's just sexism and transphobia then.

-Having one of the characters in a mlm pairing be super feminine. Do these people exist? Yes. But wow. Ya'll are leaning hard into heteronormativity dudes.

-Making the canon arospec character actually interested in romance while making the canonly heterosexual character aro/ace to explain why she's so cruel and so focused on a boy character. Hey, guess what that is? AROPHOBIA.

-Fics where Izuku is only friends with guys despite canonly being friends with girls, and we basically sideline all the female characters.

Bad Genderbends (With a focus on Male to Female)

-The majority of my fics/ideas are genderbends. Mostly cis!Female!Izuku cause I have fun exploring her life but like... as soon as I read a fic where nothing changes. At all, and everything is exactly the same as it is for canon Izuku? Out. That's an actually terrible fic, I am out, gone. Bye-bye. PEOPLE ARE NOT SOCIALIZED THE SAME. NO I DON'T CARE YOU ARE ALL ABOUT EQUALITY. Girls are not treated the same as guys.

-Completely abandoning the canon personality. Yeah, I know, the above, but just because socialization changes people doesn't mean you can completely change a character. Izuku as Izumi can still be a giant nerd who is super into working out, mutters up a storm and loves to watch hero fights. She can also love pink, gossip about boys and giggle over magazines. You can combine them. Again, I think this is related to sexism in a way due to the amount of people who seem unable to just... see that while the world does treat girls and guys different, they aren't in fact different?

-The fics where the assholes are right. You're just homophobic. Somewhat the same as the top, when people just turn a character into a girl without acknowledging the differences or the fact somethings would be the same to pair up characters they normally don't cause it's gay.

These Tropes are Overdone or Suck

-Bakugou faces consequences but it's a slap on the wrist, and he changes NOTHING about himself, but oh everything is okay and he dates Izuku/Ochako/Whoever.

-Izuku takes Bakugou's advice but it's blamed solely on All Might and Bakugou's actions are ignored and they become best friends/start dating! Or he takes Bakugou's advice and gets a Quirk, so everything is okay!

-Abusive Mitsuki is why Bakugou how he is. I only read 1 fic where this was actually treated like it should be. 'Cool motive, still murder'. Just because you have a shitty upbringing doesn't mean you can get away with assault and abuse.

-All Might bashing where they take his character and put it in a blender while claiming things are canon. No, I am serious. I have said someone say it's canon All Might overworked Izuku on purpose. Meanwhile canonly, Izuku decided to ignore his plan to work on his own time. All Might did agree to adjust the plan but like, holy shit. Or the ones where they act like it's canon he despises all Quirkless people/mutation Quirked people. Meanwhile he's the uncle to Melissa and has nothing but good things to say about heroes with mutations. There is ONE type of All Might being an Idiot I like, and it's where he's just a very stubborn old man set in his ways who doesn't see what he's doing is wrong. That makes sense. Not All Might murdering Izuku for knowing about OFA. He's a shit teacher who doesn't know when things are to far but wow. Nice character assassination there.

-Iida bashing cause he's a rule following nerd who hit Izuku while Ochako, who left Izuku alone in a mall so he got attacked by a villain and gets jealous of other girls, is an innocent pure angel. No seriously- both of these people are literally the same. It's just that people hate Iida for some reason? Meanwhile he's a dork who gets excited about beef stew, loves his family enough to kill for them, is the guy willing to help his friend come back to UA and while he did hit Izuku, it was in a situation where Iida was emotional and worried for his friend after he was permanently injured by Stain for doing something similar to Izuku.

-Aizawa bashing where they also take his character and shoot it out back. The guy who is terrified of people ending up like his friend ignoring outright abuse of their Quirks, willingly letting Izuku be beaten by classmates, refusing to read the files, brushing off students DYING, and trying to force students to stay in the hero course because he can't be wrong? Wow. Just make an OC and call it a day.

-Izuku has an OP Quirk that makes him a ladies man and he is so awesome and I can't finish it holy shit no.

-Inko is 100% a plot device and not really a character but DAMN ya'll need to chill out with the abusive Inko fics. Her systematically beating him and starving him and shit is just... WOW. Give me neglectful Inko who ends up abandoning him. Same amount of screentime as canon. Or give me my own blend, where she is a helicopter parent who is convinced she knows the right path for Izuku and gets angry enough to ignore him if he doesn't listen.

-Toga gets adopted by Inko and has a weird ass relationship with Izuku.

-Wooby Hawks fics when in reality this guy is a predator who can and will fuck you up, and I 100% think he's some level of yandere about those he considers 'his'.

-If I had a penny for the amount of times Dabi gets redeemed and it's the blandest shit on earth, I'd be rolling in money. Give me drama if you want him redeemed.

-Anything where Endeavour wasn't that bad/misunderstood. Though also, in general I find fics where he's actually a terrible hero dumb to. He's number two out of how many? Man is a shit person, but a good hero.

[gallavich-headcanon]

Reappears days later with *checks cup* cold black coffee leftover from this morning to talk more Galladads

Ian and Mickey no speaking for two days??? with their co-dependency? I don't buy it. - ohhoho I do think they talk, of course they do, it’s them, but I think Mickey is a little unsure of how Ian is gonna take the appearance of four kids so he just…doesn’t mention it yet. Ian will be home soon and then they can talk it over so why borrow trouble? Mickey is like 78% sure it’s gonna be fine so what does it matter? Like I imagine this whole thing started as a test run for Mickey anyway

He doesn’t tell Ian that Tony is dropping off a toddler for a couple of days because Mickey wants to make sure he can do this before telling Ian bc Ian will take one look at the kid and his ovaries are gonna weep or some shit (“I don’t have ovaries, Mick.”) and that’ll be that but Mickey doesn’t wanna get Ian’s hopes up unless he knows he can do this. So. Ian and Lip are going to Florida for a weekend to do something for Fiona, which gives Mickey plenty of time to test drive this whole baby thing.

And it goes…good, actually. The kid’s not quite one and a half and small enough to just pick up and move when needed. She can’t work doors yet, or reach the stove, but she can point at things she wants and make word-like sounds to tell him when she’s hungry or bored or whatever. Once he realizes “Ba” means bottle, “na” means no, and “ya” means basically everything else, they’re kinda golden. Mickey gives her some red plastic cups to play with and she’s occupied for a couple of hours just stacking the things up and knocking them over. Easy. He texts Tony that he’s keeping her and it’s done. Mickey can’t wait to see the soft, dopey look on Ian’s face when he opens the door holding their little girl. That’s late Saturday afternoon.

Ten o’clock Saturday night, after Mickey’s figured out how to put the bed thing Tony dropped off together and the little one’s conked out, he’s just got off the phone with Ian and had to physically bite his lips not the ruin the damn surprise when there’s a knock on the door. It’s Colin’s girlfriend, or is it ex-girlfriend? (Colin got life for armed robbery while Mickey was in Mexico and Mick’s not 100% sure where Natalia stands on commitment) It’s Natalia and two kids about Franny’s age, boys he thinks, and a couple of suspiciously large garbage bags that Mickey will quickly learn is filled with toys, random clothes, and a file folder containing highly illegal fake birth certificates with his name on them. Mickey whisper argues with Natalia for a good twenty minutes but then the toddler wakes up and in the time it takes him to go grab her from the bedroom and come back, Natalia’s gone and the boys are yawning on the couch. Sucker punched. It’s too late to do anything so the boys get set up on the couch, the little one goes back in the bedroom and Mickey gets a beer. He thinks about texting Iggy, the only one who stays in contact with Colin (who the fuck gets arrested in Iowa?) but it’s late so he texts Ian g’night and goes to bed. He’ll figure it out in the morning.

The morning brings a text from Ian saying they’re about to board the plane again and the airport reception is shitty which is probably a good thing because it means Mickey doesn’t have to figure out how to get three kids to shut the fuck up while he’s on the phone. Breakfast is a hassle but the boys can talk at least, and there was a box of Cocoa Puffs in one of the garbage bags so at least everybody eats. (If Ian had been there, he might have cautioned against pure sugar for breakfast, especially since Mickey let them have soda as well but Ian is dealing with air travel and gate changes and Lip so he has his own problems.)

The sugar high is rough going but Mickey’s got this. It’s a bit like dealing with Franny mixed with being in jail. The trick is to make everybody think you’re on their side. Your brother stole your action figure? Let’s get him. The little one starts crying when she can’t run as fast as the boys? Cool, nobody’s allowed to run. Hey, look, cartoons! By lunch, all three are passed out on the floor watching some brightly colored show and Mickey’s ordered pizza and chicken poppers for lunch. He’s got this. Ian might be a little thrown by three kids instead of one but eh, they’re both from big families. They can cram some bunk beds at the end of the hallway if they take the door off the hall closet. What little boys don’t like bunk beds? The surprise is still on.

The knock on the door isn’t the pizza however. It’s a milk crate. Specifically a milk crate of formula, diapers, and tiny tiny clothes with the smallest baby Mickey’s ever seen balanced on top. She’s tiny enough that when Mickey picks her up he can cup her head in one hand and she lays neatly along his arm, minuscule toes just barely reaching the crook of his elbow. Ian could probably hold her in one giant paw alone. Mickey feels like he’s gonna break her if he thinks too hard. This is an actual baby. A baby-baby. She can’t say “Ba” when she’s hungry or point at the tv when she’s bored. She can’t loudly announce she has to go potty or yell “me first!” and try and beat her brother to the john. She needs him to do all that for her, to know all that, to be good at all that and Mickey is terrified.

But she starts to fuss, just gentle little sounds, and one itty bitty hand flails out and he catches it without thinking. Tiny fingers latch on to his bigger one and squeeze tight, grip much stronger than he’d have guessed, and holy shit, she’s settling down again, seemingly just needing to hold on to Mickey to know she’s okay.

He kicks the crate inside and sits at the table, gingerly laying her down on it in front of him. She looks like Joey a bit, meaning she looks like Mandy too, both of them looking more like Laura than Terry or Terry’s brother Sam. He eases off the stained pink cap and sees a shock of black hair. The boys have Colin’s dirty blond curls, and the little one must have gotten her mom’s reddish-brown locks but the baby has the same jet black hair Mickey does. He blows out a breath and the baby scrunches her nose up.

Someone knocks on the door again, pizza this time, thank god, and then the boys are awake and demanding ketchup for the chicken and burning their mouths on the pizza even though Mickey told them to wait, damn it, and the little one is reaching small hands up onto the counter for “Ba! Ba!” and in the chaos, Mickey doesn’t hear his text alert go off once, twice, four times as Ian’s messages come through that they’re ‘delayed but okay’ and ‘want Chinese for dinner’ and ‘hey everything okay?’

Somewhere between shutting down a ketchup fight, eating two bits of pizza himself, and taking the batteries out of the remote so the little one stops pressing random buttons while the boys yell about Transformers, he googles how to change a diaper and then has to clean up pee off the table when the baby decides she just can’t wait for a new one. Mickey shoots Ian a thumbs up before he tosses the phone onto the top of the fridge because Nicky and Tommy might not know what “don’t wake the baby or she’ll scream” means but they absolutely know what an iPhone is and they wanna play with his every time they catch sight of it. Mickey feels like maybe he never gave Fiona enough credit because he’s about ready to go back to prison but at least he’s not trying to raise Carl.

He misses Ian’s call when they land, misses the ‘on the way home’ text, misses Lip’s ‘yo Ian’s doing that thing where he’s not worried but he’s worried, ya wanna answer your phone’ message. Turns out feeding a baby includes burping a baby or they just puke it back up. Also she may be unbelievable small but the baby must be 90% lungs because when she decides she’s not happy, she makes damn sure everybody’s knows it. The baby crying sets off the little one crying, and the boys don’t cry but they do start fighting each other for no visible reason so Mickey kinda has his hands full.

More cartoons, more pizza, and a bold-faced lie about being out of soda gets Mickey to four o’clock Sunday by the skin of his teeth. There’s another knock on the door and if there’s anyone under the age of sixteen on the other side, Mickey’s going to Canada, because fuck it.

The person on the other side is Mickey’s definitely over sixteen husband. He looks tired and frowny and he’s holding a bag of fried rice and egg rolls and if Mickey were a different man, he call him an angel but this Mickey has had to piss since the Great Diaper Blowout of 2 PM so he just (gently) thrusts the thankfully happy baby at his husband and makes a beeline for the bathroom and it’s locking door.

He hopes Ian brought enough egg rolls.

(Look what you made me do, does this count as fic? Lol 🦖)

HOLY FUCK 🦖 ANON I am speechless!

1,631 words 8,643 characters

(“I don’t have ovaries, Mick.”)-> cracked me up!

So just Tony's toddler at first. He can handle her. Maybe he doesn't even think Tony is really going to leave them forever you know, maybe Mickey thinks he might change his mind in a couple of days, you know? No need to freak Ian out for no reason if Tony will come back tomorrow, right?

