#in summary: i love the way this cake is cut (if you get the reference surprise; we're married now)

[liyazaki]

huh. whelp- that was- a show. yup. I can confidently, unequivocally say it was a show.

edit: I, erm- wrote a thing.

[pinknightsinmymind]

【 the late shift - abby anderson | NSFW 】

wife!doctor!abby anderson x fem!wife!reader

NSFW CONTENT BELOW CUT MDNI

wc: 6.1k

summary: it's your precious wife's birthday. what better way to celebrate than dinner and birthday sex?

content: modern!au, wife!doctor!abby, wife!reader, descriptions of cooking (bc i love food❤️), domesticity with abby (she helps you cook), switch!abby, switch!reader, dom&sub!reader, dom&sub!abby, top&bottom!reader, top&bottom!abby, hickies, oral sex (r!receiving & abby!receiving), use of toys (abby!receiving), face sitting, fingering (abby!receiving), strap-on usage (r!receiving), abby refers to the strap as her dick/cock, doggy position, nipple play, praise, slight degradation (like once), slight spit kink, body worship, slight dumbification, breeding kink, abby lowkey having a housewife kink, slight spanking (abby just loves slapping your ass), slight dacryphillia, mentions of wine, reader and abby a lil tipsy, use of pet names (baby, babe, love, pretty girl, honey, etc.), mentions of nudes

a/n: this is the filthiest thing i've ever written. this is also the fic that won the poll i posted, so pls enjoy!! also, even though the morning sex option lost on the poll, i'm still gonna post that fic soon, and i can't wait for yall to read it!! pls tell me what you think about this fic bc i'd love to hear!! in this fic i introduce to you my abby happy trail agenda :)) again i just wanna thank you for all your support and love on my fics i appreciate every ounce of it i love yall so much <333

Abby was running late from work today—of all days—like she said she wouldn’t. Despite the fact it was her birthday, she couldn’t take the day off since one of her coworkers was on vacation at the moment. So, with no one else to cover the shift, she begrudgingly went to work on the one day she wanted off more than anything. The entire time she wished she were home and not at the hospital, but on her lunch break she sent you a photo of the small cake her coworker and friend, Nora, brought her. Since work would drain her by the time she got home, all she wanted was a simple at-home celebration that included dinner with you. She said she would be too tired for anything more than that, but you still had a few surprises lined up for her. You had her gifts waiting for her in your bedroom, a cake in the fridge, and you also had a brand new lingerie set you were wearing underneath your clothes. One that you may or may not have sent photos of your body in to tease her while she was at work. But that was neither here nor there.

However, despite both of your best efforts, today just wasn’t playing out how either of you wanted. She had promised she’d be home tonight by five to celebrate her birthday, but it was already past seven. You had gotten texts from her earlier explaining that an emergency had come up with one of her patients and that she’d be running late. You understood that her work was important and, of course, weren’t mad at her for something out of her control. You also knew she cared a lot about her patients and took her work seriously. You were just a little sad that you couldn’t celebrate her birthday sooner and that you had to wait a little longer. While sitting on the couch, you got a text from Abby saying she was finally on her way home. You decided now would be the best time to start getting dinner ready, and headed to the kitchen to prepare everything. You cleaned up your big, granite counter so you’d have space for all your ingredients, and pulled out a cutting board. You had barely finished chopping the mushrooms and tomatoes when you heard the front door opening and closing. You heard Abby’s keys jingling as her steady footsteps sounded from the foyer all the way into the den.

“[Y/N]?” she called.

“In the kitchen!” you responded, leaning against the counter as you waited for her to emerge. She was still in her scrubs and had her backpack on, but as soon as she saw you she slipped it off and let it drop to the floor.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” she said immediately. She walked up to you and pulled you into a hug. “One of my patients had an emergency that I needed to take care of. I had barely finished packing my things up when it happened. I didn’t even get the chance to clock out.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you assured her. “I know these things happen.” Abby pulled away from the hug, her hands slipping from your shoulders down to your waist. She placed a kiss on your forehead.

“You sure? I know you wanted today to be special.”

“I mean, I’m a little sad you came home later than usual, but at least you’re here now,” you explained.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said again. She craned her face down to your neck and began to place kisses along your collarbones and the side of your neck. “I really wanted to come home early like you wanted.”

“It’s okay. You texted me right on time, so at least I hadn’t started making dinner. It would’ve gone cold.”

“Now that would’ve made me even sadder,” Abby said, pulling her face out from the crook of your neck. She rubbed lazy circles on your back before picking you up without warning. She sat you down on the kitchen counter and made sure to stand in between your legs. She placed more kisses on your neck and jaw, her hands rubbing up and down your thighs. “You’re such an angel. Let me make it up to you, hm?”

“Abs,” you said quietly.

“Let me make you feel good.”

“But you’re still in your scrubs,” you said to her.

“And?” She bit the skin around your neck, then sucked on it a little before licking it. A small whine left your lips at the feeling as you grasped onto her big arms. “I thought you said they look good on me?”

“You’re a huge germaphobe. You know this,” you scolded her. Abby stopped what she was doing and sighed.

“Fine, you’re right. I’ll shower, but when I get out, it’s over for you,” she warned.

“Sure it is, ma’am,” you joked with her.

“Wanna bet?” she asked. She turned to look at you, raising one of her eyebrows as she gave your body a once over.

“Go take a shower, Abigail,” you said jokingly. She laughed as she turned around to walk to your bedroom.

“Using my full government name now? Wow,” she said with fake hurt before disappearing down the hall. You chuckled a little and rolled your eyes at her dramatics.

First order of business: sauce. You prepped the pan and poured in the tomato sauce that Abby liked and added the chopped up tomatoes and mushrooms to the mix. While the sauce was heating up, you began to prepare the pot to boil the pasta. You made fun of Abby for having bowties as her favorite pasta—you told her it was so cute for someone as tough-looking as her—but it was her favorite so of course you’d make it. You salted the water as you turned up the temperature of the oven. Now all that was left was to make the chicken. The chicken had been defrosting in the sink for a while, and you still had to set up the bowls of batter and crumbs. You decided to coat the chicken in panko bread crumbs for a more crunchy texture, the sound of the sizzling oil filling the air as you dropped the chicken in. The sauce you had made was already simmering on the stove, and you knew it would be finished by the time the chicken was. While you set the chicken to fry, you finally added the pasta into the now boiling water.

You were checking on the chicken when you felt a pair of hands slide across your stomach from behind you. You stifle a chuckle at the feeling as you hadn’t heard Abby approach you and because it made you flustered. Her hands roamed from your stomach to ghost over your ribcage, down to your lower abdomen, repeat. She knew just how to fluster you.

“Well, hello to you, too,” you said to her. You grabbed the tongs nearby and flipped the pieces of chicken over.

“You look so cute like this,” Abby whispered.

“Oh, yeah?” you asked. “What about me is cute to you right now?”

“The fact that you’re making me dinner.” One of her hands slid down from your stomach and past your thighs before she started to grope your ass.

“Abby!” you yelled. “Stop being so horny.” Although you were technically scolding her, you were laughing a little bit as you did. You wanted to pretend you didn’t like Abby’s antics, but you couldn’t. She was just so endearing, and you did love her touch.

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep my hands above your ass. Is that better?” she teased.

“Much better.” You took out two pieces of chicken that were done frying and placed them on the pan you set out to collect them after they were cooked. After you finished with the chicken you were planning on covering them in mozzarella to sit in the oven for a few minutes. You felt Abby’s hand move from your ass and back to caressing your stomach and your hips. “You’re touchy today.”

“And are you complaining?” she asked in a low voice. She nuzzled her face into your neck as she began to place kisses all over your skin. She was gingerly ghosting over that one spot that drove you crazy, barely leaving a trace of her warmth behind as her skin grazed past yours. Her lips would practically hover over as if she was going to kiss you before moving. What a tease.

“No, but aren’t you afraid of the oil splattering us?”

“I don’t know. I think it could be kind of sexy. Like wax play or something.”

“You are unbelievable,” you laughed. “If you want to be helpful, can you get the mozzarella out of the fridge? The packaging’s brand new.”

She placed a few more kisses on the back of your neck. “Yes, ma’am.” She pulled away from your body, but not before smacking your ass.

“Abigail Anderson,” you warned.

“[Y/N] Anderson,” she said as she walked to the fridge. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll even shred it for you,” she announced.

“Wow. You’re so kind,” you said sarcastically. You took out the two final pieces of chicken and turned the burner beneath the pan off. In the meantime, you could hear Abby pulling out the cheese grater and a bowl to get to work. You grabbed a nearby spoon and stirred the pasta a little bit to see how close it was to being ready.

“Here you go, love.” Abby suddenly appeared at your side with the shredded mozzarella in a bowl for you. She gave you a kiss on the cheek, one you quickly returned as you grabbed the bowl from her hands.

“Thank you, babe.”

“No problem. Let me drain the pasta for you, okay?” Abby said. You nodded as you turned off the sauce and got to work on the chicken. You drizzled an equal amount of cheese on each piece of chicken before sliding it into the oven. While you were busy with that, you could hear Abby digging around to find the strainer. It didn’t take her long, and before you knew it you could hear the water going down the sink’s drain. After you closed the oven, you leaned against the counter and let out a sigh. Only a few more minutes and dinner would be ready. You watched Abby as she transferred the pasta back to its pot before leaving the strainer by the kitchen sink. When Abby turned around, she gave you a sheepish smile as she waltzed to the stove. She put the pot on one of the empty burners before sauntering over to you. She pulled you by your hips closer to her.

“Can’t wait to eat this food,” she said. “You worked so hard on it.”

“Well, it’s your birthday!” you said excitedly. “I wanted it to be special.”

“And you achieved just that.” Abby leaned in, her lips touching yours so gently and with such passion. Her arms wrapped around you tightly as she pulled you closer. Your hands found their way to her hair as you got enraptured in the kiss. Her hair was down at the moment, and it was always such a sight to see. You loved the way it framed her face, how it seemed to make her features light up. She felt so good against you, and you could smell the coconut shampoo she used and the pine soap that made her smell so fresh and clean. God, she was so addicting, and as much as you loved kissing her, your eyes widened when you remembered the chicken inside the stove.

“Abby,” you said.

“What is it, baby?” she whispered, clearly thinking you were about to ask her something else.

“The chicken!” you said, and pulled away from her immediately. You yanked the stove open and pulled the food out. The delicious scent immediately wafted to your nose, and you could feel your stomach come to life with hunger.

“God, that looks delicious,” Abby said. “Yeah, I’m fucking you good tonight.” You wanted to make a joke about how vulgar her words were, but you already knew what she would say in response: “But you like it, don’t you?” The answer would be “yes,” and that’s why you let the words stay in your mouth.

After the successful dinner, you brought Abby’s gifts out from your bedroom to let her open them up. You bought her the gold bracelet she had been eyeing for a while, a special edition copy of her favorite book, and concert tickets for her favorite band. To say she was pleased was an understatement. After Abby opened her presents, she ran to your pantry to pull out the brand new bottle of wine she had hidden for this occasion. It was a surprise from her to you for such a great day so far. One and a half glasses of wine later, you and Abby were cuddling on the couch together. At least that’s what it had begun as. The two of you nursing your glasses of wine, sitting together underneath a blanket, a random show playing on the TV, until the drinks started to make you both a little frisky. Your glasses had both been abandoned on the coffee table in front of you, Abby’s lips on yours as she pulled you into her lap. Her hands were roaming all over your body. From your ass to your hips, your waist to beneath your bra. While on the outside she continued her movements without hesitation, on the inside she felt herself getting flustered. She had seen the photos you sent her while she was at work—she spent a good few minutes gawking at them—but she didn’t think you were still wearing the lingerie set. The bra you were wearing was lacy and thin, and was that a bow in the center? You would be the death of her. She just wanted all of you in this moment, and no matter how much she pulled you into her body, it wasn’t close enough. Her lips wandered from your jaw down to your neck, leaving scarlet marks there in her wake.

“I’ve wanted you so bad all day, baby,” she whispered. Her hands began fiddling with your nipples through your bra. The fabric was so thin it was like you weren’t wearing anything at all. “So bad. Especially after you teased me while I was at work.” Your lips found hers again, and to your surprise, Abby’s hands moved to your hips as she made you grind onto her. A small whimper left your mouth at the sudden friction, the noises you made immediately swallowed by her kiss.

“Abby,” you moaned. She smiled at the mention of her name, but her lips stayed on yours.

“What is it?” she asked between kisses.

“I need you.” She moved your hips into hers again, the ache in between your legs becoming too much. You just needed her to make it go away. “Let’s go to our room.” You could feel Abby perk up at the request, and she didn’t hesitate to push the blanket off both your bodies. She adjusted your legs so they were wrapped around her waist, strengthening her grip around your ass. She got up from the couch and began walking down the hall to your bedroom. She stopped kissing you to keep an eye on where she was headed, but you started to kiss her all over her neck. She gave your ass a particularly harsh squeeze before she pushed the door open to your room. She continued her march to your bed, setting you down onto the soft mattress before her. When she plopped down next to you in bed, your hands didn’t hesitate to wander towards the hem of her shirt, pulling it off her body desperately. To your delight, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Your lips found their way to her breasts, kissing all over them and her nipples. Before Abby knew it, you had your lips wrapped around her nipples, sucking and kissing them gently.

“Fuck, baby,” she groaned. “Treat me so good.”

“Wanna taste you,” you mumbled against her skin. “Let me eat you out.” Abby wasn’t going to object, because she wanted you to do as you asked just as bad as you did. “Say it,” you commanded.

“I want you to eat me out,” she whined. You kissed down from her breasts to her stomach, fingers ghosting over her pale, blonde happy trail. You pulled her sweatpants down and—No panties. You took her in like the beautiful sight she was.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath at all, Abs?” you teased. “Is that how bad you’ve needed me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Lay down,” you ordered her. She did as you asked, laying on top of your well-made bed that would soon be messed up when you were done with her. You moved closer to her and grabbed ahold of her thighs, kissing them as you inched upwards towards her center. You could see how wet and needy she was for your touch. You didn’t hesitate to begin sucking at her clit, because you knew that was just the place she needed your attention from the most. You’d spare her some teasing. She moaned as soon as she felt the contact, squirming from the stimulation. You wrapped your arms around her thighs to hold her in place and pull her closer to you. You could feel her pubic hair scratching your face as you dug in, but it was never a sensation you hated. You enjoyed having all of her, every piece of her. You loved her taste on your tongue, the way she moaned and whimpered with every movement of it. You just loved making her feel good.

She kept squirming underneath you, every sound coming out of her either being a whine or a whimper. She always got desperate like this whenever she was receiving, and it was always such a sight. Abby liked to portray herself as this strong, dominant person, but that image of her always quickly dissipated as soon as your mouth was on her pussy. That version of Abby was nowhere to be found, not when you were taking care of her like this, giving her the space to let her guard down for once.

“Baby, you need to stop squirming,” you warned her. “You keep moving away from me. Feels that good, love?”

“So good,” she choked out. You stopped sucking on her clit, instead choosing to circle it with your thumb, only achingly slow. A pathetic whimper left her lips, and you knew she was feeling desperate. That was the point. You wanted to play with her, to make her beg. You kept moving your thumb slowly, no matter how much she whined. She’d have to ask you if she wanted more.

“What’s the matter?” you teased her. “You sound like you’re crying. What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“Need you,” she cried. “Please. I need more.”

“What do you need? Gotta tell me exactly what you want,” you explain.

“I need your mouth on me. Suck on my clit, please.” She was just so needy. How could you deny her? You returned your lips to her cunt, licking her through her folds, admiring how much wetter she had grown in the process. She tasted so sweet on your tongue as you lightly brushed it over her clit before taking it back into your mouth to suck on it again. You could feel her thighs tightening around you, and you let her do it. You knew this meant she was getting close, and you didn’t let up on your actions. You kept kissing and licking and sucking, wanting to do anything your wife may have needed. Her thighs were shaking by this point.

“Gonna cum,” she whimpered. Her hands were gripping onto the bed sheets, her head tilting as she let out rough moans. She was close, and a loud moan left her mouth suddenly. That’s how you knew she came, but you weren’t done. While she was still sensitive, you began to circle your thumb around her clit, little whimpers leaving her lips at the feeling. You reached into the bedside stand and pulled out the dildo you knew she kept there, licking it to get it wet.

“Can you take it, love?” you asked her. She nodded. “What did we talk about? Use your words, Abs,” you scolded her.

“I can take it. Please, put it inside me.” You did as she asked, slowly thrusting it inside her. You didn’t stop circling her clit as you did so, intent on making sure she felt good each step of the way. A groan left Abby’s lips as she felt the dildo slowly entering her inch by inch. The pleasure was overwhelming, and she couldn’t help any of the loud moans leaving her mouth when you were this good to her.

“Just like that, baby,” you encouraged her. “Just like that. Keep moaning for me.” You finally had the dildo to the hilt inside her, leaving it in for a moment to let her adjust. After you let her get comfortable, you pulled it out and let it sink back within her, solidifying a steady pace for her.

“It feels so good. God, it’s so good,” she moaned. You smiled at her reaction, making sure to continue giving her just what she needed. You continued at the pace you set, Abby growing increasingly desperate with each drag of the toy. “Harder. Please. Harder,” she begged. And who were you to deny what your love wanted? You did just as she asked, moving the dildo at the same speed, but with a greater intensity like she asked. There were tears brimming her eyes as she continued moaning. She felt so good, unable to fully put into words just how amazing you made her feel. All she knew is that she didn’t want this to end.