Then he got Colin's two boys, Nicky and Tommy, around Franny's age. Okay. At least Franny will have kids her age to play with for once. Awesome.

there was a box of Cocoa Puffs in one of the garbage bags so at least everybody eats. -> 🦖 ANON this is too fucking funny. For no reason.

The trick is to make everybody think you’re on their side. -> Mickey is smart like that! He is a surviver!

The knock on the door isn’t the pizza however. It’s the smallest baby girl Mickey’s ever seen. -> oh oh! Well at least Mickey had some practice with newborns when he raised Yevgeny (or is there no Yevgeny in this AU?) Wait- is the baby Mandy's or Joey's? this is so stressful and the babies aren't even mine!

Lip’s ‘yo Ian’s doing that thing where he’s not worried but he’s worried, ya wanna answer your phone’ message -> this is the most canon thing ever.

Ian showing up, gets handed a baby, finding 3 kids in his living room and his husband just ran off. Ian is a better person than I am, because I would walk right out of that mess and eat my fucking spring rolls on the way back to the airport.

This is literally a mini fic. A solid one shot. I have just received a one-shot in my inbox. I love my life.

[cyarsk52-20]

Always remember this part:

I want y’all(yes every single last one of you, heck even the aliens if they exist among us) to realize Tory had the opportunity to take a plea deal and serve damn there no time.

Megan lied to police to protect Tory immediately after he shot her, he slandered her in the blogs and so she decided to tell the truth to law enforcement.

The courts offered a plea deal, Tory threw it back in their face and dragged this out for years to keep the lie going and burned up his own money on legal fees and taxpayer dollars on a trial. The courts gave bail, Tory used that time to torment and harass Megan which only hurt his case and was a key factor in his heavy sentencing when the day came.

At every single turn the goodwill of the universe/God offered this man an opportunity to save himself — and he laughed at it and sabotaged it.

He could have owned up to his actions.

INSTEAD, he was so arrogant in the process bc he thought painting Megan as a liar on social media would hold up on trial. It backfired in the worst way possible.

The Tory fans, his family, even Tory himself may never publicly admit it — but he completely allowed his dangerous ego to land him in a cage for the rest of his 30s. One day he’ll have to face that.

He is the maker of his own self destruction, the creator of his own downfall, the artist of his own shortcoming, pride and ego led to where he is now.

and that’s why I don’t feel sorry for him, it’s not thoughts and prayers is sorrows sorrows prayers. It’s not prayers up but prayers down for him. He had an opportunity to not be CHARGED at ALL cuz she was willing to PROTECT his buck tooth hammer head toddler built bitch ass. She lied to protect that ungrateful piece of work, trying to prevent him from being another name , another hashtag, another life taken by the cops, another black man getting shot to death by the police or having his life choked out in a illegal chokehold as he’s screaming, “I can’t breathe!” , another black man screaming “ mother!”, another Trayvon, Sandra, tamir, Ahmaud, tyre, Mike, Eric, Breonna, George, Jacob, Elijah, and other black lives either taken away or forever traumatized and he repays her by being so cruel, and mean towards her having people hurt her for no good reason but to gas him up, and you expect me to feel some level of sympathy because he said that he had a difficult childhood, losing his mom at a young age and an alcohol addiction? yeah I don’t think so.

Fuck him. I don’t feel sorry for him. He deserves every bit of those 10 years . He should’ve been taken accountability for his actions, but no , he gone too big for his britches, and he chose to be a full blown psychopath and a sociopath .

Now look at this Canadian Bitch.

Ashy

Lace front looking like something out of the dollar store struggling to hold on to his head Down to the wig glue damn. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

Broke because his lawyers he got from craigslist Or Amazon or education connection

gonna be ****d by bubba in the showers or spreading wide for poptarts and ramen noodles soup

All because he can’t control his big ego in his small body of his and his violent tendencies

Oh well, maybe he should have just took a plea deal or better yet shut the heck up or here’s an even better idea 💡: never shot at her!

Meg cut him deep wit that “The only reason why your popular at the moment is because you are in a feature with Jack Harlow “comment and he with his violent tendencies and toxic masculinity couldn’t take it.

That munchkin is thinking what does he got that I don’t?

I don’t know, perhaps good looks, talent, a full set of hair, charm, attractive personality, and him not in a jail cell for the next ten years and possible deportation

That troll had the nerve , the audacity , to be talking about no weapons formed against him shall prosper, when shot a black woman who was walking away from him and then lied and gaslit her, slut shamed her, made up a misogynistic lie that another woman shot her out of jealousy, violated a restraining order, and antagonized her and her boyfriend through his music and you wonder why I don’t feel any ounce of sympathy towards him and others like him.

It’s one thing for a man to harm a woman because she rejected or criticized him and his work that makes him a coward but when that same man torments her even though she was generous and kind enough to not press charges against him then he is no different than the sadists who take pleasure from causing others pain

If anything he is the weapon and it was, and is prospering against him ! He didn’t deserve 1/10000000th of the consideration she gave him that night. She was too kind to him. People can really take other peoples kindness for weakness and you wonder why TV shows like snapped is on TV and it’s been around for like 33 seasons as of this year.

I’m not sorry that he’s suffering now. sorrows, sorrows prayers

[sammysdewysensitiveeyes]

Dungeon Meshi is one of those series where I saw enough memes and gif sets that I knew who my favorite character would be before ever watching the series. Cranky middle-aged divorced dad who is very professional and good at his job and whose crankiness is often related to worrying about his coworkers that seem determined to get themselves killed? "Support" character who usually doesn't engage in fighting but whose skills are essential to the group?

Sounds an awful lot like another favorite of mine!

Honestly, though, I like all the characters. It's one of the rare manga where I love the entire group rather than getting annoyed with the "main" character and latching onto a minor side character.

I love Laios and his monster obsession and his inability to read or understand people to the point that one of his former "friends" could barely stand him, but at the same time he can notice details and analyze well enough to guess everyone correctly in the changeling episode. He comes across as a standard hero at first but he's really kind of a misfit weirdo and also a hero.

I love Senshi and how well he has fit into the group despite being a relative stranger to them and how he tries to take care of everyone, and how he is so knowledgeable and resourceful and cares about the dungeon as a ecosystem to be maintained. Plus the man can cook! And we finally get into his backstory, and damn, I can understand why he so desperately wants to look after everyone and cares about proper nutrition and why he constantly treats Chilchuck like a child even after Chilchuck gives his age (especially since Senshi was apparently a very young dwarf at "only" 36).

I love Marcille and her angry little fits, girl, I get it, I wouldn't want to eat any of that either, and how she is willing to endure ALL of it, and basically break both actual laws and the laws of nature to get Falin back. She seems like the cute elf girl, but she will just blow a monster's head off and she has been studying all sorts illegal magic. Marcille is like the physics student at the top of her class who has been building a nuclear reactor in her basement. I have a lot of love for old fantasy anime like Record of Lodoss War (still one of my favorites), but I'm still relieved that the blond elf girl does not spend the entire series pining after the swordsman hero, if anything she seems more interested in Falin.

I love Chilchuck constantly pretending not to care and obviously caring very deeply. He claims that he is all business and that personal relationships will ruin a party, but he has stuck with the group far longer than it would be practical or even sensible, even if he got paid up front. He cares very much about being useful to the group and doing his job properly, and he will stick his neck out in a fight if he has to, he's mostly just smart enough to get out of the way. Also, after apparently years of refusing to even give his age, Chilchuck just sits down and spills that he has a (divorced) wife and kids in order to get Senshi to feel comfortable enough to talk about his own trauma.

I love how Falin, despite being killed in the first five minutes and basically spending most of the series as the "damsel in distress" needing to be rescued, gets fleshed out through flashbacks so that we can care about her as a character. She is sweet and self-sacrificing but also not a push-over, and seems just as interested in the world around her as Laios.

Izutsumi only just joined the group, but I love her, too. At least she isn't an overly "sexy" fetishized catgirl, even in a scene where she takes most of her clothing off. Actually, this series is pretty good about not relying heavily on fan service, aside from all those sexy panty shows of Senshi.

A fantasy cooking manga/anime is already a unique idea, but it also has a legitimately good overarching story, with the history of the dungeon and the mysteries behind it, and the politics of who controls the dungeon. Paying close attention to the monsters, either to eat them or because of Laios' obsessions, helps the characters understand how to fight them and stay alive, and they often solve problems in creative ways rather than just "sword fight good." It's been awhile since I enjoyed an anime this much.

[cyarskaren1999-blog]

Sep 21ALT

View on Twitter

Always remember this part:

I want y’all(yes every single last one of you, heck even the aliens if they exist among us) to realize Tory had the opportunity to take a plea deal and serve damn there no time.

Megan lied to police to protect Tory immediately after he shot her, he slandered her in the blogs and so she decided to tell the truth to law enforcement.

The courts offered a plea deal, Tory threw it back in their face and dragged this out for years to keep the lie going and burned up his own money on legal fees and taxpayer dollars on a trial. The courts gave bail, Tory used that time to torment and harass Megan which only hurt his case and was a key factor in his heavy sentencing when the day came.

At every single turn the goodwill of the universe/God offered this man an opportunity to save himself — and he laughed at it and sabotaged it.

He could have owned up to his actions.

INSTEAD, he was so arrogant in the process bc he thought painting Megan as a liar on social media would hold up on trial. It backfired in the worst way possible.

The Tory fans, his family, even Tory himself may never publicly admit it — but he completely allowed his dangerous ego to land him in a cage for the rest of his 30s. One day he’ll have to face that.

He is the maker of his own self destruction, the creator of his own downfall, the artist of his own shortcoming, pride and ego led to where he is now.

and that’s why I don’t feel sorry for him, it’s not thoughts and prayers is sorrows sorrows prayers. It’s not prayers up but prayers down for him. He had an opportunity to not be CHARGED at ALL cuz she was willing to PROTECT his buck tooth hammer head toddler built bitch ass. She lied to protect that ungrateful piece of work, trying to prevent him from being another name , another hashtag, another life taken by the cops, another black man getting shot to death by the police or having his life choked out in a illegal chokehold as he’s screaming, “I can’t breathe!” , another black man screaming “ mother!”, another Trayvon, Sandra, tamir, Ahmaud, tyre, Mike, Eric, Breonna, George, Jacob, Elijah, and other black lives either taken away or forever traumatized and he repays her by being so cruel, and mean towards her having people hurt her for no good reason but to gas him up, and you expect me to feel some level of sympathy because he said that he had a difficult childhood, losing his mom at a young age and an alcohol addiction? yeah I don’t think so.

Fuck him. I don’t feel sorry for him. He deserves every bit of those 10 years . He should’ve been taken accountability for his actions, but no , he gone too big for his britches, and he chose to be a full blown psychopath and a sociopath .

Now look at this Canadian Bitch.

Ashy

Lace front looking like something out of the dollar store struggling to hold on to his head Down to the wig glue damn. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

Broke because his lawyers he got from craigslist Or Amazon or education connection

gonna be ****d by bubba in the showers or spreading wide for poptarts and ramen noodles soup

All because he can’t control his big ego in his small body of his and his violent tendencies

Oh well, maybe he should have just took a plea deal or better yet shut the heck up or here’s an even better idea 💡: never shot at her!

Meg cut him deep wit that “The only reason why your popular at the moment is because you are in a feature with Jack Harlow “comment and he with his violent tendencies and toxic masculinity couldn’t take it.

That munchkin is thinking what does he got that I don’t?

I don’t know, perhaps good looks, talent, a full set of hair, charm, attractive personality, and him not in a jail cell for the next ten years and possible deportation

That troll had the nerve , the audacity , to be talking about no weapons formed against him shall prosper, when shot a black woman who was walking away from him and then lied and gaslit her, slut shamed her, made up a misogynistic lie that another woman shot her out of jealousy, violated a restraining order, and antagonized her and her boyfriend through his music and you wonder why I don’t feel any ounce of sympathy towards him and others like him.

It’s one thing for a man to harm a woman because she rejected or criticized him and his work that makes him a coward but when that same man torments her even though she was generous and kind enough to not press charges against him then he is no different than the sadists who take pleasure from causing others pain

If anything he is the weapon and it was, and is prospering against him ! He didn’t deserve 1/10000000th of the consideration she gave him that night. She was too kind to him. People can really take other peoples kindness for weakness and you wonder why TV shows like snapped is on TV and it’s been around for like 33 seasons as of this year.

I’m not sorry that he’s suffering now. sorrows, sorrows prayers

[flyinghetfield]

Louisville, KY - September 24, 2021 ©  Brett Murray

[miekasa]

NICE.

+ pairings: eren yeager + (fem) reader

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

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

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

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

+ word count: 19k. i’m sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, baby. I love you.”

“Eren?”

“Yeah?”

“Get off my line.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no—of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was almost three thou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t mine, I was—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s it matter to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not avoiding him,” you frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sound like you speak from personal experience.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His parents?” Jean cuts you off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you… told Eren yet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is… is that why you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles. “I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groans when you rake your fingers into his hair, and pulls back with a hissing noise when you scratch at his nape. Large hands move to grip at your waist, and he pulls you into his lap with a concentrated gaze—a brief second for him to admire the sight of you on top of him, before he resumes kissing you. He sucks on your tongue, rolls his past your teeth, and bites on your bottom lip.