“Are you gonna cum for me, darling?” you asked her.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m gonna cum.” You continued your actions as she asked, watching as she creamed all over the toy. Abby was catching her breath as you pulled the toy out of her and rushed to put it in the bathroom sink. When you came back, Abby was sitting up in bed with a new fire in your eyes. As soon as you got close enough to her, she grabbed your hand and pulled you back into the bed. She stood up from the bed and got down on her knees in front of you. She didn’t hesitate to pull your jeans down your legs, her eyes immediately landing on the pretty lingerie set underneath your pants. She pulled your legs apart, unable to stop herself from kissing your cunt through your panties, all pretty and lacy in your favorite color. She was so overwhelmed with love and lust, unsure what to do with herself and the rush of emotions filling her body. It didn’t help that you were both a little tipsy. She licked a stripe over the fabric, your hands automatically moving to grab her hair. After a few more teasing licks, she finally pulled your panties down, and she could see how wet you were. You were practically glistening, all pretty and ready just for her. She dug into you immediately, her tongue tasting and feeling every part of you.

“Taste so good, love,” she groaned. The moans leaving your lips were addictive. It was her favorite part of pleasuring you: hearing how good you felt. And when you’d finally cum on her face? That’s what made it all worth it. She continued sucking on your clit, moaning at the feeling of your growing wetness on her lips. Your grip kept tightening on her hair, and she loved it. She was on her knees before you, and she felt that was exactly where she belonged—worshiping you.

“You know what I want?” she suddenly spoke up. She trailed her lips away from your center and began kissing your thighs as she looked up at you. You could tell by the look in her eyes she had an idea. “Want you to sit on my face, love. Can you do that for me?” You couldn’t say no. Not when she was looking up at you like that.

“Yes,” you answered. The switch from your dominant personality from earlier to this submissive one was making Abby’s head spin.

“Good girl. Just what I wanted to hear.” Abby rose from her position on the ground and crawled onto the bed before laying down. “Come on, babe. I’m all ready for you.” You moved from where you were sitting on the edge of the bed towards her body. You straddled her hips and leaned down to kiss her, hoping to convey to her all the love and longing you were feeling. Abby’s hands moved from her sides to rub against your hips before promptly slapping your ass. You let out a yelp at the sensation, but it only made you wetter. “Come on. Stop teasing me. I need to taste you again. Need to show my sweet, little wife how much I love her.” You couldn’t help the moan that escaped your mouth when you felt her slap your ass again. “You made me a nice, home-cooked meal to celebrate my birthday, and I think that means I should be putting a baby in you by the end of the night. What do you think?”

“Please, Abs,” you whined. “I want you so bad.”

“Then sit on my face, pretty girl. You know that’s what I want.” You finally pulled your lips away from hers and removed yourself from her lap. You looked down at Abby one last time before sliding one of your legs to rest on the other side of her head until you were practically straddling her. You had yet to set yourself down on her face yet, but Abby waited, her hands already reaching up to start tracing the skin over your ass and hips. You slowly situated yourself against her mouth, something you’ve done countless times before, but the anticipation always consumed you.

The first thing you felt was the warmth of her lips, then the wetness of her tongue as she started to lick your folds. A whine left your lips at the feeling, so desperate for your wife like always. Abby’s grip on your ass was tight as she held you in place, ensuring that she’d be able to devour you just like she wanted. She rocked your hips as she licked your cunt and lapped up all your juices. The friction was making you see stars. She kept moving you, guiding your movements onto her tongue, never once stopping for a second. You felt her let out a small moan, the vibrations reverberating and amplifying your pleasure. Abby suddenly stilled the movements of your hips, but her grip tightened as you felt her start to suck your clit.

“Oh, Abby, just like that,” you moaned. You didn’t have to tell her twice, as her tongue was already swirling around your clit just how you liked it. You felt so good, the pleasure overwhelming your body from just how good Abby was treating you. She was definitely keeping her promise from earlier. You moaned at the feeling of her tongue working against you. You could feel the knot growing in your stomach, building faster and faster. The moans leaving your lips were desperate, but you couldn’t help it when this was how Abby made you feel. She made you feel alive, like your whole body was on fire.

“I’m close,” you moaned. “I’m so close.” Your hands gripped onto your thighs as Abby’s grip was too strong for you to move anywhere else. Instead, you steadily rocked your hips against her face, the tip of her nose knocking into your clit. The friction and combined with the way Abby was eating you out was intense, and within seconds you felt yourself cumming all over her face. Abby continued sucking on your clit to fuck you through your orgasm, but she wasn’t done with you yet. She tapped onto your thighs, a sign you recognized as her asking you to get off her. You did as she asked and removed yourself from her face to settle into the sheets. Abby sat up in bed, and she wasted no time in kissing you wildly. You could feel the wetness on her face and taste yourself on her tongue, completely lost in the feeling of her. You could do this with her for hours if she wanted. You felt her reach down to your t-shirt and raised it over your head as she immediately ogled at the pretty bra you had on. It matched your panties, and it looked so gorgeous on you. She kissed you hungrily, palming at your breasts. She reached behind you to unclip your bra and threw it somewhere randomly. She was back on you in an instant, clearly not satisfied.

“You want my cock in you, baby? Want me to fill you up?”

“God, yes, Abby,” you answered.

“I’ll go get it.” You watched as she retreated to your closet that held most of your toys, the main one being her strap. She returned to your bedside with both the flesh-colored dildo and harness in her hands. “Help me put it on, honey.” You did as she asked and moved towards the edge of the bed. Abby slipped her legs through the harness, but you helped her tighten the straps and adjust it on her hips. She stroked your cheeks and hair as you did so with a soft smile on her face.

“Okay, it’s ready, Abs,” you announced.

“Thank you, baby. Why don’t you turn around and get on your hands and knees for me, huh?” You didn’t hesitate to do as she asked, getting yourself comfortable in the position that was without a doubt Abby’s favorite. You felt Abby step closer to your body, the strap momentarily pressing against your skin. You heard Abby spitting, and before you knew it you felt something wet coating your cunt. She rubbed the strap through your folds, teasing your clit before bringing it back up to your hole. You were still so wet and ready for her; it made her feel lightheaded. Abby started teasing your entrance with her cock, and you let out a small whimper in response. She pushed it in a tiny bit, but just that small thrust had you whining. She pulled it out, then put it back in the same amount, then out again. She was teasing you, and she reveled in every moment of it. She did the same pattern again, this time pushing it in up to its head. She could hear the desperate whines leaving your mouth, but she was a bully when it came to teasing.

“Abby!” you whined. She let out a quiet chuckle.

“Is something wrong, baby?” she asked, pulling out yet again.

“Yes! You’re teas—” Before you could finish, she pushed it back into you again, nearly half-way now. It caught you off guard, a gasp leaving your lips at the sensation.

“What was that?” she asked.

“You’re teasing me,” you said. Abby pulled out of you again, and it left you feeling so empty. You just wanted her deep inside of you. “Please, Abby. I need you inside me. Please.”

“Fuck. I can’t tell you no, baby.” Without warning, you felt her shove the entire thing inside you this time. You moaned loudly at the sudden force. “Like that? Wanted me deep inside you like this?”

“Yes,” you answered. Abby grabbed onto your hips roughly, preparing herself as she slid her dick out of you a tiny bit before slamming it back in, then repeating. She was starting off slow and steady, but she was giving you what you needed. Your moans were already in full force, bouncing off the walls and filling her ears like sweet music. She got off on hearing you just as much as she did from seeing how you looked while she fucked you from behind. She started to pick up her pace a little bit, and she could see you reaching to grab at the bedsheets. She couldn’t help the smirk that appeared across her face.

“That’s it,” she encouraged. “Just like that. Got you going dumb on my cock already, huh?” She knew she wasn’t going to get an answer out of you since your face was buried in the mattress, but she was still going to ask. “Taking it so good, baby. Fuck, I love seeing you like this. All pretty and dumb on my cock. When I’m done with you, I’m gonna fill you all the way up. You’d like that?”

“Please. I need you to fill me up,” you cried out. Abby continued her pace, but when she heard your voice, she could tell that you were crying. It turned her on even more.

“Gonna let me cum inside and make you my pretty, little cumslut? Want me to get you fucking pregnant?” she asked.

“Yes!” you cried out. Abby was many things, but a composed woman at a time like this wasn’t one of them.

“Fuck,” she grunted. She loved the enthusiasm of your answer, speeding up the pace of her thrusts. She could feel the harness rubbing against her clit, and it was driving her wild. She kept fucking into you, pulling your hips into hers over and over again. Yeah, she was going to fuck you good, and she was going to make sure you were screaming the whole night. She could hear your skin slapping against hers as she continued her pace, and before she knew it her moans were joining in with yours. She just felt so amazing. Everything about this moment did.

“Abby! Fuck, Abby, you’re so deep. It’s so good.” You words were incoherent babbles, and that’s how Abby knew she was doing a good job for sure.

“I know, baby. I’m fucking you just right, huh? Just like you need.” She barely managed to get the words out, panting and grunting from her own pleasure. It just felt so good to take you in this position. You were having a hard time speaking yourself, your brain all fuzzy and fucked out. The feeling of Abby’s cock dragging inside your walls and that spot it was hitting were more than enough to fuck you dumb. It was all you ever needed. You could feel the tears that were drying on your cheeks as Abby continued to overstimulate you. You could feel yourself getting closer yet again, the feeling more than you could bear.

“Abby. Abby. I think I’m cumming,” you cried. “I’m gonna cum.” You were too out of it to speak, so caught up in the feeling of her inside you and her promises of breeding you. It all made you feel so good, the ideas of her cumming inside you upping your pleasure by a tenfold.

“Cum on my cock, baby. Know you can do it.” Abby didn’t let up her pace one bit, and you reached down to rub your clit as she fucked into you. Fuck. There was no one like Abby, and soon you found yourself cumming harder than ever. The moan that was ripped from your body sounded more like a scream as you continued to rub your clit while it washed over you. Abby was close, too, and hearing the sounds of your pleasure was enough to send her over the edge. Abby grunted loudly, feeling herself cum as the movement of her strap stilled inside you. You both stayed like that for a second to cool down, and after a moment Abby slowly pulled out of you. You moved out of the position you were in and collapsed on the bed. Abby pulled the harness and strap off her body, abandoning it on the bedside table. She’d leave cleaning it for later. She immediately dived into bed, fixing the covers for you both as she pulled you into her arms. She started kissing your forehead as she rubbed your back.

“You okay, love?”

“Yeah,” you answered. “Just tired.”

“Me, too. You did so good for me, baby.”

“Thanks, Abs. You were really good for me, too.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “I love you. I’m so sleepy,” you whispered. Abby laughed at that.

“I love you, too. Now, let’s go to sleep, babe. I’m off tomorrow, remember?”

“Can we get coffee tomorrow?” you asked.

“Of course, baby. We’ll go shopping, too, if you want.”

“You’re so great, Abs. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she replied, watching how your eyes fluttered shut. What a sleepy thing, she thought, but she’d have you no other way. That’s what she promised in her vows.

[smoooothoperator]

What A Shame

01: Red

Driver! Charles Leclerc x Singer! OC (Juliette Morelli)

Exes to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Childhood Sweathearts

Summary: two once lovers see each other again after ten years. Will things go well?

Words: 2.3k

a/n: hello and welcome to my newest fic!!! I really hope everyone enjoys this story since it's the first one I write after a long time!

Every interaction is very welcomed!!!!

Masterlist

next part

Just to get some things clear:

this fic happens on 2030 and there will be some flashbacks of previous years, making Charles be 32 years old

most of the songs I'll be using or make references are from Taylor Swift, and if you want to I could post the playlist I'm listening while I write

🎤

Maid of honor. The most important woman of the bridesmaids, the person that will be there for the bride whenever she needs her. Historically, the maid of honor was the attendant of the a queen in royal households or the most important woman of the house; she was a maiden that never have been married and a virgin. A woman that could be there for someone superior or more important for her.

When you have years of experience being the maid of honor, supporting and helping your friends on their most important day, you get used to the term. It's easy to joke and laugh about it, to ignore the ache on the chest when friends ask one more time to be their maid of honor.

"You should work as a wedding planner" the parents of the bride use to tell me, patting my back and congratulating me for my great job.

"Too bad I'm a singer, huh?" I use to answer them with a smile, hiding the pain of their words.

They never ask why I'm always the maid of honor. Why I'm always there for their daughters, making sure everything is perfect and ready for them, telling always the same line after my speech.

"With love, Juliette: always the maid of honor but never the bride" I use to say, turning off the mic and smiling at my friends, hearing laughs and people clapping, not knowing that it hurts admitting to myself that I'll never be on that spot of the table wearing a dress that makes me look like a princess.

So, when Valerie didn't ask me to be her maid of honor, it took me for surprise. Valerie was always by my side when he left me, giving me her shoulder to cry and her spare room to stay when I needed it. Valerie was like a sister for me, someone I would say yes no matter what she asked me to do.

"I know you hate it" she sighed. "I won't torture you, I know you always joke about that but deep inside you are in pain. I won't put you on that position ever again. But I want you to be there on my wedding"

How could I say no? She's my best friend and actually the first person that took that tag of the maid of honor off of me.

"I want you to be happy, Juliette" she sighed.

"You know I can't " I sighed looking at my hands. "He hurt me and there's no way I can get out of that whole"

"You can, you know you can and you will" she said sure if herself, like making a promise. "I heard Pierre will invite some of his friends, I bet you'll find someone out there"

Pierre Gasly, Valerie's boyfriend for many years and nod her fiance. He's a known racing driver for some years now, being famous and all it comes with that. The wedding will be an important event, media wants to know every small detail of it and share it to the world. Now it makes sense why Valerie didn't ask me to be the maid of honor.

But I was with her all the time, dreaming, looking at her trying all those white dresses and wishing it was me for once, trying the cakes with her on our sleepovers and wishing to have someone cutting the cake with me, looking at the pictures she sent me of the flowers and imagining myself holding them when walking to the aisle.

I wished, again, that I was the bride.

The wedding was coming, looking now at the calendar it was closer than I thought it was going to be, making me search for a dress desperately, not wanting to use of of those dresses I used as a maid of honor.

"Wear something simple" Valerie said sitting on my bed. "Maybe one of those satin dresses you like"

"But that's too simple" I frowned. "It's your wedding, Val"

"I don't care, Juliette" she said smiling, shaking her head. "Plus, you look amazing on those dresses. The red one you wore on that charity gala last month was amazing, you could wear it on the rehearsal dinner"

"But what about the actual wedding!"

Finding a dress was harder than I thought. As the maid of honor I had to wear the dress the bride wanted, but now I could choose whatever I wanted to wear.

"Hey, hey, relax. Just... Relax, okay? Just wear something you feel comfortable with" she said trying to calm me.

So yeah, I did what she asked. I bought a dress on a random shop, something I could wear with the most comfortable heels I had on the wardrobe, and put everything I needed on a suitcase.

Valerie and Pierre were going to do their wedding on a nice villa, with vineyards and all the luxury you can imagine when both of them have lots of money, and since his family is religious they will do the wedding on the cozy church of the village with a small group of close friends and family.

The dinner rehearsal will be there on the villa, making sure that the next day everything will be ready and will work smoothly.

The red dress was hanging on the door of the closet, brighter than ever. I used to like red, he made me love it. It was his dream since he was a child, watching the red cars drive under his balcony around the streets of Monaco, and imagining that once he was older he would drive one of those.

"I'll be your Michael and you'll be my Corinna!" he used to say while we sat next to each other on the floor as kids, watching the TV and how Michael Schumacher won those races with his red Ferrari.

Using red after him felt like a punishment, a self torture. How can I be so stupid? So weak to not move on and we drowned on self pity?

I took a deep breath, taking off the silk robe and getting dressed while looking at myself on the mirror.

"Come on, why can't you be with someone?" I said to the reflection of myself. "You are freaking Juliette Morelli, a well known singer! You fucked with freaking Shawn Mendes and the Sebastian Stan flirted with you! You can do better than him"

At this point I was too desperate to forget him. I needed to stop thinking about him, it happened nearly ten years ago. How can I be so stupid and still not move out?

But still... It feels like if that happened yesterday.

"I'm sorry, Juliette" he said suddenly after he sat on the couch of the livingroom. "This isn't working anymore, I need to focus on my job and you are distracting me. It was funny while it lasted. I wish your career goes good as well"

I can do better than him, a stupid driver.

When I walked out of the room, with the purse hanging on my shoulder, the hair down and the red dress hugging my body, I felt confident. I knew I can get over him.

"Wow, Juliette!" Valerie gasped when she saw me walk inside the big room with some of the important guests. "I told you that dress looked amazing on you. Red has always been your color"

"You are right" I smile, somehow sure of myself, believing my own words. "It looks better on me"

🏎️

The moment Pierre asked me to be his best man I didn't waste any second to say yes. Even if I knew that he wanted another person to be his best man, someone that is not longer with us, I said yes immediately.

"I know what you are thinking" Pierre sighed patting my back. "He'll be with me there, but I need my best friend right now and I need it that day too. Tonio would be so glad that you'll be there for me"

"I know, but..." I sighed, taking a deep breath. "I'll go, I promise you I'll be there. But right now I just realized that it's only you and I that's left from that group of innocent kids that only wanted to drive and have fun"

"Come on dude, don't talk like if Esteban is dead!" Pierre laughed. "We have arguments, we're no longer friends... but he was on the pictures too and he's still in this world"

"You idiot" I laughed rolling my eyes.