You know he relishes in the sounds he elicits from you, and under any normal circumstance, you’re willing to put up a fight with him, but not now. Now, you let him unzip the back of your dress and snake his hands beneath the fabric. The rubbing motions of his hands turn into gripping, gripping into grinding, and eventually, an unfiltered moan slips past your lips when you feel Eren’s erection roll against you.

“Fuck,” he pulls back with a suck of your swollen lip, “You’re so hot.”

Eren quickly switches your positions so that he’s hovering over you. You chuckle lightly underneath him, taking the opportunity to run both your hands through his hair and cradle his head in your hold, “Haven’t done anything yet.”

“I know,” Eren murmurs, dipping his head down to press kisses into your neck, “Still so sexy. So pretty, always.”

Eren bites a hickey into your collar bone, and everywhere he can touch; your neck, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Your moaning serves as the spark to keep him going, but he’s barely coherent himself the way you keep pulling at his hair and grinding yourself against him. Even through his clothes, you can feel how painfully hard he is.

He barely catches your tongue between his lips when you moan again, sucking harshly before bruising his lips over yours again. His hands are grabby again, finally pulling your dress completely off of your body, leaving it to form a puddle on the ground. They’re back on your as soon as possible, massaging over your tits, and running his index finger over your nipples.

“Eren... Eren, please,” you whimper, chest heaving as you look down at him. He rolls his index finger over your right nipple, with his left hand teasing the other with his thumb. You can’t tell if the look in his eyes is a product of the weed, or just his glassy, borderline predatory stare, but it makes you shiver with pleasure when he wraps his mouth around your nipple and sucks.

“I want you.”

“Want you, too,” Eren hums, pulling back with a thin trail of spit from your breast, before moving to give your left nipple the same treatment, “More than you know.”

You keen to him when he teases his teeth against you, finally having had enough you force him off of you with a tug of his hair. “Then take off your clothes.”

Eren blinks, wide-eyed but glazed all the same. He chuckles lightly, a blush spreading over his cheeks as he nods. He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, forgoing undoing the buttons, and pauses briefly with his hands over the zipper of his pants.

“Please tell me you’re not that gone that you forgot how to undo your zipper,” you tease him, chest still heaving from his previous ministrations. Eren smiles, doe-eyed and hazy, and shakes his head.

“No,” he reassures you, finally undoing his zipper and shimmying his pants off his legs, “Was trying to remember what underwear I was wearing. Didn't want it to be embarrassing.”

His honesty makes you laugh, and Eren pauses for a moment to soak it in. Even like this, even with him stumbling over the steps to undress himself, and you almost completely naked in front of him, he can make you smile. There’s something equally sexy and endearing about your giggles; a juxtaposition that makes him want to hug you or kiss you or something in between. And you—you like the look in his eyes even through your giggling; the way he smiles back and blushes and tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “Don’t think mine are particularly sexy either.”

Eren hums, shuffling back on to the bed so that he’s between your legs, and leans forward to kiss you again. He still can’t seem to keep his hands off of you, his fingers immediately flying to your underwear and peeling them off your legs, pulling you closer despite the lack of space between your bodies.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter,” Eren echos, tossing the offending item to the side, before cupping your face in his hands, “I’d still wanna fuck you in your granny panties.”

“You wanna fuck me?” you question, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

“Yeah, I do,” Eren can’t help but to smile again, happy and high and drunk on you, too, “Will you let me?”

Your feverish nodding is all it takes for Eren’s mind to go hazy again; clouded with you, you, you. You pull him into a kiss, arching your body into his, and running your hands down the sides of his back. He moans at the feeling, punishing you by nipping at your lower lip and pressing your stomach back to the mattress with his palm.

Your eyes meet his as Eren lines himself up with your cunt, teasing your folds with the head; but it doesn’t take long before he finally pushes in, sheathing himself inside you completely without movement. He waits a minute, whether it’s to make you comfortable, or to gather his own bearings, you’re not sure; but when he’s ready, he flashes you a smile and waits for one in return, before he starts thrusting.

You know Eren’s not gentle; rough whether or not he intends to be by virtue of his size in comparison to you, but you seem to have forgotten just how capable he is of making you lose your senses. He has you gasping, grasping at him at him unintelligibly, feeling full with his cock inside of you.

Eren groans, borderline growls, when he feels you clench around him, when he sees you shaking beneath him. He could do this all; could watch you all day.

“So pretty, the prettiest. Prettiest girl, my favorite girl,” Eren praises, eyes raking up and down your thrashing body, “My favorite fucking girl.”

“You—you, too.”

“Yeah? I’m your favorite, too?” Eren coos, reaching out to guide your arms over your head, the force of his body pinning your hands down; you can hardly gasp before he lacess your fingers together, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Promised you, didn’t I? That I’d be good to you, be on my best behavior,” Eren reminds you, leaning forward.

He eyes your necklace—eyes glued to ring around it—bouncing with your body. He bends his head down to kiss it, bites at the skin near it; a possessive streak overcoming him as the diamonds shine against you. “I said I’d treat you good, always. Meant it.”

He stutters, when you squeeze him back; fingers tightening around his hold, your pussy clenching around his cock. Your whining is insistent, and mixes with Eren’s low moans and guttural noises. Eren doesn’t let up his pace, fucking you fast and deep, and it’s only a matter of time before you feel a knot twisting in your belly.

You attempt to move your arms, searching for a release of the feeling building up inside of you but Eren is strong; stronger than you, and he keeps you in your place. Keeps your arms pinned above you, keeps his palms pressed into yours, keeps his lips hovering above yours, just out of reach.

“Eren,” you call his name through shaky moans.

“Yeah? What, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does, his lips needy and hungry over yours. Eren fucks you and kisses you through your orgasm, tasting your moans on his tongue in timing with him cumming inside of you. You don’t let up; kissing him lewdly while you both come down from your highs.

“So good,” Eren croons against your lips, down your jaw, into your skin, “So good for me.”

You both moan in chorus when he finally pulls out, Eren’s head laying on your collar, nose nuzzling into your neck. He lets your hands free, and immediately you wrap them around his back, holding him close as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

You don’t know how long you lay there like that, with Eren on top of you, and your thumb rubbing circles into his cheek while he sleeps soundly. Maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less; but the euphoria of your sex doesn’t quiet seem to fade.

It might last all night, maybe even for the rest of your trip but you don’t mind. You think back to earlier in the evening, when you’d caught his gaze after your dance. The feeling isn’t all that different; warm, and fuzzy, and too much and not enough all at once. It feels good, it feels like Eren.

You hum softly to yourself, careful not to wake up the sleeping boy on your chest, when you realize exactly what these two moments have in common: a rare event in which Eren is still in front of you, steady and stagnant, no running or chasing; and you don’t want to let him go.

Sometimes Eren thinks you act oblivious on purpose just to fuck with him, because there’s absolutely no way you—or any human with a functioning nervous system and social cues—can’t tell that he’s completely, stupidly, and embarrassingly in love with you.

Long gone are his days of trying to deny it or get over it. He realized that sophomore year of high school—almost eight years ago—that no matter where he went, what kind of drug he inhaled, or how hard he tried, you’d be permanently etched into his heart. That doesn’t make it any less exhausting, and, in fact, only makes it more astounding that you haven’t caught on yet. Honestly, Eren’s considered hiring a private psychiatrist just to make nothing’s wrong with you.

Amazingly, the remainder of your vacation continues just like the former half. The only exception being that now you’re in Paris. And that he’s shamelessly coerced you into letting him fuck your brains out on several occasions. But besides that, everything’s chill.

Just two best friends traveling through France together and stopping to fuck in any semi-private location they can find. Just two peas in a pod walking along the Champs Elysées at damn near midnight. Just two best buds with linked arms tasting (see: feeding each other) every macaron flavor they come across while violinists play stupidly romantic, classical music in the background.

He knows he should probably talk to you about it, but for some reason he can’t. Like telling you would make it all too real, and give it a meaning that could so easily be taken away from him; give you a reason to want to leave him. Right now, it’s just a fantasy, and he’s free to keep dreaming, believing that he’s special and worth enough for the affection you’ve shown him.

He doesn’t want to be one in a list of your boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands; he wants to be your only one, and if he can’t be, then he’d rather be stuck to your side as your best friend. At least that way, in someway, he could remain special to you; not a forgotten, ordinary ex of your past.

Though, a best friend who he’s sleeping with regularly and he’s in love with and will always be in love with is starting to sound a lot like a husband to him. At least, the kind of husband he would like to be to you.

You call his name, asking him if he wants to try another sweet. Eren rolls his eyes. What he wants is to fuck you, and marry you, and have you bless his stupid little existence with two runts for kids that look like him but act like you so his life savings don’t run out by the time they’re twelve. But sure, he’ll settle for having you feed him another macaron in the meantime.

“This one tastes just like the coconut one,” he mumbles, chewing his way through the pastry you’d stuffed into his mouth whole.

It’s the seventh bakery you’ve stopped at tonight, and even though Eren’s growing pretty sick of the sugary treats, he’ll walk with you to every damn bakery in Paris tonight if that’s what you want.

He blinks at the thought. He’s so lovesick it’s disgusting. And he wouldn’t do a damn thing to change it.

“That’s probably because it’s almond and coconut flavored,” you say, wiping the stickiness from your fingers onto a napkin.

“I didn’t taste any almonds.”

“I don’t even think you could spell almond, much less tell me what they taste like.”

Eren simply pouts in refute, leaving you giggling at his expression. He doesn’t know if it’s possible, but you seem even prettier in Paris than in Nice. But, that’s probably his rose-colored glasses speaking.

“You think there’ll be macarons at the reception?” you question, biting into yet another pistachio flavored treat, “And if not, would it be rude to bring my own?”

He chuckles. “Yes, babe, I’m sure there will be macarons there.”

He’s always loved Paris, even when his mom moved away here and left him in New York, and he’d always loved it more when you’re with him. He feared that having to attend another, what he considered to be wasteful, wedding in arguably one of his favorite places in the world would leave a bitter taste in his mouth; but, thankfully, he’s only fallen deeper in love since being here.

“You sure you won’t be sick of them by tomorrow?” he asks, watching you debate between taste testing another variation of vanilla bean or rosé.

“How could I get sick of them?” you answer offhandedly, not sparing him a glance away as you choose the pink snack. How could he get sick of you.

“By the time we get back to New York you’ll have forgotten all about them,” he scoffs.

“Don’t worry I’ll quit it soon. I’ll have to eat something solid if I wanna take my meds and go to bed,” you spew with a smile, unaware of what you’ve actually just said, “But they are delicious and I have no regrets.”

Eren pauses. Then so do you, mouth stuffed with sickly sweet.

“I mean—”

“I know, you know,” he cuts you off, “About the meds and stuff.”

You look like you could pass out, or scream, or cry, or everything in between. Eren figures saying more is better than saying less, so he continues.

“I saw a bottle in the bathroom a few months ago,” he admits shyly, but careful about his tone, “Didn’t understand half the words on the label, but it had your name on it so I just, uh… Googled it.”

Of course he knows. Eren’s always kind of known, just never had the words to express it. He imagines that’s what you’re feeling right now.

“Oh,” you finally gape, “Why didn’t you, um… you know, like, say… anything?”

“It seemed like your secret to tell,” Eren shrugs, features softening out, “Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

Eren’s always been better at showing than saying, anyway. He hopes that his actions, small as they may seem, might have provided you with any sort of comfort in the past few months. Maybe even before that, too.

“Oh,” you repeat, continually blinking at him, “That’s… that’s it? You’re cool with it?”

Now it’s Eren’s turn to blink. “What do you mean am I cool with it? They’re your meds.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re not mad I didn’t tell—”

“Of course I’m not mad,” he cuts you off with a soft smile, “It’s not really my business. I mean, like, you’re my business because I care about you, but you have your own private stuff, too, which is cool. Besides, when I was, uh, researching it, I learned that it can be hard to tell people stuff like that even if—”

Eren shuts up when he feels your weight against him and your arms wrapped around him. Shell shocked, he takes a moment to hug you back, and slowly comes to rest his chin atop your head after leaving a flurry of kisses.

“You didn’t have to look it up or do any kind of research, you know,” you mumble softly into his jacket. Eren borderline chortles, but only hugs you more tightly.

“Of course I did. If not for you, then for myself, because I meant it when I said I’d never seen half the words on the prescription before in my life,” he replies, heart glowing at the sound of your small chuckles.

He’s expecting an equally witty response, but you surprise him when you pull back just enough to face him, a hazy smile on your face. “You’re amazing, Eren.”

Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush, fool. Don’t blush—fucking idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he boasts, leaning back into the coolest pose he could muster up while ignoring the growing heat creeping up his neck. It’s all in vain as you reach over to playfully tug at one of his ears.

He thinks you’re pretty like this. All the time, but most notably when he has you in his arms. So pretty, that he has to lean forward to kiss you; you don’t seem to mind, if the way you smile into the kiss is any indication of your feelings. Eren finds himself mirroring your grin; moving his arms from around your waist to the sides of your face.

The workers in this poor little café probably hate the two of you, but he doesn’t fucking care. He’s got his favorite girl in his arms right now, and you taste like almonds and coconuts and like the love of his life.

And he should tell you. Eren wants to tell you, and he finds himself wondering if those same intrusive, fearful thoughts were part of the driving force behind your own reason to keep your secrets from him.

You pull away from him, hands lightly draped around his neck, and you smile like you’re shy—like he hasn’t known you your whole life. Still, Eren finds himself smiling back; and thinks that if you were brave enough to tell him how you were feeling, then he should do the same.

“(_____), I… I gotta tell you something,” he starts, voice soft as his fingers curl around your waist a little more tightly, “Though, I’m kind of hoping you already know.”

You blink at him, almost innocently. Eren bites the inside of his jaw; you’re going to have to stop doing that before he jumps you again.

Better now than never, he supposes. He tries to shake his nerves when he takes your hands in his, completely covering them with his palms, and closes his eyes. Despite that, you try to offer him comfort, squeezing his fingers as best you can; and Eren takes that moment to thank his lucky stars for whoever decided to put you in his life. Because he knows that no matter what, even if he royally fucks this up, you’ll find some way to be there for him.

He slowly blinks his eyes open again, gaze resting on the ring around your neck. A faded chuckle escapes his lips when looks at it. The only one who got the wrong idea about his gift was you. But, he supposes that’s his fault; he never did explain it, after all.

“It’s nothing… It’s just that, I’m in—”

But Eren’s startled by a voice that makes him freeze. He almost wants to believe he misheard it, but he can hear the telltale clacking of vintage heels on the floor of the bakery and he knows that he didn’t mishear a thing.

Eren turns his head, and sure enough, there is his mother, in all her five foot glory, adorned in designer clothing from her beret to her shoes. With a fucking street urchin on her arm.

“Well, well, well, what a lovely surprise,” Carla beams, red lipstick perfectly in place even after a long day of wear.

Eren’s eyebrows draw together, as he takes in his mother and her fiancé standing in front of him. He can just barely register you calling out towards her, carefully maneuvering yourself off of his lap, and into the neighboring chair; but still keeping your right hand wrapped around his left. He can feel you squeeze it—whether to give him comfort, or warning, he’s not sure yet; probably both.

“It’s so good to see you!” you beam, excitedly offering her and Mitchell a seat across from the two of you at the table. Eren opens his mouth to refute, but you squeeze his hand again; a warning.

Carla leans forward to encase you in a hug, exchanging cheek kisses, and leaving Eren to stare at the street rat across from him. Mitchell seems to know better than to make eye contact with him, irises scattering from Carla’s back to the décor of the bakery while the two girls catch up.

“We missed you at the rehearsal dinner on Sunday,” Carla recounts, eyes fluttering to Eren’s briefly. One look into her son’s eyes, and she understands why; one look into his mother’s eyes, and Eren knows she has him all figured out. “I was worried you might not show at all.”

Eren strategically averts your gaze when you turn your head towards him, choosing to look at his mother instead.

“I didn’t even know there was a rehearsal dinner,” you tell her, tone polite, but Eren can hear the clear jab directed towards him, “I’m sorry, I—we would have gone, otherwise.”

“No need to apologize, darling,” Carla smiles, “I’m sure you two were very busy.”

“We were,” Eren cuts in, words definite. He sees a hint of surprise flash in his mother’s eyes briefly, expertly covered up with her sweet demeanor. She only nods in understanding, sitting back a bit to wrap her arm around Mitchell’s.

“What are you even doing here, Ma?” Eren questions, even as you do the same with his hands under the table, “Isn’t it bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.”

“After the third or fourth wedding, you grow tired of pleasantries and superstitions, my love,” she replies, “This place makes Mitchell’s favorite macarons, we thought we’d share a few before the big day. Maybe get some tea as a pre-celebration.”

The topic of sweets has you speaking up once again, engaging both his mother and Mitchell in a discussion about them, and your other findings from bakery hopping earlier. If Eren didn’t love you to pieces, he would have left the table a long time ago.

It carries on much longer than he can bear to endure; almost an hour of you, and his mother, and Mitchell making pleasant conversation while he tries his best not to brood beside you, but it’s futile. He feels like a little kid again. Stuck at the dinner table with his mother and a man he was being forced to get to know, only for him to become a stranger to him in a matter of months.

Eren grinds his teeth into each other when you laugh at something Mitchell says. He’s not going to sit through his any longer; or ever again.

“Well, this has been fun,” Eren says, voice blatantly monotonous as his cuts through the conversation, “But we should all probably head back go to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Eren, we should—” but, he stands up quickly, hand wrapping around yours to force you upwards too.

He doesn’t care to look at you, knowing the dissatisfied expression he’ll be met with. He fishes for his wallet and pulls out too many Euros, neatly tucking them under an unused knife to pay for the meal.

Eren’s steps out from between his chair and the table. “We’ll see you guys tomorr—” But is stopped before he can take three steps away.

His mother’s hand wrapped around his wrist. She stands, significantly shorter than Eren’s full height. “Actually, Eren, could I borrow you for a bit?”

And he doesn’t want to, because he knows exactly the conversation waiting for him. But he looks down at her, lets his eyes flicker to you, and back to her, and he knows he doesn’t have the heart to walk away. Not even if he tried.

He sighs with a shallow nod. He can feel your hand on his shoulder, the proud smile on your lips when you tell him that you’ll meet him back at your hotel. Mitchell ensures him and Carla that he’ll make sure you get back safely, and Eren still can’t stand the guy, but he’s grateful that he can at least be of use for something.

Eren kisses you on the forehead briefly, a promise to you and himself that he’ll finish his confession later. After all, he probably should come to terms with the woman who taught him what love is before he vowed to love you for the rest of his life.

The walk to his mother’s hotel is silent, Eren choosing to keep to himself, hands stuffed in his pockets to prevent his mom from holding them. He’s probably acting like a child, but isn’t that what he is to her; isn’t that she treats him as.

“Look, Ma, you don’t need my approval to marry him,” Eren grumbles, when they finally exit the elevator into the hotel room, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Of course I don’t,” Carla offers him a small grin, even if he won’t look at her directly, “But it matters to me.”

“Why does it matter now? It didn’t matter with Keith, or Henry, or Henri with an I, or any of the others,” Eren mumbles, reluctantly taking a seat on the stool opposite the vanity.

His mother tracks his movements with soft eyes and an amused grin as Eren absentmindedly bends a knee and begins to fiddle with the hem of his pants. Just like he used to when he was upset as a child.

“It mattered then, too, Eren,” she tells him, sitting on the stool and facing him.

He’s surprised by her words, his wide eyes giving him away even if he attempts to act unfazed. “It didn’t seem like it.”

Carla opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, words stuck in her throat. She watches Eren’s hunched figure, her tall son not even bothering to look her in the eyes. She exhales slowly; if he were five feet smaller, he’d have tucked himself under her arm, still refusing to look at her, but he’d have snuggled his head into her side while he pouted anyway.

“I suppose it didn’t,” she admits, “In the end, the love wasn’t enough to make it last, then.”

Eren is quiet for a bit at that, pulling at his pants leg. “And… and you love him enough, now?”

“It’s more than love, Eren. It’s... happiness—for yourself and another person—it’s being okay with somebody knowing you now, and forever. Whichever version of you that is.”

“Then why did you marry them before?” Eren asks, “If you knew it wasn’t enough, if you knew it was just going to end up as another big mistake.”

“Maybe the marriages were a mistake, and some of what came with them, but I don’t think the feelings were,” Carla muses, “Love is never wasted.”

“How can you say that?” Eren questions, disbelief and exasperation painted on his face, “Of course it is—you wasted your time, and your money, and your—your everything on those people who couldn’t care less about you now!”

“Eren—”

“You let them into our house,” Eren speaks over her, “You let them into your life, and they left. They always left—”

“Eren—”

“—And you even let some of them come back! Everyone, you let everyone have another chance, another anniversary, another wedding,” He’s ranting, crying, hot, irrational tears streaming down his face; hiccups interrupting his speech, “So—so, so if it’s not wasted and everyone gets another chance and another chance and another chance—why didn’t he come back, huh? For his?”

Eren’s standing now, arms flailing every which way during his breakdown, but his mother doesn’t try to stop him. She lets him continue, hears him out.

“If it’s love—if it’s not wasted, and it’s real—then why didn’t he come back? Why didn’t he want to? Why—why didn’t he want me? Why did I end up the bastard?”

Eren looks his mother in the eyes for the first time in the duration of their conversation with that final question; with his vision blurry, and chest heaving, and cheeks wet. Carla has no words to say; can only carefully open her arms, and wait for her son to come crashing into them. And he does; and it rains and pours, and Eren holds onto his mother for dear life, and onto the pieces of her breaking heart.

“Am I not good enough to have that kind of love?” Eren asks through tears, “Am I not special enough to want to know?”

“Eren,” she finally speaks, moving to cradle his head in her hands, “You don’t have to be special or good, to be known or loved. It’s enough that you were born. That’s enough to make you deserving of love.”

She doesn’t mind the tears against her palms or the hiccups of Eren’s breathing, “And you already have it.”

And Eren looks at her with eyes wide and wild like a child, staring at the first person to have ever loved someone as messed up, and plain, and ordinary as him; and he can feel more tears bubbling at his eyes.

“Ma, I’m—I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, wrapping his arms around her even tighter, chin resting on her shoulder while his shake through his tears, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Carla hugs her son as close as she can, like he’s five years old and the apple of her eye and she can take all his pain away. “You don’t have to be. You’re my son, and I’ll love you always.”

It feels like they have all the time in the world like that, to hug and cry and apologize; but Carla hopes Eren knows that he was always forgiven; that he never had anything to apologize for in the first place.

“She loves you, too, baby,” she coos, holding Eren as tight as possible, “But you have to let her know that. That you accept it.”

“Do you think she knows?” Eren asks, words muffled into the fabric of her clothing, “That I love her, too?”

“I do,” Carla confirms, pulling away to look at Eren in the eyes; his beautiful, shining, green eyes, “But I don’t think that either of you really realized it. I mean, you did give her an engagement ring, darling.”

Eren huffs at the memory, “She thought it was a gift.”

“Because you gave it to her as a gift.”

“I thought it was pretty obvious.”

“Love has a way of making people blind,” Carla muses, “Especially two lovesick semi-adults with too much money on their hands.”

Eren’s cheeks grow pink at the accusation, “It’s your money!”

“Yes, and I’m very happy to have it,” Carla chuckles, motioning for Eren to stand up. He does, and she looks up at him with glimmering, proud eyes. “Now, go, shoo. You have a girl to propose to, don’t you? There might be two Jaeger weddings this weekend.”

Eren nods, certain of himself for the first time in a while. He turns on his heel with a vigor igniting his footsteps, but pauses when he reaches the elevator. He makes a sharp turn, running back to his mom one last time, and squeezing her suddenly, and tightly against him.

“I love you, mom,” he says; the words too foreign on his tongue, and he vows to not let them be a stranger to his vocabulary from here on out.

“I love, you, too, Eren,” Carla calmly wraps her arms around her son one last time, “And I always will.”

You half-expected your walk back to your hotel with Mitchell to be painfully awkward, but he proves to be a pleasant conversationalist, even in Carla’s absence.

You know that Eren isn’t fond of him, but you wish that he would at least give him a chance. There’s no way to know if a marriage—if any relationship—will last forever, but, sometimes, you think it’s not about knowing about forever; but, rather about wanting it to make it there; about willing to go the distance with that person.

You can see that want, that willingness that works alongside love in Mitchell and Carla’s relationship, that stands out from her past marriages. You get the feeling they’re going to last; and that, most importantly, they both want it to, too.

It’s quiet out as you both walk the streets of Paris, Mitchell taking the time to point out small notes in architecture that interest you. You readjust your jacket as a gust of wind washes over you, careful to make sure your necklace doesn’t snag against your clothing.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” he calls to you gently.

“Thank you,” Surprised, you quickly let out an embarrassed cough, looking down to your left hand resting atop the uppermost button on your coat. “It was a gift.”

“I meant that one,” Mitchell corrects, carefully gesturing to his own neck to indicate that he was talking about the ring on your necklace, and not the one on your finger.

“Oh, thank you,” you repeat, “That one was actually a gift, too.”

The older man hums, continuing your walk to your hotel. “Must have been one hell of a gift. I don’t know many people who give out engagement rings as presents.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it wasn’t—it’s not an engagement ring,” you tell him, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks even in the chilly atmosphere of the night, “Eren gave it to me, actually, a few years ago—it was a Christmas gift.”