My best friend is going to get married. He's still with the girl he met when he finished high school and now they will spend the rest of their lives together, form a family.

I promised that to someone long time ago. I promised that I would be there for her and that I'll let her be there for me.

"You know, Valerie asked her to sing" Pierre sighed iling weakly at me.

"Huh? Who?" I frown, being taken out of my thoughts.

"You know who" he sighed.

"Oh... That's cool" I nodded. "Cool, cool, cool, cool... Yeah, all cool"

"When was the last time you saw her?" he sighed closing his eyes.

"You know the answer of that" I said looking down at my lap.

The last time I saw her I tried to not look at her. I walked inside her apartment and stayed there for less than five minutes, hearing her heart break and walking out of it before she talked. I had to be heartless, leave for her and my own good.

"You are so coward, dude" he sighed shaking his head in disapproval.

"I did what I had to do" I frowned looking at him. "Plus, her own career was starting to grow and I couldn't be distracted because of her"

I saw Pierre shaking his head disappointed, patting my back and walking away. I already know what he's thinking, that I shouldn't let her go.

I still remember how I felt when I walked out of her apartment, how the tears were blurrying my eyes and I had to take a deep breath and wait an hour to start driving to my own apartment. I still remember how I felt when I heard the song that made her fame grow, those three letters of the title laughing at me knowing damn well that she wrote that song pouring all her heard on it.

The next months of preparations of Pierre's wedding were intense. The season was still going on, since he planned getting married on our summer break in August, so we had to plan everything on the time we had free, making it easy for us since we spent most of the time together.

It was only the week before his wedding when her name came to my mind.

Juliette Morelli. Valerie's best friend. And my ex.

Pierre told me she was going to sing on their first dance, that she was going to be at the dinner rehearsal and that she was going to stay in the villa the whole weekend.

"You just have to not go on her way" I said talking to myself in the mirror on my own room of the villa. "Try to ignore her. Maybe after all this years she won't recognize me, right? Yeah, yeah, she won't recognize me"

I have to focus on the rehearsal. I need to work along side with Valerie's sister to coordinate everything and make sure that the flower girl is comfortable and I have to make sure that I don't lose the rings. Easy peasy.

But that focus slipped away from my mind the moment I walked inside the big room, with a small group of guests, and I saw a red dress.

But what unfocused me wasn't the dress. Was who was wearing it.

"Oh, I finally found you" Pierre said and looked at me, then who I was looking at. "And you found her"

"Does she know I'm here?" I asked, not taking my eyes off of her.

She's so much more beautiful than before. More mature. Oh God, how much I missed her laugh, how she played with her hair when she was feeling comfortable and relaxed.

"Earth to Charles" Pierre said nervous. "Come on dude, this is about to start and you are just staring to your ex. That's creepy, by the way"

"Shut up, mate!" I exclaimed, shutting him up covering his mouth with my hand. "Don't you dare to tell her I'm here. I'll make sure that she never sees me and in that way none of us will know about the other this whole weekend. Okay?"

Pierre nodded and then I let him go, looking at him carefully.

Juliette can't know that I'm here, I'm not ready to talk with her. After all those years I'm not ready to face her and even hear her voice, even if all this time I have heard her songs.

"Come on, everything is going to start" Valerie's sister came towards me, taking me out of my thoughts.

I nodded and took a deep breath, standing in my position and looking at the door, ignoring the need of searching that red dress between the people that was there. I can't look at her, I really can't.

But then I heard it. A gasp. And not of Pierre looking how Valerie walked towards him practicing how she will do it tomorrow, not the parents of the flower girl walking in with her little basket and doing like if she threw petals.

No. The person that gasped was the person I wanted to avoid. The one I hurt the most in this room. The one that right now is standing and walking out of the room, the red dress walking out of the room.

"Good job trying to avoid her, Leclerc" Pierre whispered looking back at me. "Another one of your plans working perfectly bad"

[nashusglasses]

it's always a surprise when the tide comes in

note: this is a writing exercise for exposition. I hate hate HATEEEEE writing it!! it makes my skin crawl i just want everything to happen at once!!!! -_- anywho. this story is the background story of this drabble

i love the idea of gojo in an office setting bc he’s already so silly like that would be a 10 times silly buff. Also the thought of him and yuuji having deep conversations about pop culture scratches a very good itch in my heart :3

note 2: this is literally yuuji n gojo in this au im going to HURL !!!

PAIRING. gojo/reader SETTING. work husband au (or, "you keep being suggestive in front of all our coworkers to the point where everyone knows we're not dating but we COULD be and it's silly so I'll go along with it!!!! ...wait why are you asking me out on an actual date?" au) WARNINGS. twilight references. shitting as a threat. hime n gojo hating each other bc they both love oc =3= SUMMARY. He’s a liar, but only for good reason. WORD COUNT. 2.5k

Someone is going to die today.

You’d been so diligent in choosing your hiding spot in the break room fridge. Your one yogurt cup—the one with the strawberry bits swirled in the vanilla—sitting behind the giant bottle of mustard at the bottom of the fridge door shelf. Gone. You try in vain to scour for your snack, but there’s nothing else save for labeled Tupperware and three quarters of a cake from Mei Mei’s birthday celebration yesterday.

The list of culprits shouldn’t be that long, anyway. 

First: Nanami. He wouldn’t. Your boss is built on black coffee and the occasional vegan bao from the restaurant across the street. You’ve never seen him eat anything else.

Utahime, the freak owner of the mustard bottle because she eats it with her pretzels, is lactose-intolerant. There’s no way she’s risking an explosive gut when she’s always busy at reception. 

Nobara’s too new to the office to try inciting violence against her seniors. You’d probably let her off the hook, regardless—she’s too hardworking to stay mad at.

You’d brood more over The Case of Your Missing Yogurt, but Satoru’s loud talking at the lunch table cuts right through your ruminations.

“—like I know it’s personal preference, but I think it’s so lazy,” he grumbles. “My uncle: Hiro. His son? Hiro, junior. God. Corny people piss me off.”

“Right.” Yuuji, the other new junior associate, hangs off Satoru’s every word. “It’s kind of like Bella from Twilight.”

Satoru slaps the table with passion. Yuuji hastily clings to his cup of coffee from spilling over. “Exactly, Yuuji. Exactly! You named your kid not only after the dad but also your ex who wasn’t even your ex?! The combination didn’t even sound good.”

“Edward Jacob,” Yuuji recalls.

“Disgusting.” Satoru shivers. “I don’t—Jesus. Don’t let me think about that. It’s so vile.” 

You close the fridge door, trek a sad path to the chair next to Satoru. Yuuji gives you a quick smile. You decide to scheme your murder plan later, because now you just want to pinch Yuuji’s cheeks off—your juniors are so cute! “Hello,” he greets politely.

Satoru sneaks an arm around your shoulders, resting it on the back of the chair. “What’s up with you?”

Is your sadness that obvious? God, you were waiting for that yogurt all morning.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say, because you might start languishing if you think one more second about your lost snack. “Hi, Yuuji. What were you guys saying about naming babies?”

Satoru huffs. “I hate parents who name their kids stupid names.”

(Yuuji takes a sip of coffee.)

“You wouldn’t do that with our kids, right?” Satoru asks you next.

(Yuuji, promptly, chokes on his coffee.)

“Absolutely not,” you answer, just as nonchalant.

“Hek.” Yuuji dissolves into five seconds of hard coughing. “You—you two are married?”

“Nope,” you both chirp at the same time.

The poor boy just stares, coffee blushing on his shirt. “Ah,” he says. “I see.”

Satoru shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d have babies with her. But she makes my coffee wrong every time I ask for it. I don’t think I could share my bank account with someone like that.”

Yuuji looks at you for a response. You reach over to pat his hand. “Don’t listen to him. You just keep working hard. And don’t tell Nanami that we gossip too much.”

“Right. I guess—well.” Yuuji stammers. “Does..? Am I? Is this… a secret?”

He sticks a hesitant finger up, pointing it at you, then at Satoru. Satoru wiggles a finger right back.

“Whatever Utahime tells you is wrong,” Satoru says, and Yuuji stares at him like he’s waiting for an explanation, but all Satoru does is wave him off. “Lunch is done.”

“Oh. Right.” Yuuji stands up, bows quickly, then remembers his mug. He runs to the sink to drop it off, then says, “I’ll–I’ll be careful around Utahime!”

He doesn’t wait for a response; he scampers out the room like he’s got a secret to share. 

Satoru’s always been lax with new hires—you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d explained his entire life story to Yuuji in the last hour. But his ongoing charade of touting you as his much-more-than-coworker co-worker is the oldest secret of Office Drama there is.

Utahime, your best and first co-worker friend who worked in the same room with you as clerks. Satoru, whose first day was the last day of your probation period, booted her out of the office because she got the full-time reception position she applied for. He proved himself a competent coworker. Steadfast in work ethic, a little too up the ass about gelling his hair properly in the morning. Had to look good to do good, he claimed. 

Utahime’s been out for his ass ever since, complaining that he was using his good looks to steal you away from her. Satoru took the bait right away. Made it his mission everyday to make Utahime green with explosive jealousy for having taken her rightful spot as your Worker Bestie for the Resties.

It started with the little gestures. A gentle hand on your lower back when you passed by reception (Utahime, who zeroed in on the touch from her desk, scoffing loudly). Complimenting your outfit choice of the day (“I think she’s beautiful everyday!”). Making you laugh with his stupid Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions (she hated this the most; she said he sounded like an ugly troll). 

“That’s the love of my life you cad!” Utahime bellowed, once, when Satoru trailed after you from the elevator one morning. Nanami said she had to stop playing sad Drake songs every morning when you passed by her desk because the melancholy brought the office morale down.

“You know I take good care of her,” Satoru called back. “And nobody says cad anymore, harlot!”

(They insulted each other for two more minutes using outdated expletives. After Nanami came to intervene, you gave him five bucks for his vegan bao to calm him down.)

You don’t really know when Satoru’s attempts to establish workplace dominance turned into straight-up flirting, though. Utahime didn’t need to be around anymore for him to butter you up. He’d leave little sticky notes he left on your monitor to remind you about deadlines, the next fire drill, drawing those little hearts at the ends of his sentences. The hand on your back turning into an arm draped on your shoulder. 

You told Utahime about it when Satoru took a sick day. She was livid. Then, immediately, she started tearing up.

“So I’m demoted from Bestie for the Resties and he’s trying to get into your pants?!” She moaned, sliding dramatically down her chair in the lunch room. “I’m going to pass away right now.”

“It’s not like he’s being serious,” you contended. 

Utahime gave you a hard look. “Please don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

You looked at her blankly. Wholly unfazed, because you really did believe Satoru had no other motive. He was just your stupid coworker–who sat across from you and did nice things and said nice stuff and you were pretty sure the older lady from accounting had a crush on him, anyway. 

“It’s nothing,” you decided, and Utahime shook her head, scoffing.

“Look. That garbage can’s been going after you since day one. You may not see it, but I have eyes, my pumpy-wumpkin bugaboo.” She tapped your nose. “You owe me twenty when you see I’m right.”

And that was all she had to say about it.

If anything, you figure it’s better for Yuuji to learn right from the source than be wrongfully convinced by Utahime that Satoru was a piece of shit homewrecker who lived to piss her off. Regardless of whatever lie is being fed to the junior staffers, there is one universal truth: you are the crowned jewel of this office floor, and that means everyone’s being lit on fire till you find the person who stole your fucking yogurt.

The second the door closes behind Yuuji, you glare daggers at Satoru. He still has his arm around you. 

“I might kill you,” you start.

“You say that everyday.” Satoru grins. “Don’t tell me the thought of having my babies scares you that much.”

Steam might actually blow out of your ears. “That’s not—stop trying to confuse me! My yogurt! It’s gone from the fridge!”

Satoru stares at you. Then his face morphs into a mix of shock and disbelief, and he screeches: “Are you saying I took it?!”

You sag in your seat, give him a look that tells him he should just confess before you find the closest sharp thing in this room. He just levels your stare with the same offended look, and you give in first because you don’t have time to argue anymore. Lunch really is over.

“Fine,” you sneer. “But if I find anything incriminating I will crucify you.”

Satoru fakes a shiver. “Ooh. Threaten me again. I can take it.”

He screams when you pinch the sensitive spot just below his armpit.

.

.

.

Right when the clock hits 4:59, Satoru hauls himself up from his seat. 

“Meet me outside. I’m getting my stuff then ripping ass in the bathroom,” Satoru tells you.

You snort. “Which one?”

“The one closest to the elevators.” In other words, right next to reception where Utahime is closing right now. Satoru is nothing if not calculating in his efforts to vex that poor woman. “See you.”

At this point in the day, the despair of losing your yogurt has simmered down to lazy indifference. You’ll just have to interrogate everyone tomorrow. Maybe print out a missing yogurt paper to stick on the fridge with no reward but your sincere gratitude and the promise to stick out for their missing lunch, should the same depravity befall them too. 

You turn your monitor off, make sure your desk is neat. Swiping off any crumbs from Satoru’s desk because he snuck in a sandwich today after forgetting to eat when he was talking to Yuuji.

And then you see it.

The silver shine of ripped plastic in the trash. 

At first, you’re skeptical. You’re too tired to spark another match of anger. But surely enough, when you hunch over to look, an empty can of yogurt sits innocent, perfect. All your strawberry vanilla goodness wiped clean.

You think of all the spectacular ways you could beat the shit out of Satoru, because he didn’t only lie; he thought you were stupid enough not to see the evidence right across from you. He could have at least thrown it into Mei Mei’s trash. Snuck it into Yuuji’s bag when he wasn’t looking. If there’s one thing you hate, it’s being underestimated.

So when you meet Satoru outside the elevators, the first thing you say is:

“You’re a giant fucking oaf and I want you to stay exactly one metre away from me till we get to our cars.”

He always parks his car next to yours.

“O-kay.” He puts his hands up in surrender, maintaining his distance. “Actually, that’s a good thing. My ass. It’s weeping. Ow.”

You quickly realize that this is the best course of action you could have taken, because you know the one thing Satoru hates, and it’s being ignored.

And you do it well.

“Your hair looks pretty today,” he says when you step out into the garage.

“I like the jeans you picked out,” he notes when you walk ahead without him.

“I’m going to crash my car into the first pole I see,” he whines the second you reach your car, and he traps you against the door with a hand pressed above the window. Distant enough to keep you comfortable, but you still feel more warmth than you’ve ever felt from him before. Like those slow burn romances where the lead slyly flirts with the pretty girl he’s been chasing for two seasons, except you’re one second away from kneeing his balls into painful oblivion. “Why are you being mean?”

You cross your arms. “Because you lied.”

“About?”

“You know what about!”

He clicks his tongue. Then his eyebrows lift in realization. “Ah.”

You wait for him to continue. Maybe you’d ask him to go down on his knees, get those nice linen pants dirty with grime and dust just to gloat about his passion for you and only you. You’ll partake in his drama for the sake of an inflated ego. But all he does is smile, and he’s got a handsome face, and for some reason, you’ve got nothing for rebuttal.

“So I have a confession to make,” he starts. 

You nod.

“I did eat your yogurt. Don’t say anything yet!” Satoru interrupts your open mouth. “I just. I didn’t think you’d be too upset.”

“Hm,” you concede. “Go on.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

This is too easy. You feel like an ant trapped in a glass jar. You’re used to the bickering, the roundabout conversation because somehow, he always makes you laugh. Your conversations are never serious. 

But this. This feels serious.

“How?” You ask, gut heavy with dread, anticipation.

“I’ll take you out for lunch,” he suggests, and you wait a heartbeat for him to tack on a sike, I’m broke, but he almost looks nervous. Like he wants so badly for you to understand something he knows so well. 

“It–um. Like… tomorrow we go across the street and get those baos Nanami loves so much?”

You’re stalling. Satoru laughs. You think you’re starting to like the way he looms over you like this.

“Like on the weekend, I pick you up, and we both look pretty, and you say you’re paying but then I slap your hand away from your card, and I pay because I need to give you a good impression,” he rambles.

“You don’t need to give me a good impression.” You’re almost breathless. “You–you…”

Satoru tilts his head, and it’s annoyingly charming. “Me?”

“I thought–I thought we–this is just–it’s you and me?” You stumble. He watches you shift your feet. Takes his hand off your car, uncrosses your arms with a tug on your wrist. You think he’s about to hold your hand, but he pulls away at the last second.  

“It’s always been you and me,” he repeats. Then scratches the back of his head because you think he’s floundering, too. “Just not for everyone else this time.”

You think you might genuinely explode. All your synapses stretch to the absolute limit, you’re almost convinced you’ll bleed from your ears. “You’re being serious.”

He nods. There’s zero indication that he understands the gravity of the situation. But it’s quiet in this garage. You hear it then, the tapping his shoe makes when he’s impatient.

“When–when you told Yuuji about sharing bank accounts,” you continue.

“Okay I’m not in that deep,” Satoru defends. “Well. Who knows. Maybe I could be.”

You shove his shoulder. “You can’t just say that!”

“You’re so violent.” He rubs the spot you’ve tainted. As if you did any damage. He’s just doing it to fuck with you. “Do you hit all the guys you’re into?”

“Are you trying to make me say no?” That’s a lie. You know this. You’re just still in shock that you might actually owe Utahime twenty bucks. Satoru clicks his teeth.

“Look. You don’t have to answer me now. And I’ll buy you your yogurt back.” He digs in his bag, taking his car keys out. “Just… let me know, okay?”