“Eren, huh?” Mitchell smiles fondly, “That makes sense. Carla tells me how much he cares about you.”

“You—she does?” you stutter. Mitchell nods. “I—I mean, I care about him, too.”

“Enough to accept an engagement ring from him, it seems,” Mitchell taunts, “I’m no specialist, but I know a Harry Winston piece when I see it. They’re not cheap.”

“Trust me, I know,” you scoff, “I almost killed him when I saw how much he spent on it.”

“And you took it, anyway?”

“Well, he—he was supposed to return it,” you defend yourself, “Because I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea! But he just, well, he gave me the other one instead, so I wear that one on my hand.”

Mitchell pauses, just as you both stand to the entrance of your hotel. “And what was the wrong idea you didn’t want people getting.”

“That... that...,” you pause, thinking back to that Christmas day.

Even though Eren is known for spending ludacris amounts of money, the ring came as a genuine surprise to you. A couple thousand on shoes, sure—you’re victim to that yourself; a couple hundred thousand on a lavish vacation wasn’t out of the ordinary, either; but a million, maybe even more, on a ring that you could have only ever asked of him in your dreams was another thing completely.

And, sure, even a few million didn’t mean much to you or Eren at the end of the day, but it wasn’t just the price; it was the object of the money, too. To accept a house, or a car, or a jet for that amount is something you could rationalize; but a ring seemed foreign, and far out of your league.

Then there was the display and value it held beyond money. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, but more than that, it’s tailored to your exact liking. The synthesis of your aesthetic and everything you could ask for, garnished with the memory of Eren in the very design; the diamonds you love, the flowers that remind him of you, and the way they stems wrap around each other and the petals meet in the middle.

A small gasp leaves your lips and instinctively, you reach to clutch the ring in your hold. There was no way this was an engagement ring... Eren hadn’t proposed to you when he gave it to you—in fact, he was so casual about it, that it had you stunned that he hadn’t thought to consider that other people might think it meant something more than what he intended it to be.

But, looking back, it seems like you’re the only one who didn’t understand what was going on. Because Eren told you, even then, that he’d wanted you forever; you didn’t know how to hear him. It was all right there—not just in the ring, but in all his gifts, in the entirety of your friendship.

Eren loves you, more than you could ever know.

“It’s an engagement ring,” you say aloud, but more to yourself than to Mitchell, “Oh my god, it’s an engagement ring.”

Mitchell can’t do anything but smile at your revelation. You’re practically bouncing off the walls, connecting the puzzle pieces of your relationship in the middle of the street at damn near midnight, but you don’t care; because it finally feels right, and it finally, finally all makes sense.

“He, but he never pro—oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill him.”

You feel elated and confused and happy and murderous all at once. Eren wanted to marry you; Eren loved you. He wants you for the rest of his life, and you’ve been too blind to see it this entire time.

Still, you think that maybe a verbal proposal might have helped to open your eyes a bit.

“Mitchell, I have to—”

You’re cut off by the echo of your name coming from the opposite end of the street, and you can just barely make out of Eren’s figure in the faded lights of the street lamps. His name falls from your lips like a whisper, and you hardly register Mitchell’s amused, soft laughter from beside you.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, patting you on the shoulder, “I better get back to Carla. Something tells me you two have a bit to talk about.”

You can barely nod at him, eye still wide and stunned, but a smile on your face even in your fearful anticipation. You don’t have time to thank him before he turns away, bidding you goodnight; and then you have something else to focus on, as Eren’s footsteps grow louder, and his silhouette grows sharper the closer he gets to you.

He practically crashes into you, chest heaving, hair wind-swept and wild from his running. He puts his hands on your shoulders, to steady himself physically and mentally, labored breaths ghosting over the top of your head.

“Hi,” he finally squeaks; and that stupid, big, dopey grin is on his face.

It’s ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous that you can’t help but greet him back. The two of you stand there, smiling like fools for god knows how long, before the realization strikes you for a second time.

Eren opens his mouth to finally speak, but a pained squeal leaves his lips instead as he feels the back of your hand slap his chest. “Ouch—hey, what was that for!”

“What the hell do you think you were doing proposing to me without telling me?” you screech, packing another punch to his chest for good measure, but it’s a poor barrier and does nothing to stop your tears from falling, “You’re an idiot, I should kill you for this, you know that, Eren Jaeger?”

Eren laughs softly, only to be heard by you in close proximity. He takes your offending hand in his, and reaches for your other, pulling both of them between your bodies. He can feel tears welling in his own eyes, as he looks down at the necklace, glimmering perfectly under the moonlight.  

“In my defense, the first thing you told me to do when I gave it to you was to return it.”

“I might not have said that if you told me what it meant,” you can hardly choke out a laugh through your tears; and Eren can’t stop his from falling either, “It’s insane, you know. This whole thing—to ask me to marry you at 19. For me to not realize until we’re 21.”

“I know,” Eren agrees, inching closer even though there’s barely any room between you, “I know. But I know I love you, every version of you. I always have, I always will.”

You close your eyes as Eren’s hands move to your face, gingerly sweeping your tears away from your cheeks. He feels too close, it feels like too much; but you don’t want him to move.

“You know... if you had asked me, then,” you start, blinking your eyes open with a sniffle; you’re met with Eren’s emerald greens one with far too much hope and love glimmering in them, “I—I don’t even know what I would have said.”

“And if I asked you now?”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, slowly raising your hands to wrap around Eren’s wrist, and lower them to your neck, before looking at him again, “Ask me.”

Eren blinks, carefully trailing his hands up and around your neck, nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your necklace. He hardly lets the chain pool into his hand before it’s tossed aside, and the ring is still between his thumbs and index fingers as he lowers himself on to one knee.

“You are the love of my life, and there’s not a single version of life—a single version of you, or me—where I don’t want to be with you forever,” Eren says, “And you know how shit I am with my words, but I fucking mean it. I swear to you, that I’ll do my best every day to show you how much you mean to me; marry me, and I’ll prove it to you, I swear, I will.”  

Your lips are wobbling at Eren’s confession below you, and you can just barely beckon him upwards in your state. He’s hardly back on two feet before you’re pulling him against you, ghosting the word “yes” on his lips before you kiss him.

You both melt into the kiss, Eren’s hands skillfully cupping your cheeks, while he keeps the ring in his hold and bruises your lips together.

“You don’t have to prove it to me, Eren,” you assure him, hand shaking when you pull apart and let him slip the ring onto your finger—where it belongs, “You already have.”

For his first birthday as a married man, Eren requested something intimate. He wanted just a small celebration with all of your mutual friends, some good food, alcohol, and lots of fun.

Supposedly simple and intimate for him entailed renting out the top floor of the Whitney, which was currently encasing an exhibit portraying some kind of abstract modern art that allowed for a very drunk Eren and Armin have to entertain themselves by trying their best to recreate the paintings using very flawed couples aerial yoga.

The art, paired with the dimmed lighting, Jean’s choice selection of overtly sexual music, and Eren’s pick of overpriced champagne also meant that Marco, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha found everything ten times funnier than they were—which meant they were a million times louder than usual.

Jean stands next to you by the bar, watching as Eren attempts to hold Armin above his head by holding on to just his waist. They’re unsuccessful, of course, resulting in both boys toppling onto the ground as the majority of their older friends laugh along.

“Lucky me, I get to take him home at the end of the night,” you drawl, turning to the bartender to order another drink.

She smiles, easily preparing your martini and sliding it you with an inquiry. “That’s your boyfriend? The tall one with the brown hair?”

“No,” you sigh, eyes closed for a moment before taking the glass between your fingers. “That’s my husband, unfortunately.”

× even more notes: this fic. is my baby. it’s been a draft of mine for over two years at this point. it’s gone through various fandoms but i’ve never quite been able to complete and post it, so i’m very happy that it’s finally here! i hope you all enjoyed, and i just wanted to say that i’m glad to finally have been able to share this with you all!

[lesbiannancytruther]

alright im caving and combining my two current obsessions THATS RIGHT its a ronance shadowhunters au

disclaimer cassandra clare is weird as hell i just like her worldbuilding <3

hear me out…. shadowhunter!nancy x warlock!robin… i think it’s real idk….

explanation section for those who haven’t read these books: shadowhunters have angel blood and are sworn to protect humanity from demons. (magical cops) they’re stronger, faster, have more endurance than normal, and can use runes to enhance their capabilities. they look like sick ass tattoos.

downworlders are all other magical beings (other than demons): vampires, werewolves, faeries, and warlocks.

warlocks are the offspring of demons and humans, they can use magic to do a LOT of stuff, they’re immortal (stop aging in their early 20s) and all of them have a sort of demon’s mark.

and since i want this nancy to be half-faerie: faeries are the offspring of demons and angels, they have wild magic and are typically beautiful and mischievous. full-blooded faeries can’t lie. faeries are weak to cold iron. faeries are basically immortal as they hardly age once they reach maturity.

in all cases shadowhunter blood is dominant

imagine: ted wheeler is actually interesting here. on a mission in faerie he gets just a little bit tipsy on faerie drinks (makes u a little crazy) and he ends up sleeping with a faerie😳 and he’s like “damn wild night” and thinks nothing of it until 9 months later BAM there’s a baby on his doorstep and he’s like “oh what the fuck”

i couldnt decide if i wanted this au to be pro karen or anti karen so i decided it’d be a mix of both, with karen at first being appalled at the situation and refusing nancy and slowly learning to love and care for her as she watched her grow. i think karen will always have a level of prejudice against nancy, so nancy has always felt she needs to be perfect to earn her approval and love. (lesbianism allegory mayhaps🤨)

took it upon myself to decide that robin’s father would be the demon, a typical incubus who preyed on her wild and free, unpredictable mother and left her with a kid she had no idea how to deal with. robin’s demon mark is her horns, which resemble massive antlers of either a deer or an elk, but are tiny when she’s little, easy to hide with hats. i think robin’s mother will have the same flaws she does in rebel robin, loving but flighty and weird, being both unconventional and judgmental. she accepts robin for who she is but is always stepping on wires trying to make her feel better.

as they grow they both deal with their own struggles. nancy is an excellent shadowhunter, easily one of the best of her generation, but she’s often shunned for being half-fae and feels the need to prove herself at every turn. she’s a lot more tolerant than most shadowhunters and because of this she’s taken on being an advocate for downworlders in sticky situations, being the head of investigations involving downworlders to make sure no one gets unfairly blamed for things they haven’t done.

im thinking this is where robin and nancy meet, with robin being framed for casting an illegal spell she’d never cast otherwise and nancy working to prove her innocence. at first nancy is wildly annoyed with robin who asks her all sorts of questions about her pointed ears and the shocks of white blonde streaks through her wildly curly brown hair and constantly questions why she’s doing what she’s doing, but she quickly warms up to robin when she realizes how brilliant and genuinely earnest she is, so unafraid to tell the truth and be an advocate, even it it’d bite her in the ass.

robin, despite having an unremarkable demon parent, is actually pretty powerful. she’s a really good ally to have, especially when you’re nancy wheeler and get stabbed a LOT, robin is there to help <3

robin is pretty much enamored with nancy immediately, only set off by the fact that she’s a shadowhunter and tbh fuck shadowhunters they suck so hard so often (here’s where the prissy thing comes in), but nancy is so smart and talented and really good at fighting. she’s reckless, and pretty, and her unnaturally blue eyes hold so much determination and will to survive and to be seen.

tldr they fall in love really hard!! and bc cassandra clare was like “yasss racism allegory” this does not go over well with anyone bc omg a shadowhunter and downworlder… KISSING??? IN LOVE??? taboo and wrong (and they also hate gay people on top of that these guys suck man)

and a lot of shadowhunters take it as a “i knew she was evil!” about nancy but robin helps her realize that shadowhunter approval is actually so dumb and she’s open about it!

lmk if u guys r interested in more! ik it can be kind of hard bc idk what lore i didn’t fill u guys in on so please feel free to ask any questions bc i could talk abt this series for hours

[bokugaos]

blessed is the man.

characters: konoha, bokuto

length: 2.3k

tw — incest, alcohol, aphrodisiacs, voyeurism, oral (m. receiving), nipple play, lactation

summary: konoha slips something in your sake and things don’t go as planned, however it looks more than either of you can handle.

Working for the Bokuto family is not all bad. They pay well. Coming from old money means they are rather influential as they have roots in most businesses and fields, guaranteeing that they stay in the top 5% of the country. Any illegal activities they do are actually rather negligible.

Most of the dirty work is still handled by the head of the clan and his son, leaving his grandchildren out of the misery of the business world domination. The two eldest granddaughters have been following the exact footsteps as they have come of age, each in charge of a different branch of the oligarchy.

The title of the future successor would eventually fall on the only grandson, who is actually a great authoritative figure when given the right moment and opportunity, granted, if there are no distractions around. One would argue that as the youngest of the family, you’re the one most neglected, unbound by any responsibilities and most family matters.