He lingers in his spot. He’s not the main character in this romance scene, though. It’s you, the unforgiving lead who can’t decide what they want for themselves, and when the opportunity comes for a new start, they stand frozen in time. All those past mistakes a whirlwind behind you, threatening your security, and the glass breaks, and all of a sudden you’re in a garage, making a fool of yourself in front of the character who never deserved a bad ending. You wouldn’t do that to him.

“If I say yes,” you murmur. Satoru perks up instantly. “Can I choose where we go?”

“Depends. Do they have free ice cream for dessert?”

Of course that would be his only stipulation. You’re glad he’s easy to feed. “Probably.”

Satoru nods. He clicks his car unlocked. “If you say yes,” he repeats, rounding the back of his car to the driver’s seat, “I’ll go anywhere for you.”

He leaves you gawping. You watch him open his door, sit down. Adjusting the air conditioner high because you know he’s always blasting it. He doesn’t roll the window down to say bye, just pulls from his spot, and you mind your feet, mind the way he waves at you, but not as enthused as he usually is with it.

You stand there, thinking about your yogurt, and about Utahime’s face when you tell her you’ll say yes.

[episodeoftv]

Round 2 of 8, Group 1 of 4

propaganda and summaries are under the cut (May include spoilers)

BoJack Horseman: 6.15 The View From Halfway Down

tw References to Suicide, General Death, and there's some references to cancer/dementia also, but they're very small.

BoJack reconnects with faces from his past.

Listen... Bojack has a lot of THAT EPISODE episodes, but this one just takes the cake. It's the penultimate episode of the show, in which the main character (SPOILERS) attends a dinner party inside his own mind with every character who has died over the course of the show. They all have deeply philisophical discussions about what it means to live a selfless, morale life, the value of sacrifice, the role of religion in personal fulfillment. Every background detail is packed with so much symbolism, the shape of a chair, the bridge the characters take a smoke break on. It's got an amazing dream-like quality, every small detail like a wire phone stretching too far, things getting misplaced, characters get older and no one comments on it, ect. But this is also the episode that just RIPS into Bojack as a character (which the show is already pretty famous for) but he's forced to face EVERY mistake, and watch all the people he's lost fade into the darkness (all in ways that mirror how they actually died) while trying to confront his own mortality, and coming to the realisation that - he's dying. He's drowning in the pool and this is all happening inside his own head. Everything everyone tells him, the ways they're acting in this episode, that's not who they actually are, those nice things aren't things they'd actually say, it's just what he WANTS them to be like. And at the end he has to stop running from the darkness that's already taken everyone around him, and just let it take him. Stop fighting, just let go. And then, rather than the usual end credits song, we just hear a flatline that runs throughout the credits. It fucks you up so bad.

takes place entirely in the main character's mind while he's on the brink of death, genuinely terrifying especially considering the rest of the show is a dramedy, some of the greatest voice acting work I've ever heard, the titular poem performed in the episode is incredibly haunting

The Newsroom: 1.01 We Just Decided To

Will's professional idealism is put to the test with his new news team when they are first to cover the Deep Horizon platform oil spill.

Pilot of all time I’ve watched this so many times I swear I have it memorized. It’s just such a great introduction to the show and the pacing is perfect I love it so much.

[good4olivia]

solutions

pairing: aemond targaryen x maid!reader summary: aemond disagree's over what his lover should be doing this evening

Aemond smiled too himself as he closed the door to his chambers seeing you already there, folding his sheets over the bed. “My love, good news.” He announced. 

You looked up at the prince, your lover in secret. You worked as his maid, well you were placed to Aegon’s chambers but Aemond quickly saw to remedy that. “Pray tell.” You answered, walking to meet him in the centre of the room. 

Aemond quickly met your lips in a kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist. “The lords from the Reach are running a day late behind in their travels so dinner has been moved a few evenings. Which means, I will be free to the spend the evening with you, much to my pleasure.”  

“And you assume I have no plans this evening?” You said, a teasing glint in your eyes. In truth you had made arrangements for the evening, seeing as Aemond was preoccupied and the septa had granted you a rare night off. 

Aemond only tensed, not one for jests when it came to his time with you. “And what pray tell, are your plans this night, [name].” 

You sensed the tension flowing off of him, he only ever used your name when he was crossed. “The court’s singer is a friend of mine and he is performing a number of songs in one of the taverns in Flea Bottom.” You told him, a slight smile finding your face at the thought of hearing some music. “He lets me in for free as I always slip him a lemon cake from the kitchen.” 

“Hmm.” Aemond dropped his hands from your waist and walked past you to his fireplace. You sighed and followed him there. 

“Aemond, darling, you’re not upset right? I only accepted the offer as I thought you to be preoccupied tonight.” You told him earnestly, though in the back of your mind, the idea of having a night to yourself away from the prince was comforting. The attention he gave you was like nothing you had ever experienced but at times it could be overwhelming and easy to get lost it in it. 

“You shouldn’t have accepted at all.” He didn’t look at you, “You are not going to the performance.” He spoke it as a statement that you had no way of refusing. 

“My prince,” You reached for his hand, “I’ve been looking forward to this night. I don’t get to hear music very often, it is quite a treat.” 

“You look forward to a night away from me?” He scoffed, finally looking you in the eyes. “Do I not always tell you; I’ll give you anything you want? Yet you have never mentioned your love for songs.” 

“I feel weird asking you for things, Aemond. You already do so much for me.” His eye softened at that but you could tell he was still no where close to letting this go. 

“If you wish to hear the court singer play, I will have him perform in my chambers.” Aemond suggested. 

You could feel the frustration growing inside of you like a vine, “I wish to go the taverns and see my friend perform to a crowd, I wish to-“ You cut yourself off. You knew Aemond would only twist your words. 

Thankfully, he skipped past your slip up, “I will escort you to the show, if it’s this important to you.” 

“Aemond-“ 

“Flea Bottom is dirty, dangerous and full of horrible men and women. Anything could happen to you there, how do you expect me to sleep knowing my princess is in that sewage city and not here, in my bed?” He questioned. Aemond often referred to you as his princess, when you brought up you’re only a maid - he would simply say one day you would be his wife so you were already a princess in his eyes. 

“If Flea Bottom is so repulsive to you, why do you think you would have a good time in the tavern?” 

“I’m not going there to have a good time, I’m only going to protect you. I don’t understand, I am only offering a solution.” 

“Saying you won’t let me go unless you escort me is not a solution.” 

“It’s the only way you’re going so take it or leave it.” 

You had nothing left to say so you stood up and finished the work you had left in his room. Aemond sighed, ran his hands down his face. He did not mean to upset you or be difficult but how could you not see how horrible Flea Bottom is? How could you want to spend your time there? If he was being honest, he also knew it was because you did not grow up in royalty like him. You were used to dirty streets and loud taverns, he was not. It was only another thing that reminded him that you from different worlds. How he wished that you were born in a higher place in the world, so you could love each other without objection. 

“My beautiful, please. I don’t want us to fight. I promise that I won’t make complaints during our time there, I will be on my best behaviour.” He said, wrapping his arms around you from behind resting his head on your shoulder. 

You were still silent, so he started to kiss the side of your face which only made you melt in his arms. “Promise me?” You gave in. 

“Yes, my heart. I just.” He paused trying to find the words,”I would burn down the seven kingdoms if I was ever to be without you.” The statement made your breath catch in your throat. Just as much as you had your reservations about his intense love for you, you loved it as well. You grew up knowing you were nothing, a nobody servant girl but now the prince of the seven kingdoms is madly devoted to you. It was like nothing you had ever experienced and you knew you never wanted to be without it. 

“Very well, then.” You turned around to face him, kissing him as well. “I love you.” It was the first time you ever said it. You felt the nerves martliaze in your belly awaiting his response. 

Aemond was silent for a moment, his mind was racing. He knew he loved you for long but he hadn’t though you to be the first to say it. He was overjoyed. Aemond removed his eye patch and let it fall to the ground. He wanted you to see all of him. You gently ran your thumb down the scar. “It’s beautiful.” 

He kissed your thumb, then held your hand in his. “I love you more than I have ever thought possible.” 

You smiled at him, he returned it. The feeling he always he carried in his chest when his eye patch was on was gone when you looked at him not as he was a monster but a whole man worthy of your love. 

“I should go get ready for tonight.” You squeaked with excitement, “I have one evening dress, I only save it for special occasions.” 

You squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek but before you could get two feet away he reached out for your wrist again. He had the mind to offer you one of his sister gowns but just before he spoke he figured that was not the right attire for Flea Bottom. 

Instead he only said, “Meet me back here in an hour.” 

“An hour? He doesn’t start singing an hour before the 24th bell.” You told him. Aemond only nodded and you were off, skipping away to get ready for the night. 

Aemond sighed, this was going to be a long night. It was worth it to him though, he would do anything to spend time with you and protect you.

[tomsparkyr]

Being tuchels or Southgates daughter and mason having a crush on you. You can make it smut if you want to. (Who doesn’t love a smut with mason:))

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

summary: having a crush on the gareth southgate’s daughter is hard, especially everyone in the room can see the sexual tension between the two of them.

masterlist.

mason mount x southgate!reader

mason mount x fem!reader

warnings: mild smut because i’m rubbish at writing but i need sexy mase, small injury mention, fluff, sex references, the england team boys, nothing else?

word count: 1.4K+

thanks for the request! p.s sorry this is so late,, i went on a break from tumblr but now i’m back x

don’t steal any of my work please, thanks!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 staring the minute you walked out the doors. You were wearing a small white dress that hugged your waist and puffed at the shoulders, the material hanging elegantly around your thighs. Mason practically thanked God for making summer a thing and seeing you in those beautiful dresses and those shorts he adored more than Declan.

You were absolutely capturing, no matter the day: you were the most beautiful person in Mason’s eyes (and no doubt the world thought so too). His cheeks flared everytime you entered the room, he was whipped to say the least. His heart would pound everytime you came in close proximity to him, eyes taunting as he knew you knew what you were doing to him. Safe to say, Mason Mount had the biggest crush on you.

But the cherry on top of the cake, the thing that made Mason’s crush just that little bit more unbearable: you were the Gareth Southgate’s daughter. The manager of England, the national club he played for. Fun.

Little rundown of what would happen if Mason supposedly dated you, remember: Gareth Southgate’s daughter. 1. His job and career would be at major risk. Finding out he was making out with the manager’s daughter, that’s not exactly going to look good for possible transfers.

2. Your status would be ruined, headlines would be switched to the worst of words about you. Imagine if the public found you had got in on with your dad’s players, immediate sentence for Mason instagram fans.

3. His ass would get beat. Not just by Southgate, but by his teammates. You were Gareth’s daughter and now practically sisters to the entirety of the England team, all treating you with the upmost respect. So if they ever saw Mason locking lips with their metaphorical sister. Punches to his face, multiple punches (Grealish has his hands ready.)

If you couldn’t tell, it’s basically physically impossible for Mason to date you; so all he can do is admire from afar. For not very long.

The shrill sound of the whistle being blown straight in his head made him jump back and whack his arm on one of the mannequins, hearing laughter from his mates beside him. Southgate had the whistle in his mouth, a glare at Mason’s way, his finger pointed at him. “Back to the drills, Mount.”

Mason brushed off the embarrassment of what just happened, you clearly could tell as you covered you mouth and the corners of your eyes creased; he could tell you were laughing at him.

He winced when he saw a small cut on his finger after abruptly hitting on the edge of the object while trying to cover his tracks of not-so-subtly staring at you.

Declan peered over Mason’s shoulder to see what he was whining about, then glancing down at the split on his finger; a small smirk on his face.

Rice waved his hand up in the air, calling for someone. “Hey! We have a bleeding finger over here!” Mason looked behind his shoulder at his best friends with confusion written on his face.

“Yeah, it needs help. Y/N do us a favour and take Mase to fix up his cut!”

Mason’s face paled at his words. Southgate pulled his attention away from the training, eyes flickering at the tiny ounce of blood barely dripping from Mason’s finger. He shook his head, “Rice, I don’t think he needs help. It’s football not—“

“Nope! Nope, it’s practically falling off. Mase, go follow Y/N she’ll show you where the plasters are.”

Declan pushed his friend forwards to step closer to you, your hand out for Mason to take. Before Mason followed you off of the training grounds, Declan whispered, “I’ve just got myself a guaranteed spot on the bench next match for talking back to the coach, atleast make a goddamn move.”

Mason nodded abruptly, fear danced across his face at the sheer thought of being alone with you. Butterflies burst in his tummy as he watched the white dress sway between your legs he oh-so adored, the ones he wanted around his waist.

You led the way into the empty room, medical kits scattered around the room, large tables and massage beds adding to the decor. You looked back a Mason, his figure standing awkwardly at the entrance, you smiled sweetly at him and patted the seat in front of you and the kits. He took the seat, heart racing and fighting back a blush he knew was bound to slip out.

You looked in his eyes. “Right, let’s see it.” Mason’s mind fell straight to the gutter.

“Wha— What?” His cheeks tainted a rosy red, spluttering on his words and hands suddenly clammy.

“Your cut.” You blinked, brows furrowed and heart picked up a pace as you knew instantly what his first thought was.

“Right. Right.” He swallowed, holding his hand out for you to take. He felt your hand touch his, the smooth skin of your fingers tracing everywhere but the cut, deep in thought and concentration. He lifted his head up to watch you bite your lip and inspect the injury. You looked up at him and locked eyes. “Okay, I think you need—“

“I love you.”

“What?” You retorted on instinct, Mason’s eyes widening and taking a deep breath in.

“No—No, I don’t love you, I don’t even like you!”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I do love you!”

“Oh?”

Mason practically died right then and there. Your face was pale and so was his, hearts racing and hands still touching. He stared deeply into your eyes. “Fuck it.”

He lunged forwards and locked lips with yours. Immediately slipping his tongue into your mouth and gripping your thighs to yank you onto his lap. Your hands thread through his hair and tugged on the brown locks you adored so much.

Your breaths became quicker, more needy for each other. Mason couldn’t bare the thought of not having every inch of you on his skin. He felt your hands slip to underneath his shirt, tracing the abs on his stomach.

Mason smirked into the kiss the more he felt you toy with the ends of his england jersey. He nodded into the kiss, allowing you to pull up the top and over the top of his head, leaving him shirtless and more hot and bothered than ever.

His hands moved further up your thighs, far under the dress and resting towards your ass. He groaned into the kiss, feeling you grind on him slightly in response. “I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted this—“

“Goddamn prescriptions, man.” You both pushed away from each other hearing the whine of Ben Chilwell outside the medical room. You whacked your back on the desk trying to fix your dress as Mason scrambled to find his shirt you threw across the room only a mere few minutes ago.

The door opened, Ben walked in and froze at the sight of you, Gareth Southgate’s daughter with the skirt of her dress scrunched up and red marks on her thighs poking out; and Mason Mount, the golden boy, shirtless and hair all over the place.

Ben’s mouth fell agape, a finger pointed between the two of you, “Did you two—“

“I was just fixing the cut on Mason’s finger.” “Yep, yep. The cut, that cut.”

Ben squinted his eyes, “So that’s why he’s shirtless?”

Mason snapped his head towards you, begging you for an answer he simply could not sum up. “It’s the summer, gets hot in buildings. You know?” You nodded nonchalant, lips pursed together as Ben grew a smirk on his face.

“So that’s it. That’s all that happened.” Ben nodded slowly, seemingly convinced in the eyes of you and Mount.

Mason perked his chin up confidently, “Yeah, just whacked a plaster on that cut and back to training we go. Walk with me, Ben?”

Ben smiled at Mason, “Of course, Mase.” The two headed towards the door, Mason pressing a kiss to your cheek quickly as soon as Ben turned his back to the two. A breath of relief came from the two.

“That cut was pretty narly, huh?” Ben said to Mason, his brows furrowing.

“You don’t have a plaster on it.”

Mason froze on his spot and snapped his head towards you with your eyes wide. Fuck.

Ben Chilwell knows Mason nearly shagged the Managers Daughter.

[jiro-kino]

❝MY LITTLE DOVE ❞

KUNIKUZUSHI ( PRE-FATUI ) + READER

contains; platonic relationship, spoilers for 3.1 ( the backstory ), takes place after the first betrayal, Reader's immortal, Reader is referred to as female

QUICK SUMMARY; Witnessing the archon leave her prototype in a domain with no explanation, you (for some reason) took pity at the prototype and decided— ain't no way you're just gonna leave after that.

The puppet stared at the house infront of him, the petals from the wisteria tree beside is flew in the air— giving the place a calming presence. The woman ( who had found him abandoned in some kind of domain ) beside him glanced at him before cutting the silence with her voice,

"Until you are capable on living on your own, you'll be staying with me"

The puppet nodded, silently thanking her with a small bow. She waved it off and gestured him to follow her inside, "For starters, let's get you something to eat. You must be hungry, no?"

As expected, the puppet shook his head no.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to try now, would it?" She asked, summoning a book with a simple finger snap and handed it to him, catching him off guard and confused.

"Go and pick whatever you want, dove. Though, go easy on the sweets if that's what you're going for"

"Uh.." The puppet wanted to decline, however- his curiosity peeked at the different dishes the book provided. He couldn't help but go through each page until he eventually stopped at—

"Chanpurū.." He muttered, reading the simple description beside the sketch drawn on the paper. He turned the book to show the woman and although his face was neutral- the shine in his eyes said otherwise.

The woman placed a finger under her chin, looking at his choice before placing her hand on her hip. "Not bad..." She whispered, smiling at the puppet and asked "What? Not into cake or something sweet?"

She almost cackled at the sight of the puppet immediately shaking his head, eyebrows slightly furrowed at her question.

"I see.. Then let's get to making, Kunimitsu" She called for him to follow yet again, but this time to the kitchen. As the puppet followed, he suddenly froze at the name, eyes slightly widening.

Was he given a name?

"Kunimitsu..?" He repeated, just to be sure.

"Yes, dove. From now on, as long as you're with me.. you'll be Kunimitsu" The woman answered, seeming to be quite proud of herself. Despite the fact it was basically just the opposite of the name Ei had given him.

Kunimitsu ( we'll be calling him Kuni ) thought about it for a moment. Letting the name repeat in his head before eventually nodding, coming to terms with it with a small smile.

"Then, what should I call you?" He asked, watching as the woman picked out the melons from the cabinets.

"Have I not introduced myself to you?" She answered with a question, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head and she mentally face palmed at herself for forgetting. Returning his small smile from earlier, she answered again "You can call me (Name), or whatever you like"

"Okay, (Name)" he tested out as he took a seat, continuing to watch. And the the woman didn't mind that, she was actually pretty relieved his curiosity isn't the kind to make him do something stupid.

MONTHS PASSED...

And the puppet had been quite helpful around the house, the woman admits. And he had been learning quite quickly too. He's now able to wander around outside on his own if he wants, and can cook his own dish ( some might need some work though but that's fine ).

(Name) couldn't help but feel proud of him. He managed to make some friends from Tatarasuna while she was buying groceries ( despite both not really needing it ). And he's quite good with kids too. Hell, the elders loved him as well.

Did she, a 'little' bit of a troublemaker, really helped this kid? She thought as she stitches the plush in her hands back together.

Her smile softens at the moment that happened earlier. Where he came to her and was saddened by the fact he ripped the plush's arm by accident while at the garden. My, he was on the verge of crying.

She chuckled as she finished the knot. Guess taking him in wasn't a bad idea after all.

"Mom, are you laughing at nothing again?" Kuni's voice broke the ice as he walked down the stairs with a sword in hand. Eyebrows furrowed as he held the weapon carefully. The woman lifted her head up from the plush after finishing, putting the needle away.

"Don't give me that look, I do it often. You should be used to it by now" (Name) answered as she handed him the plush, to which he put his sword away to hold it in his hands, feeling the newly stitched arm with his thumb.

"But isn't that a sign of insanity?" He asked, smiling a bit at the cat plush in his hands. The woman ruffled his hair with a grin,

"Dove, I can be the definition of insanity if it weren't for you" She cooed, pinching his cheek. Kuni didn't fight back, knowing she'll just pinch his other cheek if he did so and smiled.

"Now, you come back before dawn, got it? We still have to visit Mondstadt and their singing archon" The woman lets go of his cheek, fixing his attire a bit. ( Mix the wanderer's and the Balladeer's outfits and replace it with Kunikuzushi's color palette )

"Got it" He nods, grabbing his hat from the table near the door and placed the plush away in his bag.

And as he opened the door, he stopped and looked at her from over his shoulder, waving with a close eyed smile.

(Name) blinks before smiling back and waving as well,

"Stay safe"

Requests about this are open btw, I kinda ran out BAHAHAHA

[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!

[fortuositywritings]

Tattoo Heart

Summary: Tony and you make a dumb drunk decision. He gives you a tattoo.

“Um, what the hell, Tony! You said it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not! It’s well-proportioned. Really it’s the best heart I’ve ever drawn. I don’t know why you’re so upset. It could have been worse.”

“The heart isn’t the problem. You tattooed Wanda’s name on it!”

“Yeah, I can see why you’re mad.”

You poked your sore arm. Out of all places, he had to tattoo it on your arm above your elbow where everyone could see. Talk about bad placement.

You pout, “How am I supposed to hide this?”

“Baseball tee’s could make a comeback. You’ll be a trendsetter,” he suggests, not helping at all. 

You glare at him. “You’re paying for it to be removed.”

“I expected no less,” he concedes. You’re still touching the tender spot, frowning. He stops you. “Poking it is not going to make it go away.”

“Fuck! I’m never getting drunk with you again,” you vow. 

“You say that now, but come Friday night, whiteclaw in hand, you’ll have no recollection of this ever happening.”

“Getting a tattoo with your crush’s name on it is kind of hard to forget, Tony,” you spit out. He wears a sheepish smile. Speaking of the party on Friday, “Shit!”

“What?” Tony asks, clearly not processing the situation you’re in as fast as you are.

“Wanda’s gonna be there,” you remember.

“Well, yeah. It’s Pietro’s birthday party and they’re twins so,” he comments sarcastically.

“It’s a pool party. How am I supposed to hide this?”

“Just don’t get in the pool. Or you know what, just don’t go. Say you got sick,” Tony suggests.

“I can’t do that. She expects me to be there and I don’t want to let her down on her birthday,” you explain. Wanda had personally invited you to her party, saying you were going to be her partner for beer pong. 

“Fine. Don’t worry about it too much. We have all week to figure something out,” he reasons. You guess he’s right. No use in stressing too much.

Friday afternoon comes too fast.

You’re stressing as you look at yourself in the mirror. You look ridiculous. 

“You’re literally a genius and this was the best you could come up with?” you complain. You already feel yourself sweating. You hadn’t thought of what to wear. You only had your one piece bathing suit. Tony told you he had something and you trusted him. What he brought you, a long sleeve rashguard to wear over your bathing suit.

“Makeup was just going to wash off. We couldn’t chance it. This way, you can get in the pool,” he says. 

“I look like I’m going surfing, not a pool party,” you huff. 

“You look fine. If anyone asks, you burn easily. Now let’s go. Your girlfriend is waiting on you,” he rushes you along, grabbing your stuff for you. You throw on some shorts and slip on some sandals.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” you mumble, blushing as he pushes you out the door.

“Oh, I know. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if she was.” He closes the door.

Pietro opens the door for you and Tony. You both hug him and congratulate him on another year of being on this earth or as Tony puts it, “Congrats on being one year closer to death!”

Technically, their birthday is tomorrow but they always have a birthday dinner with their parents, so they celebrate with their friends either the day before or after. You and Tony hand Pietro your present for him. 

“Just don’t open it in front of your parents,” you warn. He decides to unwrap it right then. You roll your eyes at his impatience to wait until tomorrow. To his satisfaction it’s running shoes with a bottle of alcohol in each shoe. He laughs, thanking you for his present. He notices you looking around, searching for a certain somebody. He already knows who you’re looking for. 

“She’s in the kitchen,” he tells you, a smirk appearing on his face when you blush at being so obvious. You thank him and go find Wanda.

As Pietro said, she is in the kitchen fixing some appetizers to bring outside. What you weren’t prepared for was her already in her bikini, like she’s ready to jump into the pool. Her two piece bathing suit doesn’t leave much to the imagination but you’re quite the daydreamer it seems. You’re snapped out of your trance by Wanda clearing her throat.

She wears a smirk much like her brother’s and you splutter an embarrassed, “H-hi! Happy Birthday. You, uh, you look good. Great! You look ready for the pool.”

She smiles, amused by your awkwardness. “Thank you. You look ready for the beach.”

You blush. “Yeah, I burn easily,” you lie and quickly move on, handing her the present you got her. “Here.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” she says, but you shake your head. “Of course I did. It’s your birthday tomorrow. You can open it now if you want. Your brother did.”

“Unlike my brother, I can wait. Let me go put it in my room. I’ll be right back. Wait here,” she requests. You nod and she leaves with her present. You respectfully turn your gaze to the appetizers, not wanting to ogle her backside. 

“Cowabunga, dude! What the hell are you wearing?”

“No way. I almost wore the same thing. Good thing I didn’t or that would be embarrassing.”

You roll your eyes, turning around to see Sam and Rhodey, both clearly amused by their own jokes. You give them an unimpressed look and they laugh harder. 

“Haha. So very funny,” you deadpan.

“Seriously, Y/N, why are you wearing that? It’s like a thousand degrees,” Rhodey asks. 

“Maybe I’m insecure and you guys laughing just makes me feel worse? Maybe thought of that?” you retort, but neither buy it. They look at each other and start laughing. 

“Insecure, my ass. You almost give Tony Stark a run for his money in the size of ego,” Sam says between laughs. You just roll your eyes.

Wanda returns to find the guys pressing you about the long sleeves. 

“Hey, Wanda. I think you might have given Johnny Kapahala the wrong address. She’s gonna be late for the competition,” Sam jokes and you hate that you get the joke. Wanda doesn’t and looks adorably confused. All she knows is they’re referring to you so she looks at you for an explanation but you ignore her in order to throw your own remark.

“At least Johnny wasn’t afraid to swim at the beach,” you bite, making Rhodey and Wanda laugh and Sam take offense.

“There are sharks!” Sam defends himself, making you all laugh. 

The three of you help Wanda bring out the appetizers to the backyard. They’ve got a table and a bunch of chairs laid around. Wanda asks if you’d like a drink and goes to fetch one for the two of you while you greet other friends. 

“You didn’t want one?” You ask her when she returns with only one drink. “If we’re going to be beer pong partners, you can’t leave me drinking alone.”

She giggles and takes a swig from your drink. “Happy?” She asks when she returns the drink to you and smirks upon seeing the slight blush on your cheeks. 

You get a few more remarks about the rashguard but with a few drinks in everyone’s system, the pool is more enticing than poking fun at you. You didn’t plan to get in the pool but with a simple “come on” from Wanda, you’re cannonball jumping into the deep end. 

Once it’s dark, you all begin to vacate the pool in order to play games. You and Wanda play two games of beer pong seeing as neither of you are very good and you think you’ll surely be sick if you play another round. 

You eat, you dance, you sit around and talk to your friends, and Wanda is with you the whole time. It’s midnight and you’re right beside her as everyone sings for her and Pietro. She hands you the first slice of cake, which you eat standing up just to stay next to her as she cuts a piece for everyone. 

It’s nearing 2am as people begin to leave. Wanda and Pietro make sure everyone is getting home safely, either taking a LIFT or having a designated driver. You and Tony stay later to help the twins clean up, which they greatly appreciate.

Almost an hour later, the house looks as if there hadn’t been a party. You and Tony wish them happy birthday once more before he pulls out his phone to call an Uber. The twins insist you two stay, that it is way too late and they’d feel better if you do.

Tony wiggles his eyebrows discreetly at you when Wanda invites you to sleep in her room. You spare him a warning glance before following Wanda to her room. She offers you some pajamas and hands you a long sleeved tshirt like you ask. You excuse her questioning glance saying you get cold at night. 

You change in the bathroom. When you return, you find Wanda also in her pajamas sitting on her bed with the present you gave her earlier in her hand. 

“You want to open that now?” You ask, amused at her eagerness to open it.

“I mean it is my birthday now,” she reasons. You nod, closing the door and going to sit next to her. “Or is this one of those ‘open when you’re alone’ presents?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “What kind of presents are those?”

“One of those romantic ones like in the movies that show that you’ve always loved me or something,” she replies. Your palms feel sweaty all of a sudden with the way she stares at you. She reads the nervousness on your face and takes pity, continuing, “Or a vibrator.”

You burst in giggles. “Damn it. How’d you know?” you joke. 

It’s not a vibrator, obviously. You got her two necklaces, one gold with her name and the other sterling silver with her initials.

“I was going to just get you the gold one but then I thought maybe you wanted one to match all those rings you wear so, that’s why there are two,” you explain.

She puts the box aside and throws her arms around you, pulling you flush into her. “Thank you. I love them.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I could totally return those and get you a vibrator if that's what you want,” you laugh. She pulls back immediately, a frown on her face. 

“No, they already have my name,” she protests, pulling a chuckle from you. She hands you the golden one that says ‘Wanda’ and asks, “Will you put this one on me?”

At your nod, she twists around, turning her back to you and sweeping her hair up. You struggle with the clasp a little due to your nervousness, but you get it. Had you paid closer attention, you would have noticed how Wanda shivered at your touch. 

She turns back around and you admire her with your gift around her neck. “It looks great on you.” 

She leans toward you again and you assume it’s to give you another hug, which you wouldn’t mind one bit, but she doesn’t move her head to the side the way one does to hug someone. Her nose bumps into yours and you realize she’s going to kiss you. 

For some damn reason you pull away before her lips reach yours. She looks embarrassed and begins to apologize, “Sorry, I misread that. I thought with the present and the way you’ve been looking at me all day, shit.”

“No, you didn’t misread anything,” you reassure her. She relaxes. “Can we try that again? I was just nervous, but I’m ready now.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Wait.” You get up and make a show of shaking off the nerves and pumping yourself up before you sit back down. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

She giggles, grabbing your face and pulling you into her, kissing the life out of you. She moves to lie back on the bed and you follow her lead. You’re kissing and it’s getting hot and she tugs on your shirt. You remove it without a second thought. You begin kissing down her neck pulling sweet noises when you leave a love bite. She gasps and grips your arm, right above your elbow. 

You flinch in pain. The sudden intake of breath tips her off and she pulls her hand away. She asks worriedly, “Are you okay?”

You remember the tattoo and the fact that it’s not so hidden right now. You start to panic. “Yep, why? Are you okay?”

She narrows her eyes in suspicion, but you kiss her with the intention to make her forget. A minute later, she does it again, grabbing right on that spot. You try not to, but she hears the small groan and she pulls away. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong,” you lie. 

“Then why do you flinch every time I grab your arm?” She moves to grab your arm again to prove a point but you move it away.

“Nothing’s wrong with my arm,” you deny. She sits up and reaches for your arm. Once more you pull out of reach. 

“Y/N, let me see your arm,” she demands. 

“Okay.” You try to save yourself from some of the embarrassment by explaining, “But before you look, just know I did it on a drunken dare and I didn’t know until the day after what Tony actually wrote.”

That piques her curiosity and she shuffled around you to take a look at your arm. You can’t watch, so you hide your face behind the palm of your other hand. You expect her to either laugh at you or get upset, but moments pass and you don’t hear anything. 

You get the nerve to look over your shoulder at Wanda. She looks indecisive about what she wants to say, but she doesn’t look mad. Finally, she says, “I guess I don’t have to ask if you like me or not.”

You groan in embarrassment, hiding your face again. She laughs and pulls you into her as she lies back down. “Don’t laugh. It’s embarrassing enough getting your crush’s name tattooed on you. I don’t need her to actually make fun of me.”

“Aww, you have a crush on me?” she coos. 

You pull away, giving her a deadpan look. “No, I get girls’ names tattooed on me all the time.”

“Having your crush’s name tattooed is embarrassing,” she agrees.

You narrow your eyes, thinking she's just making fun of you now and that was the last thing you need but she continues, “So how about we say it’s your girlfriend’s name?”

Your eyes widen. Wanda bites her lip nervously, waiting for your answer, and that’s how you know she’s serious. You blush, “That would be less embarrassing.”

“I think so too. So what do you say?” She asks, wanting a clear answer.

“I would love to be your girlfriend,” you answer.

She smiles and kisses you. You can’t help the giddy laughter that comes after. 

“You know, he didn't do too bad. It’s pretty well-proportioned.”

[mypoisonedvine]

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (chapter 10 - FINALE)

series masterlist

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind.  you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 6k

warnings: implied smut, angst, fluff, romcom tropes, lots of swearing, pregnancy mention/minor breeding kink

note: click the asterisk for a hyperlink to a translation when the time comes

Six months later...

“It’s good!” she beamed, setting down the last chunk of pages and taking off her reading glasses. “Oh man, that ending hurt, but it’s really, really good!”

You leaned back into the plush chair and sighed with relief. “You think so?”

“It’s best-seller material,” she assured. “With some editing, of course. God, I can’t believe you were sitting on this for so long.”

“What are the biggest changes you want to make?” you asked.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ll cut the romantic subplot,” she mentioned in passing, like it was no big deal. “It’s distracting.

“Distracing?” you repeated. “Nia, it’s the story. It’s a romance.”

“I thought it was a thriller,” she frowned.

“A romance disguised as a thriller,” you corrected.

“Listen, I get what you mean, but I didn’t get this—” she tapped the nameplate on her desk: ‘NIA BROWN, HEAD PUBLISHER’ in shiny letters— “for nothing. I know what I’m talking about, and I know what your readers want. Violence, gore, drama!”

“It has all that!” you defended. “But it’s all there to talk about the real love he finds in her!”

“What do you mean ‘real love’?” she pressed flatly.

“I mean…” you pondered. “I mean love where you feel like a version of yourself that you actually like. Love where you feel unjudged, no precedents or caveats or back-up plans. Love that fucking hurts because you never wanted to rely on anything or anybody. Love that lives in silence because you don’t even need words.”

She furrowed her brow. “That… sounds nice, I guess, but I don’t think anybody really has that. Everybody needs a back-up plan. Everybody needs words— a writer should know that.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” you groaned, your face falling into your hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, I’m a moron.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I had that! I had that, and I let it go! I’m the dumbest bitch on the fucking face of the Earth.”

“Don’t say that,” she soothed, but you were already standing up.

“No, I need to find him,” you decided as you grabbed your coat and briefcase. “I need to go back and try to fix this. I love him, I’ve never— I didn’t know I could love like that, I didn’t know I could be loved like that… oh my god, I need to find him. It isn’t over.”

“It isn’t over?” she repeated incredulously. “You said Michael signed the papers!”

“It’s not Michael,” you rolled your eyes as you stormed out of the office. “It was never Michael.”

You ran into the first telephone box you could find, slamming the door shut as you searched your purse for the business card that probably wasn't even in there.

After a moment, you gasped with delight when you pulled it from a very bottom pocket and began punching in the number as fast as possible with shivering hands, long-distance charges be damned.