The empire’s grandchildren are a feat to be ogled—though that one is not necessarily described by the person who introduced Konoha to the job. Rather, it is a quiet perk that he comes to realize as soon as he steps foot in the estate, catching eyes full of you walking along the hallway with your kimono restricting wide movements, and he follows your shadow as you move rather eloquently under the moonlight.

He goes back to the same wing the following night, and the night after that, and after, but he doesn’t get to see you. Instead, what he has been getting is the sight of the grandson drunkenly stumbling in after a night in town, clothes hanging off of him sticky with spilled alcohol.

Bokuto is easy, open with affection, most often drunk and not caring as long as he gets to have fun with his friends or his bodyguards. Konoha doesn’t understand how the assigned right hand of his, Akaashi, he remembers his name, puts up with the young master. But Bokuto is actually bearable, he supposes, he is just ridiculously energetic and bubbly and up to anything that even remotely promises to take him away from handling his actual duties as the future heir.

His little sister, on the other hand…

Konoha can tell that you are just as slutty, but just more stingy about it. Under the second eldest daughter’s provision, your older sister who quite naturally drinks sake every night just because it’s her hobby—routine, as she calls it—you get drunk, too, but in the confines of your room where your kimono will slip deeper and deeper off your shoulders until it is hanging off of you sloppily and showing off the curves of your tits.

Sometimes you’ll stumble your way out into the gardens where you will lie in the wet grass, legs spread and giving anybody walking past a nice view of your luscious thighs because of course the youngest in the Bokuto empire is a raging slut that does not make a habit out of wearing underwear.

But—you’re as oblivious about those tender, smooth skin as you are about everything else in your goddamn life.

It is your own fault, really, what is happening to you. You’re forcing their hands on the issue—if only you had been more forthcoming with spreading your legs, and the staff wouldn’t have had to resort to such dire measures…

Only that’s not true. Not really. Of course they could have just let the issue lie and watch you come out of hiding; waiting until you’re in a drunken stupor so they can creep out and jerk off on you; maybe drape you around their shoulders like some perverse hunting trophy, showing your tight little ass off to a camera and spreading your cheeks wide so they can take pictures of the cunt you’re so stingy with.

The truth of the matter is, though, that Konoha doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want you to be a lewd little fuck doll, head lolling and drooling onto your own tits. He wants you aware and needy, begging for his cock and whining for his cum, crying in despair when you’ve can’t have either of them because he’ll deny you as fucking long as he can before he’ll fuck your cunt loose and sloppy.

It’s absolutely, hilariously easy to do. He gets the substance on his errand out into the city, buying them from a seedy mechanic in between jobs of collecting extortion money and fixing spare parts.

Then he mixes them into the order of sake, preferring to make sure you will be too drunk to care about any taste that might be skewered by the added dose of a chemical cocktail.

Lucky for him, you’re actually drinking alone tonight, no patronizing older sister in sight. So he, finally, brings the bottle to you, already sitting with your legs spread wide, kimono rucked up on your thighs.

And then—he just has to wait for it to hit your bloodstream. For you to get squirmy and short of breath, hips fucking helplessly into the air and nipples hard and escaping from the heavy folds of your kimono.

He waits for you to get hot and needy, to call for someone to alleviate the heat surging in your little body, and then he will descend upon you like a vulture, urging your thighs apart and fucking you until your pretty cunt is a sloppy, gaping hole—

You do get restless. Your shoulders are trembling, and your nipples plump up into fat little nubs that beg for some sharp teeth to bite and pull at them—but when you start to sing, drunkenly crawling around the tatami mats of your floor on all fours, crying like a cat in heat, you do not call for a servant to alleviate your need.

You call for your brother.

And Bokuto Koutarou, dutiful now as Konoha has never quite seen elsewhere, comes running. He watches, dismayed, horrified and horny, as your brother takes the situation in and just… has at it.

In his eyes, you can’t be more than drunk; his slut of a sister that calls for a fuck once the alcohol has finally reached a threshold that makes your inhibitions slip like the heavy fabric of your kimono slides down your shoulders. He doesn’t know about the thing Konoha has slipped you; doesn’t know that the latter has primed you to spread your legs for him so he can pull you on his cock and make you piss yourself with how good you think you’re getting it.

So in Bokuto’s mind, he has to simply be a deviant that takes advantage of his drunk little sister—and Konoha wonders if that is even worse than what he has been planning to do to you.

“Imouto,” Bokuto croons, hands hovering over your naked shoulders as you become aware of your visitor and turn around, glassy eyes fixing on him with desperate intensity. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling for me?”

There’s a sweaty sheen crawling up down from your hairline and up from your collar, making you feel so stuffy that you can’t keep your eyes open fully—but Bokuto doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t even seem to take notice, because he has a goal; a mission—and that is to get in his little sister’s cunt, free and unhindered, no inhibition.

You are uncoordinated, but fuelled with hot, needy determination, you manage to grab at his pants and drag them down his thighs. Bokuto’s cock is nice and plump already, and fills easily enough as you croon at it, lipping sloppily at the shaft while leaning your head against his thigh.

It looks like the two of you have done this a million times. Bokuto’s hand falls into your hair, idly stroking through it and untangling the little tie from the ends so he can muss it properly. There is no hesitation; no awkwardness. Just Bokuto tilting his hips forward a little and using his grip on your hair to guide your mouth along his rapidly fattening cock.

Bokuto is using you like a whore he’s paid for the night. He tightens his grip in your hair, pulling you away far enough that he can start to pop just the tip of his cock between your plump lips, then pull it away from you again after just a few desperate suckles and uncoordinated lashes of your slippery tongue.

“Damn… you’re drooling so much today.” He whispers when he sees the steady drip down your chin. You just stare at him, looking brain dead and horny, whining when you paw the folds of your kimono aside and show him your pussy shyly, hoping he’d do something about how incredibly wet it has become.

It’s only then that Bokuto starts to pause and question the situation. Crooning at you and pushing you to lie on you back; asking you if you’re not feeling well, but also not stopping to touch you, gently slapping at your cheek to make you open your eyes and stare at him blearily as his other hand travels down and gropes your tits.

Apparently the young master has some standards that involve his hopelessly drunk play things not being absolutely comatose as he fucks them. You are gurgling breathlessly, mindlessly arching your tits into his hand, your hips grinding up happily from where the folds of your kimono are parted, dripping steadily and stickily.

Bokuto has taken to caging you between his knees, holding your jaw in a tight grip to make sure you keep staring at him while he pinches your nipples mean enough to make you cry out even in your drunken, aphrodisiac stupor.

He feels something warm and wet hit his chest, and he looks down in confusion, mouth dropping open on a soft, mesmerized ‘o’ as he sees the quite literally milky liquid slide down his pecs where it hit him. His eyes travel to his hand, thumb and forefinger still pinched around your swollen nipple.

Your wet swollen nipple.

“What the fuck, are you...?” Bokuto’s voice breaks, higher and a little panicked. He lets go of your jaw with his other hand, grabbing at your tits and squeezing until you’re whining and squirming. Milking you. Losing his goddamn mind as liquid starts rolling from your ripe teats as you sob and artlessly fuck the air.

“Niichan, please..!” Voice trembling, you defeatedly move one of your hands over his, placed over your swollen nipple, the area puffy and supple under his fingers.

Konoha wanted to curse; Bokuto’s hands grabbing at your tits were a big obstruction to his view enough, and now your hand just adds to his frustration. He watches closely as Bokuto pinches your nubs and you moan, open mouthed and filthy, your head tipping back as milk squirts onto his hand. The sweet scent intensifies and you shudder at the feel of warm liquid trickling down his arm.

Not even pausing to think about it, Bokuto brings his arm up to his face and licks the milk off, an acute sweetness exploding in his mouth. A choked grunt distracts him from his reverie and he looks up to meet your unfocused stare. It sounds very distant, yet very .. present at the same time.

Silently catching his breath, Konoha alternates between staring cautiously at Bokuto, and sending contemplating peeks at your swollen breasts. But it seems that the young master is equally as distracted by the puffy, shiny nipple right in his face. A single bead of white is gathering and it is so tempting, Konoha wants to cry from frustration.

The arousal is so potent and thick in the air, he can almost taste it in the back of his throat. He’s not sure what Bokuto wants to do to you, but with the way his cock is already so rigidly twitching, the outcome seems guaranteed.

Bokuto drags his tongue through the sticky mess on your chest, taking his time to circle your swollen nipples, his gaze steady on your face. Keening desperately, you thrust a hand into his hair and tug him closer. He wraps his lips around the raised peak, flicking the tip of his tongue over the sensitive flesh. More warm sweetness bursts into his mouth, judging by the way you cry out and start whimpering even louder.

Konoha nearly slams his fist to the door but settles with a string of curses beneath his breath, of how he’s supposed to be kneeling there, taking your nipples in his mouth, tasting the sweet milk your body is so eagerly offering.

Not that both Bokuto and you seem capable of noticing anything else right now. Your face is contorted in bliss, mouth open on a nearly endless moan and your hips keep stuttering against his knee—the one he’s using to keep your thighs apart—craving for more friction.

It only takes a minute of the combined sensation on your nipples, one being sucked so thoroughly, circled and flicked with his warm tongue, and the other being teased endlessly by Bokuto’s tireless fingers for you to arch up, screaming, body straining as you come hard under him, wetting his thighs with your slick.

Amazed, Bokuto shoves his already wet hand down to your pussy. He looks like he is floating, the euphoric taste of your sweet milk combined with the nectar from your cunt hitting his taste buds.

Konoha just has to sit and stare from the gap between the sliding doors, mouths softly gaping, cock hard at the knowledge that the chemicals he has mixed into your sake must have induced it; proving that he can quite make your body do more, just like how he’s made you lactate like a cow.

And Bokuto just laps it all up as if he has any right to it.

Life is so unfair sometimes. 

[kcyars19992]

View on Twitter

Always remember this part:

I want y’all(yes every single last one of you, heck even the aliens if they exist among us) to realize Tory had the opportunity to take a plea deal and serve damn there no time.

Megan lied to police to protect Tory immediately after he shot her, he slandered her in the blogs and so she decided to tell the truth to law enforcement.

The courts offered a plea deal, Tory threw it back in their face and dragged this out for years to keep the lie going and burned up his own money on legal fees and taxpayer dollars on a trial. The courts gave bail, Tory used that time to torment and harass Megan which only hurt his case and was a key factor in his heavy sentencing when the day came.

At every single turn the goodwill of the universe/God offered this man an opportunity to save himself — and he laughed at it and sabotaged it.

He could have owned up to his actions.

INSTEAD, he was so arrogant in the process bc he thought painting Megan as a liar on social media would hold up on trial. It backfired in the worst way possible.

The Tory fans, his family, even Tory himself may never publicly admit it — but he completely allowed his dangerous ego to land him in a cage for the rest of his 30s. One day he’ll have to face that.

He is the maker of his own self destruction, the creator of his own downfall, the artist of his own shortcoming, pride and ego led to where he is now.

and that’s why I don’t feel sorry for him, it’s not thoughts and prayers is sorrows sorrows prayers. It’s not prayers up but prayers down for him. He had an opportunity to not be CHARGED at ALL cuz she was willing to PROTECT his buck tooth hammer head toddler built bitch ass. She lied to protect that ungrateful piece of work, trying to prevent him from being another name , another hashtag, another life taken by the cops, another black man getting shot to death by the police or having his life choked out in a illegal chokehold as he’s screaming, “I can’t breathe!” , another black man screaming “ mother!”, another Trayvon, Sandra, tamir, Ahmaud, tyre, Mike, Eric, Breonna, George, Jacob, Elijah, and other black lives either taken away or forever traumatized and he repays her by being so cruel, and mean towards her having people hurt her for no good reason but to gas him up, and you expect me to feel some level of sympathy because he said that he had a difficult childhood, losing his mom at a young age and an alcohol addiction? yeah I don’t think so.

Fuck him. I don’t feel sorry for him. He deserves every bit of those 10 years . He should’ve been taken accountability for his actions, but no , he gone too big for his britches, and he chose to be a full blown psychopath and a sociopath .

Now look at this Canadian Bitch.

Ashy

Lace front looking like something out of the dollar store struggling to hold on to his head Down to the wig glue damn. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

Broke because his lawyers he got from craigslist Or Amazon or education connection

gonna be ****d by bubba in the showers or spreading wide for poptarts and ramen noodles soup

All because he can’t control his big ego in his small body of his and his violent tendencies

Oh well, maybe he should have just took a plea deal or better yet shut the heck up or here’s an even better idea 💡: never shot at her!

Meg cut him deep wit that “The only reason why your popular at the moment is because you are in a feature with Jack Harlow “comment and he with his violent tendencies and toxic masculinity couldn’t take it.

That munchkin is thinking what does he got that I don’t?