“Hello?” the confused voice on the other end answered.

“Mrs. Alberti, hi— does Sebastian still work for you?” you asked hastily.

“No, dear," she sighed, apparently recognizing you by just your voice (and likely your request), "he quit recently, and moved away.”

“Moved?" you repeated with a wrinkled brow. "Where?!”

“I assume back home, sweetheart; to Bucharest.”

“Shit,” you sighed. “Shit!”

“Are you having your ‘run through the airport’ moment, sweetheart?” she realized.

“Yes, I think so— do you have his address?”

“Well, no, but I’ll see what I can find.”

You waited rather impatiently as she shuffled through papers in the background, mumbling to herself as she apparently searched for information that could help you.

“All I’ve got is the address of a previous employer… a carpenter,” she finally explained, breaking the silence. “It was his only reference when he came to work here," she explained.

"Wow, you really did just hire him for his looks," you blurted out.

"He was desperate for work, that boy had nowhere else to go,” she defended.

“Right, well, I guess if that’s my only lead then I’ve gotta go for it,” you decided. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberti.”

“I told you to call me when that book was a hit. Did it happen yet?” she piped up.

“It’s not published yet,” you explained. “It needs some more work… but I think it’s almost ready.”

“I think so, too, dear.”

Learn Romanian in 10 Weeks! A practical language guide.

Week 1, Day 1: Greetings

Hello                      Salut

Goodbye                La revedere

Thank you              Mulțumesc

You’re welcome      Cu plăcere

Good morning         Bună dimineata

Good afternoon       Bună ziua

Good evening          Bună seara

Good night               Noapte bună

You brushed your hair back out of your face with a sigh, turning the page as you mumbled the phrases to yourself. Broken Hungarian and your high school education in Latin were not getting you as far with this as you had been hoping.

How are you?          Ce mai faci

I love you                 Te iubesc

“Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc,” you repeated over and over in a whisper.

Each day you had a new routine: practice Romanian for an hour, check flight prices online (or call the airline), research what you knew about Sebastian and the address Mrs. Alberti had given you, and then get back to practicing Romanian again.

Oh, and occasionally you worked on the edits Nia wanted for your manuscript. You were focusing on the minor changes— grammar errors, rearranging sentences— and putting off her big request for the removal and replacement of the romantic aspects. More than ever, they seemed like the most important thing the book had to offer.

You had a small apartment, just a place to sleep and shower really; much too small to fit everything you’d already taken from Michael’s house (you know, the one that used to be your house) along with what he’d shipped to you that you forgot before. He included a letter in the package as well. You threw it out, unopened.

Truthfully, you never really fully unpacked. As much as you realized you probably should, in order to really feel like you had a real home, you couldn’t bring yourself to empty your suitcases when you knew you’d be packing them again any day now.

You also realized how outrageous this all was. Ignoring the unlikelihood of even finding him in the first place, Sebastian probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you broke his heart, left, and then randomly tracked him down after over half a year. But to be totally transparent, you weren’t really doing this to get him back, necessarily. You knew that was probably never going to happen. You were doing this because you needed to try. You needed to go there, and get hurt, and come back knowing you did everything you could: you’d never be able to live with yourself if you did anything less than that.

You couldn’t start your new life until you had put everything else to bed. And if that meant being 100%, painfully certain that you and Sebastian could never be together, then that was just how it needed to be.

After two weeks of looking, there still weren’t any reasonable flights to Bucharest, so you booked another trip by train, figuring you could use the three day trip to brush up on the key Romanian phrases you were going to need as well as prepare your speech.

Yes, your plan was a speech. You didn’t have a back-up plan. You didn’t even have a return ticket back to London yet.

A passage by Yeats came to mind; But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

In all your life, you’d never understood before why someone would want to only have their dreams. But now, here you were… and yes, it felt terrifying and vulnerable and uncomfortably naked, but it felt pretty damn good, too.

With a sigh, you scribbled out the last sentence you’d written, tossing the trash paper aside. You looked up out the window at the scenery flying by in a blur, worried that if you didn’t look out from the train every once in a while you’d get motion sickness.

The sun was beginning to set already, the green of hills and trees tinted orange. You only indulged in it for a moment, though, before getting back to this god-forsaken speech you were deadset on finishing before you arrived in Bucharest tomorrow. At first, you’d figured the translating would be the most difficult part… but writing in English wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, either. You had so much to say, and suddenly so few words for any of it.

You’d probably done more editing on this than any of your novels combined; the crumpled up pages spilling out of your wastebasket were proof enough of that.

“And I’m a fucking writer!” you groaned aloud, to no one in particular. “How is anybody else supposed to be able to do this, if I can’t?”

Other people aren’t as emotionally constipated as you, the voice of your inner critic reminded you plainly, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

A rap at your door made you sit up straighter and turn around. A stewardess slid open the frosted glass slightly to give you a friendly smile. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

Your brows furrowed at the sound of her accent. “Is that a Romanian accent?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded.

“So you’re fluent in Romanian and English,” you concluded.

“And Portuguese, yes ma’am,” she agreed.

“Could you come in here for a moment and help me translate something?”

She seemed slightly confused at the request but stepped forward, sliding the door most of the way shut behind her. Leaning beside you on the desk, she picked up your handwritten letter and blinked her wide, brown eyes a few times. You felt slightly embarrassed knowing she was reading such intimate thoughts, but that was how it felt the first time someone read anything you wrote so you were pretty much used to it by now.

“I usually ask the passengers what brings them to Bucharest,” she mumbled after a moment. “This is the most interesting thing so far. Am I reading this correctly, that you intend to confess your love to someone you met—” she scanned the page quickly— “during a vacation in Hungary?”

“Yup,” you smiled awkwardly, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“And he doesn’t speak English?” she assumed; you nodded. “And… you don’t speak Romanian?”

You nodded again, and she breathed in and out quickly, sitting beside you as she stared at the letter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she explained.

“Sorry for sucking you into the entropic vortex that is my life,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she sighed, setting the letter down, and you laughed a little internally at the idea that she was worried about prying when she just read the most personal piece of writing you’d ever put to the page, “but do you think this is… enough? I mean, to build a relationship on?”

You just gave her a shrug. “I have no idea. But, you know, I spent my whole life worrying about stuff like that. I dated my husband for seven years before we got married, because I wanted to be sure. I was initially interested in him because he was successful and ambitious, and it made me feel like this was a really secure relationship that I could rely on. I double majored in English and Computer Science because I wanted a more stable career to fall back on in case being a writer didn’t work out, and even though it did, I’ve spent most of my career publishing what I thought people wanted to read instead of what I wanted to write, so I’d have a better shot at a good paycheck. I grew up thinking the best thing I could ever have was security. And now I’m divorced, watching my royalties shrink every month, more insecure in every way than I’ve ever been, and I’m realizing that the choices I made didn’t give me what I wanted. I gave up so much in the name of safety, and I let the one good thing I’d ever found go, so I could go back to being the same person I always was. I’m ready to settle again, if this doesn’t work… I’m ready to accept that this is just the way life goes, and be thankful that I got a taste of the kind of stuff I thought only existed in the sort of books I’d read but never write.”

She swallowed as she looked at you, and you felt your eyes water as you stared out the window towards the dimming scenery one more time, smiling at the sight of a distant village, a church with a steeple, vineyards and farms. Someone’s whole life is in that little town, you imagined, and they’re just watching your train go by like they see every other day.

“Sebastian gave me more security than I’d ever had before, even though the whole thing was such a ridiculous little whirlwind, and nothing like I ever imagined my life could be. But he made me want to be honest and raw and write sappy letters like the one you just read. He doesn’t have any money, at least as far as I know, and I haven’t known him for seven years, and on paper it makes no sense… but you would understand if you knew him. If you felt that joy that he radiates, if you saw him live his simple little life like it’s the best thing in the world. You would understand if you knew how much I needed this. You would understand if you had been just as miserable being who I’ve been for so long, and finally had a chance to be somebody you think you were maybe meant to be the whole time. So, if I never see him again, I hope I just get to thank him.”

You waited for her to say something, but furrowed your brow at the long moment of silence, looking back from the window finally and finding her staring at you with a tear running down her cheek. When you met her gaze, she quickly wiped it away with a sniffle and looked down at your desk again. “Let’s get to translating, shall we?” she announced with a half-smile.

You noticed the way the other passengers looked at you as everyone was in line to deboard from the train car; you stuck out like a sore thumb, since everybody else was carrying heavy luggage and all you had was a backpack.

In your defense, you really had no idea how to pack for a trip where you knew neither the duration nor the true final destination. So, it was mainly filled with your essentials, a few clothes for any kind of weather, and enough leu to buy anything else you needed along the way.

The stewardess was waving goodbye to everyone as they shuffled out into the train station, occasionally stopping to shake a hand or give directions to nearby destinations. When you were just about to pass by, though, she pulled you into a tight hug.

“Good luck,” she whispered, holding you just a moment too long before pulling back and giving you an encouraging look. “If he doesn’t take you back, feel free to blame my translation… because if he knows what’s in your heart, I know he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part isn’t it?” you laughed weakly. “Thank you for your help. I guess if I come back alone for the return trip tonight, you’ll know how bad it went.”

“Then I hope I don’t see you again,” she winked.

It being a major train station and all, cabs were waiting around every corner so it was pretty easy to grab one and give them the address you already had written down for this exact purpose.

“This is pretty far,” the driver explained, “on the edge of town. Not a tourist spot.”

“Good, because I’m not a tourist,” you nodded, already only giving him half your attention as you pulled out the translated speech to practice.

“And you can afford this?” he pressed. You sighed and dug through your bag, pulling out a haphazard stack of bills and handing them through the plastic partition.

“Is this enough?” you asked, and he didn’t answer, just taking the money and starting the car as you smiled and leaned back in your seat.

As much as you had tried to convince yourself to not get your hopes up, the butterflies in your stomach felt more like whole birds at this point, demanding to break free as you practiced the words hand-written on the page over and over again, committing it all to memory.

“What are you reading?” the cab driver asked after several minutes.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, “sorry if I’m bothering you, you can turn on the radio.”

“No, it’s not bothering me, but what you are saying… it’s very odd. It sounds like something from a play, or movie,” he explained.

“Um, it’s not,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “But does it sound like it’s from a good movie? Like, if you heard a character say this to another character, would you think they should get together?”

“I… don’t know,” he answered, sounding confused. “I mean, it depends on what happened, right? How they met, how well they get along…”

So, you told him the whole story, as succinctly as possible (which is not very succinct at all). By the end, he was actually giving commentary as you spoke.

“Why the hell did you leave?” he interjected, clearly irritated with you. “You loved him!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes love isn’t enough! I loved my husband too, and look how that turned out,” you defended.

“But that’s different. That was love for all the wrong reasons.”

“I promise, it felt very real at the time,” you shrugged.

“And now?” he countered. “You realize that this man— Sebastian, right?— is real.”

“I hope I’m right this time,” you offered. “But even if I am, he may not agree.”

The driver scoffed, taking a hand off the wheel to wave dismissively. “If he’s anything like you said, then he will still be completely in love with you. After all, you still feel the same way after all this time apart, don’t you?”

“If anything, I love him more every day,” you admitted, your heart beating quickly just to say it aloud.

“You know, when I met my wife, she was engaged to another man. He was rich, good-looking, and he wasn’t even a bad guy unlike this husband you describe. He was a good man, but he wasn’t right for her. They were… content together, but she wasn’t truly happy. Every night I would come to her window and beg her to marry me, because I knew that she knew we were meant for each other, but she was scared because her family wouldn’t approve and she would be a poor man’s wife.”

“How did you convince her to marry you instead?” you asked eagerly, sucked into the story already.

“I didn’t. On the day of the wedding, some people told me to go and break it up but I didn’t. I thought it would be wrong, to try to ruin her happiness and take it for myself by making a scene at the wedding. I realized she was her own woman and if she wanted to choose him, I had to let her. I had locked myself in my house, not wanting to see anyone that day, and she appeared at my door. I didn’t need to convince her because she knew the truth in her heart, and called off the wedding herself.”

“Wow,” you smiled.

“She was still in her dress!” he recalled with a hearty laugh. “She looked like an angel. We were married just a few days later. And next month will be thirty years,” he added as he lifted his left hand to show the golden band on his finger.

“Thirty years, that’s… a long time,” you sighed.

“It wasn’t always easy,” he admitted. “But it was always worth it.”

Just as you wondered what you could possibly say to that, you felt the car slow down to a stop.

“This is the address you gave me, this is it,” he explained, pointing out his passenger-side window. You leaned up against the glass and gasped in dawning fear as you saw the storefront dark and empty inside.

“No, nonono,” you whispered rapidly to yourself as you swung open the door and hopped out, pressing your face against the glass to try to get a look inside and finding what was undeniably a closed carpentry business. There was a note on the door, taped on the inside of the glass, and you knew enough Romanian to know it said something about a vacation and three months.

“Shit!” you yelped, holding your face in your hands, wondering if your journey had come to an end before it really began.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked, rolling down his window to speak to you.

“This was my only lead, I don’t have his real address,” you explained. “He used to work here, I thought maybe someone would know him…”

He sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “Get back in, we can search nearby. You came too far to give in yet.”

But getting back in the car felt like giving in, too, which you realized as you looked back at the note taped to the carpenter's door. This was the closest you'd gotten, and it felt wasteful to leave with nothing.

Just as you were ready to hop in the passenger seat and start searching aimlessly through suburban Bucharest, or maybe look around for a Romanian yellow pages, you heard a noise from behind you, across the street; a laugh. His laugh. But it couldn’t be because it was too good to be true… and yet you found yourself whipping your head around and hoping beyond all reason that it was Sebastian.

Across the street was a restaurant, with a large patio where patrons were dining and chatting as they sat at wrought iron tables, and your eyes searched the crowd for any signs of him.

And then your gaze landed on a head of thick brunette hair, red and gold highlights so obvious now when the sunlight hit it this way. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-up shirt. He was facing away from you but he was looking to the side so you could see his face; he was smiling, laughing at something someone had said. And it was his smile that you recognized; it was like everything else faded away, and in that moment you thought maybe you could almost be happy with just this, just seeing him be happy even if it had nothing to do with you.

“Sebastian,” you called out to him, but he didn’t react. “Sebastian!”

His whole body turned, his eyes met yours, and you couldn't help but let the tears well in your eyes as you ran across the road to him.

He looked, understandably, stunned, and you realized he was actually waiting on a table at the moment; he said something to them, apparently excusing himself, and stepped closer to you.

But he stopped walking, not coming any closer, not exactly dragging you into his arms like you might've preferred, but with a breath to try to soothe your racing mind, you summoned your memories of the practiced letter and began. *

“Când am venit în Ungaria…” you started slowly, doing your best to remember the words and hoping your pronunciation wasn’t too awful, “nu căutam dragoste. Căutam spațiu, claritate și poate o idee de carte de un milion de dolari. În schimb, am găsit tot ce am căutat toată viața mea…”

You did your best to bite back tears, especially when his expression was nearly unreadable and you had no idea how well this was going.

“Ești tu, Sebastian, bineînțeles că ești tu,” you sighed, laughing slightly. “Ai fost acolo pentru mine când nici nu știam ce vreau de la nimeni. Ai fost prietenul meu fără să spui vreodată un cuvânt - cel puțin nu un cuvânt pe care l-am înțeles. M-ai iubit și nu știam ce să fac cu asta, pentru că uitasem cu mult timp în urmă cum se simțea să fii iubit. Și ce simțeai să iubești cu adevărat pe cineva. Dar te iubesc. Și am fost prost să te las să pleci, atât de neconceput de prost. Vreau să fim noi, Sebastian. Lasă-mă să te iubesc, mai dă-mi o șansă și îți promit că nu te voi mai lăsa să pleci niciodată.

The first thing he said was your name, and just the way he said it made you fall in love with him all over again.

“I… I dream that you would come back,” he shakily replied. “But now I cannot believe. You are my dream.”

Tears were openly flowing at this point and you wanted to run into his arms, but you tried to stay calm and hear him out. He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like you would run away if he got too close too fast.

“I love you, very much that I am sure I am insane person,” he explained with a grin, and you giggled. “We will live anywhere, do anything you would like— be my wife.”

You gasped as he pulled you into him, gripping your arms tightly as his desperation became apparent.

“Marry me?” he asked softly.

“Da,” you nodded, “yes, of course, anything—”

He kissed you suddenly, but gently, and it said more than any words in any language could.

It was a small wedding, in the Hungarian countryside by the lake. You could remember diving into that lake for lost pages of your manuscript; you could remember looking out over the water and dreaming of this moment you were living right now, thinking it was impossible.

He didn’t have much family, but they welcomed you with open arms.

Your family, well, they were too busy with planning another wedding, for your ex-husband and your ex-sister. A few of them sent cards but the rest were suspiciously quiet. You honestly didn’t even notice… you had a new family to attend to, anyhow. And it wasn’t like you didn’t have any guests, since you were able to track down and invite a stewardess named Maria, and a cab driver named Andrei and his wife, Paola.

Sebastian’s cousins weaved flowers into your hair and his grandmother tailored her dress to fit you like a glove. A picture of his parents was hung nearby in tribute; he told you they would’ve wanted to see him get married but that he felt, in some way, they were able to even if they had passed away quite some time ago.

You realized you’d never seen him in anything even mildly formal before; in fact, the suit he wore was rather casual, all things considered, but he looked so painfully cute in it. Sometimes you thought he actually looked a bit out of place wearing a shirt, though, especially one that was buttoned up all the way.

Luckily, the shirt was halfway unbuttoned about ten minutes into the reception.

Mrs. Alberti cooked a massive dinner for everyone, and even grew the flowers that you carried down the cobblestone aisle.

And wow, can Romanians drink. You had to be careful not to try to keep up with them, because if you had you would’ve been blacked out halfway into the night and the last thing you wanted was to forget even a moment of this.

As the night started to wind down to a close, you and your new husband retired to the lakehouse, running up the stairs and finding them as creaky as always.

He wrapped his arms around you in the hall and kissed you eagerly as you stumbled back into the bedroom, tripping over the doorway and falling onto the bed together.

It felt so right to have his weight on top of you, to feel his smile against your lips, to wrap your arms around his neck.

“This room,” he mumbled into the kiss. “Do you remember first time?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “da, I remember, how could I forget?”

He grinned and moved his lips down to your neck. "I thought of you every day… I love you,” he whispered.

“Te iubesc,” you whispered back.

It was almost like the first time in so many ways: passionate, yet oddly hesitant as you rediscovered each other. It was comfortable, though… you couldn’t think of any other person you felt so comfortable with, somebody who finally got you out of your own head and who made you want to experience everything life had to offer.

You were sure you’d never gone so long without worrying about something in all your life.

“My wife,” he whispered against your skin. “This is all I had wanted… from seeing you in very beginning.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” you sighed in return, “ești tot ce mi-am dorit vreodată, Sebastian.”

Life with Sebastian was beautifully simple. You spent most of the day writing, usually, while he built furniture to sell and occasionally gardened with his spare time. You could always tell how busy you’d been with a new novel lately by how perfectly groomed the hydrangea bushes were.

You’d told him once that you’d come to Hungary looking for a million-dollar book idea. A Killer in Disguise performed alright, but not anywhere near that. The Language of Love, on the other hand, was definitely a million-dollar idea… about eleven times over. Sebastian didn’t seem to worry too much about how much money you made, though; he was just proud to say that he was the inspiration for your hit novel. You secretly suspected that he was more proud of your work reaching enough international notoriety to be translated into Romanian.

His English still needed some work, but you found it endearing. He was determined to get better and spent at least a half-hour each day practicing, but you hoped he wouldn’t get too perfect because you would miss the silly little mistakes he made. At least you could be sure he’d keep the accent forever… damn, that accent; and he knew exactly what it did to you, too.

In fact, you were crossing through the hall in your robe one evening when your husband’s voice stopped you.

“Darling wife,” you heard Sebastian call from the bedroom in a playful sing-song.

“What is it, Seba?” you asked with a smirk.

“Come in here, please…”

You opened the bedroom door to find most of the room covered in rose petals: most of all the bed, which was surrounded by candles, and topped with a shirtless (as per usual) Sebastian, laid on his side seductively with a long-stemmed rose (one you recognized from his very own garden) between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” you laughed. “Is this some sort of special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

You were already searching your mind for what it could be, but your two-year anniversary had passed a few months ago already and since it was spring it couldn’t be the anniversary of when you first met since that was late in the summer.

“Iss not quite a thpecial occathion yeth,” he answered before taking the rose from his mouth so he actually made sense. “I was considering it could be a special occasion, when we’re done…”

You smirked and climbed over the candles and into bed with him, taking the opportunity to run your hands over his chest. “And what occasion would that be?”

“A year from now, it could be the anniversary of when our child was conceived,” he answered.

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to a whisper of surprise. “Seba—”

“If you’re not ready, I will be understand,” he instantly added, stern yet soft. “Only if you want this, I just thought that maybe—”

You silenced him with a kiss, lacing your fingers into his hair and letting him roll you onto your back. He pulled back just enough to let you answer, but your noses were still bumping into each other and you smiled.

“I’m ready, Sebastian. More than ready,” you whispered.

He grinned and kissed you again, deeper and slower as he held your face with one hand and gripped your waist with the other. As his lips trailed down to your neck, you were interrupted with one pressing thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He popped up and looked down at you with a smile. “Sure!”

“Why are you wearing ratty old jeans?” you laughed.

“Hey, these worked on you the first time,” he defended.

You gasped. “You don’t mean those are the jeans—”

“Yes,” he nodded, “the jeans that I had been wearing when I was working on Mrs. Alberti’s cottage. And, truly, when I was finding an excuse to work outside your window.”

“Wait,” you sat up, “did you actually work outside my window on purpose?”

He laughed, hanging his head quickly before looking back at you again with a sparkle in his eye. “You are very smart, my love, except for those times when you are— how do you say? Oblivious.”

You chuckled, unfortunately very aware that he was right.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was building a window frame, nearly a dozen metres away from the window it was for?”

You thought for a moment before dropping your face into your hands and laughing. “No, I didn’t notice that. I was too busy giving you a thorough eye-fuck,” you recalled.

“Yes, because I was not wearing a shirt and this distracted you,” he pondered, sounding suddenly like a scientist explaining a theorem or something. “See, that’s the beauty of wearing the jeans and no shirt. The body distracts you while the jeans seduce you.”

“How about you take the jeans off and put that body on me, capisce?” you pleaded; not that you didn’t love his humor or anything, but maybe his funny bone wasn’t exactly the bone you were interested in at the moment.

He grinned devilishly and suddenly pulled your legs apart, settling his body between them as he kissed your neck again, nipping at your jawline and ear. “You’re being impatient, dragă,” he purred. “You want to have my baby that badly?”

You whined involuntarily, arching your back as his hands roamed your body and finally began to untie your robe and push the silk out of the way. “Yes, Sebastian, please—”

“Let’s just say, theoretically, I wanted to have more than one? Would you have another of my children?” he asked softly as he reached up and palmed at your breasts, teasing your nipples which were already much too hard and sensitive for how little he’d touched you. The rough denim rubbing against the inside of your thighs was oddly arousing— maybe it was the sensation itself, or maybe it was just that this was almost like the first thing you imagined when you saw Sebastian all those years ago.

“Yes,” you moaned out your answer, “yes, you know I’d do anything for you.”

“What if I wanted a big family?” he pressed. “Really big? Like, Catholic big?”

“We can have our own fuckin’ Brady Bunch, Seb, I just need you right now,” you begged, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and desperate kiss.

He decided to wait until afterwards to ask what a ‘Brady Bunch’ was. You decided to wait until afterwards to ask when he’d learned how to use the word ‘theoretically’.

sfarsit; the end

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

tuxedo, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, mentions of previous jungkook x reader

summary: Your cat turns into a man. No, not, your cat was always a man and turned back into a man. Your actual cat turns into an actual man and neither you or your cat (man? cat-man?) have any idea why he's human now. Also, he's naked, so that’s a problem. Also, he’s kind of attractive. Yikes.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, mentions of the coronavirus pandemic; possibly full-on crack; Yoongi still thinks he’s a cat; mentions of smut (fem reader, m-receiving oral (choking on a dick, but not in a sexy way), doggy, spanking, wall-fucking, unintentional??? voyeurism); non-idol!AU - cat!Yoongi x human!reader; ft slightly cocky Jeon Jungkook and you being mad horny for him, what’s new; breaking of the fourth wall; are YOU a furry? you decide

an anon asked for cat hybrid Yoongi, although instead this is some voodoo witch doctor shit, whoops yes, I do reference BT21, Bob Ross, the lady-pointing-to-the-cat-accusingly meme, list goes on... and there is a cameo of 2021 Seasons Greetings Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin XD

--

Your lungs were being crushed.

You were bundled in your duvet, wrapped like a mint-colored burrito, on your back, head nestled comfortably in your memory foam pillow. Warm, cozy, snuggly. All things considered, a comfortable position. So comfortable that you were blessedly asleep for many hours until your lungs started getting crushed.

You cracked one eye open.

A giant tuxedo fluffball was causing this slow and painful death.

“Get off.”

You glared with slitted eyes, voice cracking from sleep. The fluffball did not move. Velvety, pointed black ears flicked back and forth. The little pink nostrils flared a bit, breathing evenly and contentedly. At least one of you was. You grunted in irritation. The minty-green eyes opened, black slits for pupils.

“I’m going to die.”

Your cat meowed in your face.

“Shut the fuck up. Get off.”

He yawned.

You narrowed your eyes and lips into lines. Stared at your insufferable, not-so-subtle tuxedo cat that was killing his owner. How long had he and his seven-kilogram ass been sitting on your tits? Too long because your sternum was already aching. You rolled over and he gave you a disgruntled meow as he tumbled off. You pulled your arms out and gave him a soft scratch behind his ears before reaching around to his white belly and patting his chest. He started purring, rolling to his side, white sock-like paws sticking up.

“Ugh, my chest hurts, Shooks. You’re a dick.”

Your cat gave zero fucks.

You were still petting him. Sigh.

“I’m getting up,” you announced to no one except your cat.

You tugged yourself out of your comfy, mint-colored duvet and winced, rubbing your breastbone. Did you buy this bedding set because it reminded you of your cat’s eye color? Yes. Were you a crazy cat lady? Maybe. In your defense, you hadn’t meant to become a crazy cat lady. You were innocently walking on the street when the tuxedo-patterned cat started following you. A large cat with big minty eyes surrounded by black fur like black bangs. White snout and jaw, pink nose, and a raspy meow. The tuxedo pattern was pretty similar to an actual suit, with a white chest and black fur over its back and limbs. White, sock-like paws, on the bigger side. Cute pink toe beans too. At the time, he was skinny and dirty, no collar around his neck, but you could tell he was long-limbed. He had a cut on his right eye, caked with blood.

“You alright, little guy?”

The cat seemed to scoff at you disapprovingly, as if to say, do I seem like a little guy to you?

“I guess you’re not a little guy. You have an owner?”

The cat’s response was headbutting your calf.

You took him back to your apartment and then it was doomed.

Why was his name Shooks? Well, actually, your cat’s name was Shooky, and it was because you tried many names to get him to respond to you – including, but not limited to, “you little shit” – and he responded to none of them except Shooky. For some reason, Shooky made him turn his black-and-white face around and look at you.

Shooky it was.

The first encounter was cute, but after you had fed him and given him a few pats, you gave him a good, hard taste of reality. Shooky was very upset about getting a bath for the first time. There had been a lot of angry meowing, although thankfully he hadn’t swiped at you very much. As soon as you got mostly undressed and sat in the bath with him, he seemed to relent. Maybe it was because you closed the glass door and he couldn’t leave.

“Do you see how dirty you are? You need a bath.”

He gave you a disapproving meow.

“Look, I even bought pet shampoo and you’ll get treats after. Come on, you.”

He was very displeased.

In any case, Shooky was now your primary companion, a large, long-limbed, fluffy tuxedo cat, following you around as you brushed your teeth and made breakfast, his new black collar jingling with a tiny silver bell. Every morning, you handed him his dry food first – he chomped down immediately – and made yourself some breakfast as he ate. Somehow your life now revolved around him, spending time looking up the best cat food (without paying an arm and a leg, you weren’t a sugar momma), making sure he was brushed (his hair got everywhere), telling everyone you needed to get home because you couldn’t miss his dinnertime (if you were a second late opening the door, Shooky would start meowing very exaggeratedly, like he was dying, what a drama queen). Was he annoying? Yes. Was he the best cuddle buddy? Also, yes. Kind of like a boyfriend, but better, because Shooky didn’t talk back.

You arranged your small dishes on the table. Tofu. Eggs. Pickled squash. Just enough for one. You sat down, holding your bowl of steamed rice.

A tuxedo furball jumped onto the table, licking his chops.

“Look here, this isn’t for you. Shoo.”

He settled onto the tabletop and stared at you as you ate.

Sigh.

-

Live with a cat was pretty similar to life without one.

Except for that weird habit Shooky had of sitting on your bathroom rug when you got out of the shower, scaring the shit out of you the first time. You lived alone, so you didn’t really bother closing doors, but you considered changing that. But it was just a cat. Also, he walked in here of his own volition. Not your fault if his eyes were scarred.

Shooky was a normal cat, but also a weird cat.

He slept a lot. Normal. He bit his paws sometimes. Weird. You figured maybe it was his nails, so you learned to trim them and he seemed better about it, but sometimes when he was stressed, you would notice fur missing from his little white socks. A lot of things could stress a cat. The internet taught you that. You brought him toys and played with him, but mostly he seemed to want you to sit down so he could plant himself in your lap. This make life rather difficult, so you decided it was time to invest in Netflix so you could at least use your time wisely.

This was for your cat, remember.

Yes, binging shows on Netflix was for your cat.

The weirdest thing was…

Shooky was always stressed when you invited a man into your home.

Maybe he didn’t like men. Something in his past, maybe? Could be. Come to think of it, did you even like men? That was a question for another day, but in any case, your cat always gave you this accusing stare when you brought a guy over, no matter how nice the guy was, even if the guy petted him very gently. Shooky never attacked them. He just glared at you like you had betrayed him somehow. How could that be?

What a needy drama queen.

You figured, eh, it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t trying to sabotage your chances of finding true love and all that stuff. 

Who are we kidding?

You’d settle for a simple good dicking.

Well, there was that one time.

That time you were in the middle of giving a guy a blowjob. It was going great. You were naked, he was naked, he had a tattooed arm – hot as fuck – and he was very vocally enjoying your tongue technology. Hey, you didn’t have many talents, but you had that going for you. Even if a guy was mildly apprehensive about banging you, once you got your mouth on his dick, it was game over. You mentally patted yourself on the back for doing such a good job.

Positive reinforcement, right?

Annnnnnnd then…

Your cat jumped onto your back and made you choke on his dick.

“Urk!”

“Oh, fu–”

All seven kilos right between your shoulder blades. Oof.

“Are you okay?” He was half-worried, half-laughing, and Shooky was climbing up your back, pressing onto your neck, one paw on the nape, trying to murder you by dick suffocation. It took both of you to lift you off the dick – sad – and Shooky left a few scratches on your neck, as if to communicate his distaste of your infidelity. The guy was really nice about it. Actually, he found it hilarious. You scowled at Shooky and he gave you that deadpan stare that all cats seemed to have. The rest of the night was hot and heavy like you wanted and you even eventually got to complete said blowjob, which brightened your spirits.

It was a little disorienting that your cat was watching you from his cat tree the entire time.

Creep.

Honestly, you would have kept dating that guy if he didn’t move to a different city. Sigh.

Eventually, you stopped bringing men over.

One, because Shooky. Two, because worldwide pandemic.

Sigh.

-

The night that changed everything was ordinary.

Too ordinary.

You were passed out on the couch, halfway into season six of American Horror Story, somewhat peeved because you wanted to watch the other seasons, but geez, season five had such a poor story and hard focus on gore that it slightly turned you off. That it was a lot, even for you. Season six was better, but slow. The first four seasons had really hooked you and the idea of them all being connected? Nutty. You wanted to watch all of it.

Idea of season five? Awesome.

Lady Gaga? Yeah, why not, you’d be seduced.

Execution? Eh… could be better.

Shooky hadn’t watched any of it. He just slept in your lap.

Subtitles really helped you out here. You didn’t understand how the English-speaking audience could hear the whispering parts, but maybe that was because your English was garbage. You could read better than listen.

At the moment, you weren’t reading shit.

You were half-tucked in a fuzzy black blanket with a tuxedo cat pattern. Did you see the tuxedo cat pattern and buy it immediately? Yes. Were you a crazy cat lady? Maybe. In any case, your head was cocked at an awkward angle on the couch cushion and your mouth was open, snoring away. Attractive. You were wearing mint-colored, striped pajamas, one arm hanging off the couch and the other on Shooky’s furry butt, because you had been petting him.

Netflix was doing that annoying thing where it was asking you if you were still watching or not.

You couldn’t respond.

Shooky was awake.

Your cat was staring at your laptop on your coffee table. It was open. An HDMI cable connected it to your television. Not a clean setup, but an effective one. Again, you lived alone. Who was going to judge you? Your tuxedo cat?

Pfft.

Your cat was awake.

He got off your lap and hopped to the coffee table, peering at your laptop. Then he did what any sensible cat would do.

He walked all over your keyboard.

Circling around and around, smashing all the buttons with his cute pink toe beans, looking for a comfortable spot before settling down and planting his fluffy body on top of it. Windows closed, tabs appeared, the volume got muted, your display settings got fucked, the usual.

The unusual part was that your cat was looking at the screen.

Your internet browser was open.

A video was playing on a mysterious website.

A handsome young man with a boxy smile was wearing a sienna floral dress shirt and sunglasses, oddly paired with flared violet pants. He was standing next to another young man with an angelic face who, for some reason, was wearing a pastel floral handkerchief around on his head and a white-and-navy tracksuit with black, red, and green stripes. They were standing in some weird set with a black tablecloth covered round table and a lavender crystal ball, crystal-like beaded curtains glinting in strangely colorful lighting.

There was no volume.

Your cat tilted his head at the screen, curious.

The man with the boxy smile was speaking excitedly, gesturing to the angelic-looking man who seemed to be in awe. A retro, old school graphic popped up, flowers surrounding a blocky orange and green serif font, mildly tacky but somehow endearing in its own way.

COULD WISHES REALLY BE GRANTED?

Your cat tilted his head the other way.

Your cat didn’t know Korean.

… Right?

Well, you did mostly speak to him in Korean. Maybe he was secretly fluent. He definitely knew, don’t fucking do that, because you would witness him doing the very thing you told him not to do right after you said it. Bastard. But you couldn’t bear witness to this now. You were knocked out on the couch.

Zzz.