I don’t know, perhaps good looks, talent, a full set of hair, charm, attractive personality, and him not in a jail cell for the next ten years and possible deportation

That troll had the nerve , the audacity , to be talking about no weapons formed against him shall prosper, when shot a black woman who was walking away from him and then lied and gaslit her, slut shamed her, made up a misogynistic lie that another woman shot her out of jealousy, violated a restraining order, and antagonized her and her boyfriend through his music and you wonder why I don’t feel any ounce of sympathy towards him and others like him.

It’s one thing for a man to harm a woman because she rejected or criticized him and his work that makes him a coward but when that same man torments her even though she was generous and kind enough to not press charges against him then he is no different than the sadists who take pleasure from causing others pain

If anything he is the weapon and it was, and is prospering against him ! He didn’t deserve 1/10000000th of the consideration she gave him that night. She was too kind to him. People can really take other peoples kindness for weakness and you wonder why TV shows like snapped is on TV and it’s been around for like 33 seasons as of this year.

I’m not sorry that he’s suffering now. sorrows, sorrows prayers

[youngbugandtonystank]

what's the difference between what wanda did to those people in wandavision and what tony did with ultron?

I have so many asks about this. Hate asks, and people wondering what’s going on. This is the only one I’m answering.

Both of them are responsible for their actions. I’ve seen people try and take away either Tony’s responsibility for that or Wanda’s engagement and accountability. 

In Tony’s case, the Ultron program was supposed to be a global peacekeeping program to protect the people, acting as a suit around the world to prevent events like the Battle of New York. He was doing it in the name of peace and safety. Tony was rightfully scared because he was the only one who knew what was coming. Wanda intentionally enhanced that fear in him and this drove him to create Ultron with Bruce. He has responsibility for it. Same as Bruce. He owns up to this, he took full responsibility and agreed that they needed to be regulated. 

Tony Stark: A few years ago, I almost lost her, so I trashed all my suits. Then, we had to mop up HYDRA... and then Ultron. My fault.

--

Tony Stark: There's no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check! Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept limitations, if we're boundary-less, we're no better than the bad guys.

--

Tony Stark: That's good. That's why I'm here. When I realized what my weapons were capable of in the wrong hands, I shut it down and stop manufacturing.

--

If people think he needs to be in jail for it, then I’m guessing the rest of the Avengers too since all of them have made mistakes and killed people too. As a matter of fact, after the events of Wandavision, I’m sure that Wanda should be in the Raft, but because she’s ‘a poor baby’ yall won’t think she deserves that. 

SPOILERS

It’s a big possibility that we don’t have all the info about what happened in Wandavision but we’re going to go with what we know so far. 

In Wanda’s case, she did it to appease her grief and pain, and I can understand why she would get to that point, she’s been through a lot and maybe she was about to lose her mind. Instead of recruiting Wanda after the Sokovia incident, they should’ve given this girl treatment for her mental health problems. She just lost her brother and passed through a very traumatic war zone, of course she needs assistance. Cap and Natasha were the ones responsible for her because they were training the ‘new’ avengers. Sam was with them and he used to be a counselor to veterans with PTSD. He could’ve helped Wanda with some of her traumas. As shown in the series, Wanda did the whole hex business before meeting Agatha, which means creating that little reality was all Wanda’s responsibility. Hayward and Agatha did exactly what Wanda did to Tony (and the avengers/other people) in AOU. They manipulated her and played with her emotional traumas. Hayward showed her Vision’s body parts and Agatha started to pull strings to know how Wanda did what she did and her real powers while orchestrating against her. 

Both of them have made mistakes. No one is better than the other. I don’t understand why some fans want to make someone responsible more than the other or blame one character for the other. While Wanda gave Tony that vision and pushed his self-destructive side to obsess over saving the world, he did create Ultron, what Tony didn’t predict was that the robot was going to corrupt itself. Same with Wanda, while Agatha and Hayward contributed to her trauma, she held hostage and isolated 3,892 people to create her perfect reality, ripping these people away from their identities and free will to fit her own fantasy. Don’t turn this into ‘omg poor her, it’s Tony fault that she’s this way'. I can’t believe I have to repeat this but you don’t see Peter Parker obsessively looking for the person who manufactured the gun instead of the criminal who actually killed Uncle Ben. Ridiculous that I have to repeat this example. 

Oh and about Vision’s body (damn yall have a gift to turn everything into Tony’s fault for some reason). I can’t believe some of you think Tony (while grieving for 5 years) would give Vision to Hayward. You’re either pulling stuff out of your asses or you didn’t pay attention to the show. Maria Rambeau founded and was the Director of S.W.O.R.D. In 2018 (when IW happened), this is where she came up with a new policy within S.W.O.R.D. to ground snapped agents in case they ever returned. Maria was diagnosed with cancer, then two years later (2020), she passed away. Then, Hayward was promoted to Director of S.W.O.R.D., in his first years (2020-2022) he refocused the organization’s work from extraterrestrial operations to robotics, nanotechnology and artificial intelligence, etc. There, that was the 5 years. Then in 2023 it’s when he started project Cataract, which revolved around rebuilding Vision as a sentient weapon. Tony was dead when this happened. How come yall don’t get this part? I don’t understand, do you really think his dead corpse signed some papers to give Vision to those people? LMAO

Instead of thinking Tony would give up Vision just like that, think (possibilities):

Maria was the head of S.W.O.R.D., she might have just been keeping his body safe without doing anything with him. Maybe she trusted Hayward and he, obviously, betrayed her because he’s turning her organization into something else after her death. 

One of the Sokovia Accords regulations states that the use of technology to bestow individuals (the term ‘enhanced individual’ in this book is defined as any person, human or otherwise, with superhuman capabilities) with innate capabilities is strictly regulated by the government, as is the use and distribution of highly advanced technology. Vision signed those accords ('I'm saying there may be a casualty. Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict... breeds catastrophe. Oversight...oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand’) The Avengers were no longer be a private organization and they operate under the supervision of the United Nations. This means they (UN) were the ones that referred Vision’s body to S.W.O.R.D., to a trustworthy leader, Maria. 

Vision died in Wakanda, not in New York. Tony was missing for 22 days after the snap, the rest of the avengers should’ve taken responsibility for his body.  

Why is it always Tony’s fault but never consider that other parties are also involved in this? 

I want to address some other asks with this one. I know some of you are angry because people are starting to blame Tony all over again, so a few things to remember:

Tony did not create the Accords. The Accords were the result of all the collective actions the Avengers have done in their superhero careers. All of them have made mistakes and the collateral damage of that was taken into consideration by the government and 117 countries around the world. He signed the accords because he knew that he could amend them with the support of the rest of the avengers and he knew about Thanos (something big was coming). 

Obadiah Stane (it’s so bizarre for me seeing that some people don’t know who this guy is, I’m guessing that the people who are watching Wandavision are too young to remember or didn’t watch the Iron Man movies at all which is highly probable) was the one selling weapons to the wrong people, not Tony. Obadiah was the CEO of Stark industries and became second-in-command for two decades. He grew jealous of Tony and began cooperating with the Ten Rings in Afghanistan, selling them Stark Industries weapons illegally. Imagine blaming all of it on Tony when Obadiah basically murdered thousands only because he felt a little green. If someone who you trust (he had no reasons to doubt Obadiah since he was like a second father-figure for him) does something behind your back (take into consideration that people like Pepper; who was Tony’s assistant and had knowledge of all of Tony’s activities and responsibilities, Rhodey; who was the liaison between the military in the department of acquisitions and Stark Industries, and Happy Hogan; who was his personal bodyguard and Head of Security of Stark Industries, didn’t know what Stane was doing either), how are you going to know about it? Tony trusted him. And when he realized what was going on he immediately stopped all of it. He worked hard to be better and people overlook that because they want other characters to look better. 

Don’t act like Tony was the only one assisting the military. All of the avengers assisted in one way or another. Natasha (who used to be an assassin) was in the Red Room, trained in the Black Widow Program in association with Leviathan and the Soviet Armed Forces, served for KGB, etc. Bruce Banner used to work for the United States government and was commissioned to create a super serum for them. Same goes with the rest, Sam, Clint, etc. Steve Rogers was a soldier lmaoooooooooooooo like, what happened to Tony with Obadiah happened to Steve with SHIELD/HYDRA in TWS. He trusted the people working in there (SHIELD), served for them, did missions for them and as soon as he found out what they were doing behind his back he turned against them. 

Knowing all of this, how is Tony always the villain for yall? I’m guessing because Tony’s popularity in the MCU, but still, aren’t yall tired of not understanding the plot and having people repeat it to you constantly? Watch the movies if you want to understand the franchise, people. Stop following the crowd. 

Also, Wanda is not a kid, she’s a 35 year old woman in Wandavision, she was 26 in AOU and 27 in CW. Hardly a child. Tony had almost her same age (38) when he realized Obadiah was selling illegal weaponry behind his back. The only reason people don’t fully forgive Tony is because 1. he’s a man and 2. he’s a billionaire. Even if Wanda was poor she still killed and hurt many people over the course of her life. Stop trying to make Tony the villain only to downplay Wanda’s actions. 

Both have killed people, both have made mistakes. They’re both responsible for them. 

[persephone-is-here-omg]

Part of the Job.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Reader.

Warnings: Smut. Oral, female receiving, slight choking, fingering, teasing. Alcohol.

Word Count: 4059.

Rating: 18+.

Masterlist.

More Bruce Wayne bullshit, hoes. And watch your backs, because if I give into the idea I have there’s gonna be a Bucky Barnes/Bruce Wayne/Reader fic coming your way and you won’t know what hit you.

"Bruce Wayne" The gruff voice at the other end of the line says as you examine the boutique box that had just been delivered at your door.

"Hey... Uhm... I think you sent a dress or something by mistake to my place" You say prodding him for information, but you know is not a mistake.

"Not by mistake, we have something to do tonight and I need you to wear that dress" Bruce informs you of your plans and you can't help but nod slowly, even though he can not see you do it.

"So, what if I have plans tonight?" You tease, hardly containing the glee in your voice "Maybe dinner or something, probably with a guy you wouldn't like"

If you had Bruce in front of you, you know you'd see him frown for a moment, just a short little second, then he'd look at you with those clear blue eyes of his, face completely neutral "I know you don't have any plans"

"You know, is kinda rude of you to just dispose of my time like this" You keep teasing, just pushing a little more.

"You knew what you were getting into and it didn't stop you. I'll be there at nine tonight" He says and hangs up.

You giggle and bite your lip, staring at the box still closed on your bed. You haven't even opened it yet, not that you don't trust Bruce's taste, you just wanted to give him shit about it first. You tell yourself he probably knows the sizes of every person that's ever come into his proximity, but still a part of you preens with pride at the idea of having so much of his atention. Not that you would ever admit it to him.

You open the box and look at the dress, is nice. Is a really nice dress, black with delicate beading details that make a swirling pattern on the sides, a deep v in the front that shows quite a bit of cleavage is kept together by a sheer mesh panel. When you turn it around you can see the low back and how the skirt is slightly longer at the back. 

You jump, a few hours later, as you come out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy black towel and find Bruce seated on the armchair in your room “God damn it” You mutter “What are you doing here so early?”

“Does the dress fit?” He asks, his intense gaze fixed on you.

Holding the towel tight around you and narrowing your eyes “You know it does and that is weird”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth raised just the tiniest bit “Is it?” The rest of the sentence is left unsaid, but you know what he's thinking about.

You roll your eyes “Where are we going, anyway? That you need me to dress like a showgirl”

“Remember that arms dealer I had been trailing?”

You nod.

“He frequents a clandestine casino, here, in Gotham. We are going there tonight” Bruce explains, fixing his tie.

“Oh, so we're wasting money tonight?”

“Mainly. There's some illegal fighting, too but I’ll only fight if I have to. They have a strict dress code, hence, the dress” He looks at you intently, then adds “You should wear that black coat over it. Is cold outside”

“Okay, daddy” You answer in a sarcastic tone “Now… Can you give me some space?”

The corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly in amusement and you can almost hear his thoughts, then he stands and walks pass you and out of the room “Don’t take too long”

The door closes after Bruce and you walk towards your dresser, pull on a pair of panties and then sit down and start to get your makeup done, then your hair. Finally you put on the dress, paired with black, high heeled shoes and the coat Bruce suggested.

Bruce’s back is to you as you come out and clear your throat “I’m ready” You stand there as he turns around, his eyes moving slowly down your body, taking you in.

"Perfect" He says and walks over to you "Let's go"

Bruce opens the passenger side door for you and you look at him with a tilted head as he gets on the opposite side "I thought Alfred would be driving"

"Alfred's busy tonight"

"Busy, huh?" You nod and watch as he starts the car with calculated moves "And what did he say about my stitches?"

"He said you did a marvelous job" You beam at the praise "Thinks you should patch me up more often"

"He does?"

"Is what he said" Bruce counters and then starts driving.

Silence extends between the two of you as your eyes watch the city lights pass you by, then you turn your head and look at Bruce, see his eyes dart from the road to you, see his hand tighten on the gear shift. You realize you are going out of the city.

"So, B" You start and he turns his face again towards you, you know he wants to tell you not to call him 'B' he also knows you're not going to stop "What made you pick this dress? But, more importantly, can I keep it?"

"Is a nice dress and is yours" He answers, simply, to the point.

"I know is a nice dress, Bruce" You tilt your head and lean closer to him "But why did you pick it for me?"

Bruce drives out of the road and looks at you, one hand on the steering wheel and another on the gear shift "I knew it would look good on you and would fit into the place we're going" His knuckles are white, as if he's holding back from something, he lets go of the gear shift and places his hand around your neck loosely "And I like how you look in it, very much" He lets go of your neck and starts driving again, you squirm in your seat, bite your lip and take a deep, shaky breath, let your head rest against the seat.

You cross and then uncross your legs and Bruce grips your thigh firmly "Stop" He kneads your thigh but doesn't add anything else, his hand moves slowly up your thigh and stops right under the hem of your dress.

Bruce moves his hand back onto the gear shift and you turn your face to look at him, watch the tick in his jaw, think about telling him to park somewhere and just fuck you already, is what you both want. But you know Bruce and know he won't do it, he'd tell you to focus on tonight's mission and that you should take this as an exercise in delayed gratification. 

About twenty minutes later, he parks outside a rather inconspicous building, a man you assume works security approaches the car as Bruce rolls down the window on his side. He hands the man a small, black card and then the man steps back, Bruce gets out of the car and walks over to your side, opens the door for you and offers his hand for you take as you step out of the car. His hand finds the small of your back and you can feel how his thumb moves in a slow motion over your coat as he hands the keys of the car and guides you towards the door.

Once inside a very young girl takes your coats and Bruce's hand is back on your back, his skin is warm on yours, his hand is rough and calloused, and he guides you towards a poker table. When Bruce sits down you lean over his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth, it's a show after all and in this show, that's your part to play "I'll go get a drink, do you want something?"

He nods takes a moment to think and then says "Scotch, no ice, please" 

You walk away towards the bar, order red wine for you and scotch for Bruce, then head back to the table. You hand the glass to Bruce and stand right behind his chair, a hand casually draped over his shoulder as the game unfolds in front of you. Your fingers find their way into the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck, you start to play with it distractedly as you keep your eyes open, roaming around the room, locating possible way outs and security personel. You lean in again and whisper in Bruce's ear, pointing out all the possible exits, a flirty smile on your face as you explain to him. Your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. Bruce smiles, that cocky self-satisfied smile, the one from the tabloids and magazines. After a while, and after loosing a considerable amount of money and gaining some back, Bruce stands up and wraps his arms tightly around your waist, lips brushing against the corner of your jaw, you smile and caress his hair. 

"Lets go to the bar" Bruce directs "That's our guy" He has his arm around a girl that doesn't quite look of legal age and you turn to Bruce, almost as if he can read your mind he adds "I know. All these girls are way too young. We'll deal with it"

You make your way to the bar and sit on a stool, Bruce stands behind you, arms caging you in with your front to the bar, his lips meet your skin right at the point where your neck and shoulder meet, one of his hands moves down to your thigh and again the calloused pads of his fingers move up, stopping at the hem of your dress making your breath hitch "Focus" He whispers, but you know that he knows it is impossible for you to do that when he's touching you like that, it almost feels like this isn't part of facade. The bartender comes and Bruce orders the same two drinks. The guy sitting a couple of stools away turns to look at Bruce.

"Are you betting only?" He says and you follow Bruce's gaze toward him.

"So far, but I've heard about the fights" He sounds exactly as he should, too much money, too much time.

The guy smirks "You don't look like you need the money"

"I don't need the money" Bruce confirms "But I would enjoy a fight, work some stress off"

You know he can perfectly handle the kind of fighting that takes place here, but you still play up your part " Are you sure?"

He nods, starts walking and takes the jacket and tie off, handing them to you, then rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows and steps into the circle of people. He stands in the middle for a while and your gazes cross, then his oppenent walks in and the fight starts. Bruce dodges some hits and lets others land, if he wanted to this fight would be over already, but he's supposed to be playing the bored billionaire in search of some adrenaline. So he allows it to continue, even crashing against the onlookers a few times. It comes a point, though, where you can tell he's done with the game. There's a bruise blooming around one of his eyes and a small cut on his lower lip, he manages to make it look like something completely fortitous, but you know better, when he knocks his opponent out and gives you the smallest of smirks.

Bruce takes his tie and places untied around his neck, the jacket is drapped over his arm as he steers you towards the door "Lets get out of here" His hand rests just above your ass, his fingers spread wide, it reminds of just how big his hands are. The same girl that took your coats gives them back and as you step out the door the car stops right in front of you.

The drive back into the city is not really going back into the city, is towards Wayne Manor you realize. You don't say anything, instead let the anticipation course through your body, fill you with a buzzing energy that almost makes you shiver and your skin breaks out in goosebumps. Bruce steers right into the tunnel that leads to the cave, he drives as if he's in the other car, takes his curves really close and if it was anyone else you might get nervous but not with him. He parks seamlessly and perfectly and your door is open even before the car is fully parked. Your heel touches the ground and you're out as soon as it stops moving, you push the door closed without looking behind you, trying to give you time to get a hold of yourself.

You can hear Bruce's steps behind you, he's purposely keeping his distance, you stop in front of the computer, roll your neck and feel him cage you against the desk. He says nothing, he doesn't touch you, just stands there waiting until you turn around to face him. The space between you feels electric, buzzing with that undefinable energy right before something happens. Is in these moments that you realize just how tall he is, how big he is, you look up at him and he hauls you onto the desktop, sets you down on it and kisses you right away, his hand cups your jaw, it does it in that way that leaves no doubt who's the one in charge here. You like it. He uses his other hand to push your coat down, you pull your arms free and wrap them around his neck, move down his chest and undo the buttons of his shirt, pull it free from his slacks and place them on the broad span of his chest. 

Bruce pushes the straps of your dress down your arms, until your breasts are exposed and your nipples harden against the chilly air of the cave, his hands move towards your chest and cup your boobs. His thumbs circle your nipples and your back arches in response, you want to be closer to him with as little space possible between you, but he keeps his distance, watches your face intently.

"What?" You say, trying to hide the vulnerability in your voice. How exposed you feel when he looks at you like that.

Bruce moves one hand back to your jaw, makes sure you hold his gaze as he says "I like watching you. I like that little crease between your brows when you try to guess what I’m thinking" Then he's kissing you again, hard and hungry, teeth grazing your lower lip, his tongue slips inside your mouth and it feels all consuming. The kisses move to your jaw, down your neck, to your chest, his lips close around your nipple and Bruce sucks on it until it’s hard and aching, making your back arch, your nails dig on the exposed skin of his arms. He moves to the other side and this time bites the underside of your breast, moving in tandem as he tugs the skirt of your dress up, over your hips.

He uses both hands to rip your panties off, first one side then the other the sound reverberates through the cave and, after he's done, Bruce pulls them away and stuffs them inside the pocket of his pants. You feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that drives you wild, as you watch Bruce come down in front of you, between your thighs, your skin prickles with anticipation.

You shiver under the intensity of Bruce's gaze, unwavering as he looks at your face for a few seconds. Then his lips graze your thigh, is feather light at first, goosebumps break on your skin and you bring your hands to the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly. He sinks his teeth on the inside of your thigh and you hiss, it stings enough for you to know that it will leave a mark that will in time turn into a bruise. You bury one of your hands in his hair "B-Bruce" You stutter, feeling him move closer to your core "Oh, my God. You're enjoting this too much" You can't hear him, but you see his shoulders shake and narrow your eyes, open your mouth to give him some witty, smartass response but it dies before it even forms as his lips come into contact with your sex. A gasp comes out of you instead.

"Fuck" You breath. Bruce grasps your thighs and pulls you forward, to the edge of the desk. His tongue darts between your folds, following the edges of your slit, swirling around your clit. You close your hand around Bruce's dark hair and moan, long and drawn. His tongue delves inside you, then his lips close around your clit and suck. You toss your head back "Fuck" You repeat, he's reduced your vocabulary to one word and you can't form a complete thought, not when he is between your legs, face buried in you, lips pressed against your most intimate parts. You feel it start on your toes, that warm coil that tightens the more he works on you, feel it start to tug and tug, slowly at first, then all of a sudden until it releases and you cry out, thighs trembling, hands both pushing him away and holding him in place. Bruce works you through it, doesn't stop when you're coming down, he lets go of your thighs and stands up, brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them.

You follow his hand with your eyes, barely register when he says "I didn't even had to wet my finger, you're so slick" His fingers circle your clit and make you jump, still reeling from your previous orgasm. The way he says it is almost mocking, it really just makes you want to slap him.

"G-god I hate you" You groan as he thrusts two of his fingers inside you and his shoulders shake almost silently again, moving in and out, scissoring and hooking. You move your hand to his sides and dig your nails in Bruce's skin, making him hiss, but it only makes him focus more on making you cum again, not that is going to take long. Your skin prickles with anticipation and you can feel how the orgasm builds deep in your belly. He curls his fingers once more, flicks your clit with his thumb again and you're cumming hard, letting your head fall into his shoulder, eyes closed tight and toes curling. He kisses the side of your head and you turn your face to kiss him, move your arms around his neck again, then drag them down his chest and drag your nails over his absm leaving red, angry marks in your wake.

You undo the button on his slacks, pull the zipper down and push your hand inside his boxers, wrap it warm and soft around his cock, keep your eyes fixed on his face, the way Bruce's mouth twitches as he groans your name, and pushes his pants and underwear down, just past his ass, leaving with more than enough space to move your hand up and down his cock. He groans your name again.

Bruce grasps your thighs once more, lowers his gaze and looks at your hand around his cock for a moment, until he decides it's been enough. He lets go of your thigh and instead wraps that hand around your neck firmly "Go on, guide me inside you" He orders, always in control. 

You do as he says and drag the tip of Bruce's cock inside you, your mouth agape as he fills you inch by inch. You cling to his sides again as he makes you hold his gaze, he pulls back halfway in, then starts thrusting inside once again, until he’s buried deep inside you. Bruce stays like that, then grinds against you, making you gasp against his lips. 

Bruce's hand is still firm around your throat when he starts moving, is a pace right in the middle, not too slow and not too fast, just in control. Always in control. He grinds into you every time he bottoms out, makes you gasp and dig your nails deeper on his sides. He doesn't let go of your neck, keeps you looking at his face. You move your hands down and grab Bruce's ass tightly, moan against his lips as he kisses your lips and thrusts harder. He reaches so deep into you it is hard to breath. Bruce leans over you as you let go of his ass and hold your weight on your elbows as he takes a nipple into his mouth, your walls clench around him and a moan of his name tumbles through your lips, you cross your ankles behind his back and whine "Please, please" That voice is almost unrecognizable to you, its small and pleading, makes your cheeks burn.

Bruce envelopes you with his arms, tightly secured around your waist and lifts you from the desk, there is a squeal and then a moan when he thrust hard, then he's sitting down on the chair and his hands are gripping your hips, encouraging you to move and ride him. You oblige, there's no way you could say no, not when you're on edge and he refuses to look at anything else but you.

One of your hands is on his shoulder and the other grips the back of the chair so tight, somewhere in the back of your mind you think your nails will tear the leather, but your hips move above him, you ride Bruce fast and hard, chasing after your third orgasm of the night, the sound of your skin against his resonates through the cave and comes back to both of you, filling the space between his growls and your moans, his grunts and your whines. He wraps his arms around your waist again and for a moment you think he will stand up again, but instead he holds you in place and kisses your shoulder, your neck, bites your skin the feeling of his teeth marking you makes you shiver in his arms, makes your hips buck wildly of their own accord and as he chases and catches your lips, Bruce thrusts up into you, holding in you in place with his arms around you, he kisses you deep and thoroughly, all tongue, teeth and wild need. You're so close to each other his pelvic bone drags against your clit every time he moves, heightening every sensation and when he buries a hand in your hair and tugs the fire consumes, it wreaks havoc through your entire body as you cum, arching your back and eyes watering as your walls tighten around his cock velvet fist like. The look on your face, the goosebumps on your skin are enough to trigger Bruce's own orgasm. His name tumbles from his lips in a raspy, deep tone, you tremble in his arms but he holds you tight in place, balls deep inside you, his cum warm inside you.

You both pant as you get your breaths back, Bruce rests his forehead against your chest and you play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. You can feel his semen starting to leak out of you and believe he will pull out of you and let you stand. He does pull out of you, but he keeps you there, watches as his cum drips out slowly, then gathers some of it on his fingers and brings it to your mouth. You open obediently and suck on his fingers, moaning around his fingers, until they're clean, then he kisses your lips, a growl deep within his chest as he tastes both of you in your mouth.

"Fuck" He curses looking at you "I can't keep you out of my head, I can't keep my hands off of you"

He always says this, it almost sounds as if he is chiding himself for it, for not keeping it 'professional' but the truth is you don't want him to.

And you say as much "Then don't. I don't want you to"