Boxy-smile guy placed his fingers elegantly on his forehead, mock dismay on his features, acting as if he couldn’t believe the viewer’s skepticism. Angel-looking guy placed his hands in prayer position, the text now reading, I won’t believe you unless you prove it! Boxy-smile guy flourished to the camera, showing off his brilliant pearly-white smile, mouthing words unheard. Text appeared once more.

Make a wish, any wish!

Your cat closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep.

The video turned black and disappeared into purple sparkles.

Your internet browser unexpectedly closed.

-

You woke up with a painful stitch in your neck and Shooky nowhere to be found.

“Fuck…”

You tried to get up, but underestimated the cramp in your back and fell onto the hardwood floor.

“Fuck!”

You blamed the pandemic for fucking up your sleep schedule. Also, getting old. Fuck getting old and being an adult. Time didn’t stop just because you didn’t go to work. Well, not true. You did go to work; your work was just different now. You were YouTube video editor, which meant you were mostly edited video game montages now instead of travel vlogs. The work was slower now. People were getting discouraged, taking breaks, because, you know.

Pandemic.

Sigh.

Anyway, not the point. You were grateful that your work was mostly internet and computer-based. Not everyone was so lucky. You were also grateful that you didn’t work in an industry that was too negatively affected by the pandemic. It had started off as a hobby, but then the creators you were helping unexpectedly blew up, needing your help more and more. You fell into it by accident, but that’s how life was. Happy little accidents. You couldn’t complain. As long as you had some income to feed your cat and you, that was enough.

Speaking of cat.

“Shooky?”

No meow.

Huh.

He normally would meow or trot over to you when called. He was weirdly affectionate like that.

You were still on the floor, on hands and knees, crick in your neck and back aching. Ah yes, age was just a number until your back pain flared up due to repeated nights of unintentionally falling asleep on the couch. Lovely. You stretched out your back with a groan and yawned, cracking your neck.

“FUCK!”

That hurt. Ugh, you really needed to stop sleeping on the sofa. You untangled yourself from your blanket and headed to the bathroom, rubbing your neck. You still didn’t see your fluffy, seven-kilogram, kind-of-an-ass tuxedo cat, but whatever. He had to be in the apartment. He couldn’t exactly leave. He was a cat. What was he going to do, grow legs and opposable thumbs?

Pfft.

You shoved your toothpaste-covered toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing your teeth. You hummed, trying to remember if you had any deadlines. Eh, they were on your Google calendar. You would check it after washing up. You spat and brushed for a few more minutes, thinking about nothing. This was nice. Sometimes it was nice to think about nothing. No major problems to address, simply a chill and routine morning.

Seemed sufficient.

You reached over to the spit cup and put some lukewarm water in it before taking your toothbrush out and sipping some water to gargle the minty suds out.

You heard a deep, raspy voice call your name.

“Hmm?”

You looked in the mirror.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Your mouth was full of dirty toothpaste water, cheeks puffed out.

The voice called your name again, quietly.

Nervously.

Your eyes widened, staring into the mirror in shock.

A pale man was standing behind you, wearing your mint-colored duvet over his shoulders. Messy black hair to his rounded cheeks, dark brown cat-like eyes, small pink pout. His nose was a little red, as if he was cold. There was a black choker on his neck, with a silver bell. He was taller than you, and he looked very confused.

Also.

Pointed, velvety black ears on top of his head, white tufts of fur sticking out, flicking back and forth.

You spat all over your mirror in shock.

“Urk–!”

The man jerked back as you threw your head into the sink, hastily taking another cupful of water to rinse out your mouth because, WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON? Why was there a man in your apartment? With fucking cat ears? That moved? What kind of kinky shit was that? Were you dreaming? What the fuck?! You grabbed the hand towel from its hook and furiously wiped the dirty water off your mirror, completely convinced you were having sensory and auditory hallucinations. Did you drink last night? Accidentally buy groceries laced with LSD? Snorted three kilos of cocaine off a hooker? Who the fuck knows, but there was no fucking way that you let some fucking man in your home, because, one, pandemic and, two, Shooky–

You froze.

The pale man with black hair was still there, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking slightly disgusted, but also scared.

He said your name again. A question, almost like a raspy meow.

It was…

Familiar?

You violently wiped your bathroom mirror some more, nearly cracking the glass.

The man was still there, wearing your mint-colored duvet.

Slowly, slowly, you turned around to face this man, your neck cracking loudly, sending searing pain up the back of your head and reminding you that, nope, this is not a dream, and if it was, it was a very shitty dream because at least in a dream you shouldn’t actually feel pain. You looked up at this man, at his fluffy black bangs shading his dark attentive eyes and pale face, chewing on his lip, clutching your duvet around his body like a giant mint cloak.

The cat ears on his head twitched.

“Uh…”

You blinked at him, watching the ears.

“Do… I know you?”

He gave you an eerily recognizable deadpan stare. “I think you do.”

No way.

What?

No.

This wasn’t possible.

You’re drunk, high, or in purgatory.

(You did have sex before marriage.)

“S… Shooky?” you croaked.

The man took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Actually, my name is Min Yoongi.”

You blinked at him. “What? You have a name?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Relief washed over you. “What do you mean, you guess? That means you’re a human being! With a birth certificate! Thank God, I thought you were my fucking cat for some reason, haha, that’s so fucking ridiculous–!” For some reason, the idea of a random stranger being in your home was much more comfortable to you than you damn cat becoming a human being, because for a hot second, you thought… but no, no, that’s stupid. “Speaking of ridiculous, these ears are crazy dude, they look almost real–”

You reached up and yanked on one of the velvety ears.

“Ow, what the fuck!”

Oh.

Oh my God.

OhmyfuckingGodthey’reattachedtohishead.

“What the FUCK?” you bellowed and a large pale hand shot out of the duvet to clamp one of his cat ears down, shrinking away from you.

“Stop yelling, please, I have sensitive hearing,” Yoongi winced, ticking his head, as if he was trying to flatten the other ear too, but couldn’t. His other hand was holding tightly to the mint duvet.

You saw a glimpse of a pale chest.

Your eyes widened into the size of saucepans.

His hand darted back into the duvet and clamped it shut from your bulging eyes, frowning. He quickly bundled himself up and straightened, thinning his mouth into a line. A few seconds passed. You gawked at him, jaw slack. The pale man sighed heavily.

“My name is Min Yoongi. My parents gave me that name. I don’t think I have a human birth certificate because I’m not a human. I am a cat. You used to call me Shooky, but Min Yoongi is my name, so I would appreciate it if you called me by my given name.”

Your jaw went even more slack.

“Cats… have names?” you squeaked.

Yoongi made a face at you. “Of course, we do. We are not savages.”

“B… But…” You frowned, shoulders falling. “You seemed to like the name Shooky…”

Yoongi shrugged his duvet-covered shoulders. “It sounded better than all the other names you suggested.”

You puffed your cheeks, placing your hands on your hips. “What was wrong with Tata? Or Chimmy? Or Cooky?”

Yoongi gave you a disapproving glare. “Well, perhaps in a parallel universe the name Shooky is somehow important to me. In any case, it was the best suggestion.”

You narrowed your eyes, frowning. “You little shit.”

“I especially disliked that one. Seemed a bit discriminating to our size difference…” He paused, looking down at you. “At the time anyway.”

Your hands fell, looking up at your cat. Er. Min Yoongi. “So, uh… Yoongi…?”

He tilted his head, peering curiously at you under his black bangs. “Hm?”

You pointed at him, gesturing up and down. “Why are you, uh… a man?”

He looked down at the duvet covering his body. You stared at your bedding wrapped around him. Why was he wearing it anyway? In fact, all you could see was a black choker with a silver bell. The mental lightning bolt suddenly hit you. Oh. Your neck began to heat. Your ears began to heat. Your whole face began to heat. Oh. Oh? Oh! Shooky – er, Yoongi? – whatever, your cat didn’t wear clothes. He only wore a collar… which meant…

It felt like your whole body was on fire with abrupt realization.

Yoongi looked up at your mint-pajama-wrapped, now tomato self still pointing at him.

“I don’t know why I’m a man.”

One of his eyebrows raised. Then Yoongi smirked.

An open-mouthed, amused smirk.

“And yes, I’m naked. Your clothes don’t fit me. I tried.”

-

Your cat, er, man? Cat-man? What even... never mind, Min Yoongi was sitting on your bed, still wrapped in your mint duvet like a key lime cake roll, waiting as you rummaged around in your dresser, searching for literally any piece of clothing that might possibly fit him. The problem was, you worked from home, so you didn't exactly own a plethora of different clothing options. Your daily wardrobe consisted of slinky black leggings...

"They're stretchy?" you suggested timidly. 

Yoongi had blinked at you. "I don't think so."

"It could work?"

He pursed his lips together. "I think you're forgetting something."

You gave him a blank look. "Huh?"

Yoongi gave you his deadpan stare. "I believe you are well acquainted with human male genitalia."

Oh.

Right. 

He had a dick.

You turned red and robotically shoved your leggings back into their place. A sudden thought flitted across your brain and you spun back to face him, blurting it out before filtering yourself. 

"Hahaha, good thing I never got you fixed, eh?"

Yoongi blinked very, very slowly. It was hard to tell if he was annoyed, amused, or wanted to murder you. In conclusion, typical cat behavior. 

"I'm not fond of the idea of castration, so I suppose so."

Awkward.

Your vet had suggested it, but since he had been an indoor cat and you weren't intending on getting another, you figured you wouldn't put him under the unnecessary surgery and it would help you avoid the cost. A little irresponsible? Maybe. But you were very careful not to leave the front door open and, so far, he hasn't had the chance to get some poor lady cat knocked up.

Unfortunately…

He knew you considered permanently removing his nuts. Yikes.

Sorry, Shooks. Er, Yoongi. 

In any case!

The other half of your daily wardrobe was sweatshirts, but Yoongi's shoulders were too broad for them and he was too tall. Why was he so big anyway? Well, he wasn’t exactly big, just long-limbed. You guessed he was actually on the leaner side, judging from the way the duvet wrapped around him and the brief flash of long fingers, slim forearm, and toned chest. He had been a larger cat.

Seven kilos turned into... him?

You suddenly started and yanked open your underwear drawer, shuffling through it to get to the back and pull out a neatly folded dark gray blob.

"I have this–"

"No."

The response was so forceful and dismissive that you froze, the dark gray fabric unfurling in your loose grip. It was a large men's sweatshirt, soft, charcoal, slightly acid-wash, covered with white paint stains. Eggshell white, to be exact. The exact paint color of this very bedroom, because you had worn it to repaint over that original disgusting beige color.

"Why not?" you inquired, holding it up by the shoulders. "It'll fit you, for sure. It used to be..."

Yoongi kept his completely neutral expression trained on you as you reached your revelation, his dark eyes observing every detail of your body's reaction to the memory. Your grip on the sweatshirt tightened. You felt your cheeks and ears heat, pulse roaring in your ears.

Oh.

Er, right, so…

That one time that Shooky – no, Yoongi? – jumped on your back and made you choke on a dick? Yeah, that guy. Tattoo guy. Yeah, well, before that incident, tattoo guy was the friend of a friend who offered to help you paint your apartment because he had experience working construction – “helped my dad fix-up a house to resell for a couple months,” he had said with his disgustingly cute, cheeky grin, making you nod like an idiot and your pussy throb with his endearing adorableness – and you had moved all the furniture out so you two could get it done quickly.

You had to put your cat in the bathroom.

You didn’t want him to breathe in the fumes or get paint on his luscious fur. It was for his own good.

Tattoo guy had appeared in said charcoal sweatshirt, black ripped jeans, and the most attractive thighs in the whole damn universe, just out and about, giant holes exposing tan skin and taut muscle. Your eyes widened, frozen at your front door.

Oh yeah, he had paint rollers too. You hadn’t given a shit about those in that moment.

He had noticed you staring and laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, I just wore the ugliest pants I own. It might get messy, you know?”

No, tattoo guy. No one thought your pants were ugly.

You sure as hell didn’t.

“Oh, yeah, that’s why I wore this gross t-shirt,” you said absentmindedly, referring to your four-sizes-too-large, free t-shirt that had been chucked at your head while walking past your university common area. It was a hideous chanteuse with magenta writing, a color combination that absolutely deserved to go to hell, and could not even be saved by the quirky, stylish, thrift-savvy TIkTokers of today. It was the ugliest thing you owned, so you wore it to repaint your bedroom.

Now you regretted it.

Tattoo guy looked you up and down. He smirked under his long black hair.

“Your body still looks great though.”

“… Urk?”

Didn’t really matter that you couldn’t conjure a sexy response, because, clearly, tattoo guy had made his decision leagues before arriving here. Painting a bedroom? Oh, yeah, you did that, and with way too much sexual tension. A man should not be that flirty while holding two paint rollers and speed painting your walls. What were you supposed to do? You barely knew the guy. All you managed to do was make awkward small talk to get to know him better. Then he took off his sweatshirt.

“Wait, that’s illegal.”

He had smirked at you, spinning the paint roller in his hand, white t-shirt molded to his body. “Hm?”

You were being mildly disrespected, but also you were gawking at his tattooed right arm and his blindingly beautiful forearms. Cough, no. You didn’t have a thing for attractive forearms. Wasn’t like staring at this muscular pair was making you weak at the knees or anything. Okay, maybe. But you weren’t going to say it out loud. Tattoo guy ticked his chin below you, to the floor. Your job was to paint the little nooks at the corners, ceiling, and baseboards. You spent a whole lot of your job sneaking glances at him and getting caught.

Shit.

“You missed a spot.”

You whipped your head to the floor, craning your head to look for it. A paint roller appeared beside you, pointing to a small sliver for nasty beige. He had a clear, silvery voice.

“Right here.”

You frowned at it and raised your paintbrush in warning to the offensive beige, ready to strike.

“… Noona.”

You started and fell over.

You sputtered, legs tangled, oversized shirt flipping up, trying not to drop the paintbrush and drawing a fat streak across the unpainted wall. You shook your head roughly, clutching the handle of the brush, cool draft floating up your shirt.

Tattoo guy appeared above you, grinning, his front teeth slightly too large and giving him the appearance of a rambunctious bunny.

“You alright?”

You felt your neck and ears heat. No, you were not alright. Yes, you were older, but that didn’t… that wasn’t the time… You didn’t expect it, that’s all. You tried very hard not to look at his thighs. Or his face. Or his chest. Just didn’t look at him. Also, you were pretty sure you were flashing him and pretty fucking sure you didn’t give a shit.

You coughed awkwardly. “Yup, I’m good.”

Back to copious sexual tension complemented by paint fumes.

Once the first coat was down, you two stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the plastic drop cloth, him banishing a paint roller and you a paintbrush. Challenge complete and it didn’t take you very long. Nice.

“We have to let it dry and then we can paint another coat,” he was explaining.

“It looks fine like this.”

Tattoo guy clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Once it dries, it will look uneven. Trust me.”

You frowned. “Okay. How long should we wait?”

“Couple hours, at least.”

A couple hours? You frowned more. “What are we supposed to do until then?”

He didn’t reply. You turned your head to face him and tattoo guy was staring at you with a smile.

Uh oh.

He was spinning the paint roller with one hand. You felt your ears and neck heat. He switched from his left hand to his right, seamlessly. Incredibly sexy. Were the paint fumes getting to you? You gulped, awkwardly gesturing to the paintbrush.

“Let me just… put this down…”

You turned around and balanced your paintbrush in the paint tray, only to gasp as your felt something foamy roll down your back, covering you with the strong stench of paint. It stopped above the curve of your ass, unable to roll smoothly any longer.

“Hmm, can’t get past your juicy ass, noona,” he teased.

You spun around, cheeks flushed, sputtering.

No, no. You didn’t forget tattoo guy’s name. You remembered it, even now. Remembered saying it in multiple different ways, even.

“Jeon J-Jungkook!”

In surprise, streaks of paint in your hair, him smirking, dropping the paint roller on the other plastic tray and somehow not tipping it over, thank goodness, him walking up to you, taking the bottom of your paint-covered chanteuse university t-shirt, leaning down to whisper hotly against your lips.

“Ah, sorry, it seemed like you didn’t like that shirt very much,” he breathed, sending your brain into overdrive with the heat against your skin, his knuckles brushing your thighs. “You can wear my sweatshirt instead, if you like.”

Your eyes widened, staring at him in shock.

“J… Jungkook…”

In breathlessness, heart pounding in your chest, gaze locked with mischievous dark chocolate orbs, his teeth catching his lower lip, tiny mole underneath revealed.

“Yeah?”

Why was his voice so deep? The tiny tip of his pink tongue darted out, licking his lips enticingly.

“… Noona?”

This man was illegal.

Your hands darted down and gripped his, catching your lower lip in your teeth as well, matching his lip bite, seeing the eagerness growing in his eyes.

Someone should call the police. Or an ambulance.

You grinned, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t want to wear anything around you.”

But not for you.

There was a very loud meow from your bathroom, but before Jungkook could ask, you yanked your shirt up and over your head. He gasped and instantly it was lips on lips, messy kisses and stumbling to the living room were your bed, dresser, nightstands, bookcase, knickknacks, everything scattered everywhere, but Jungkook and you were too busy yanking off clothes and getting frisky to give a shit.

Yikes.

You stared at Yoongi now, red from head to toe, clutching the dark gray sweatshirt. He rolled his eyes and looked away from you.

“I… washed it?” you offered weakly.

Yoongi’s dark brows raised from under his black bangs. “Mmm, you forget that I have quite keen hearing. I’m not deaf like you, human.”

The color drained from your face.

Well.

Maybe, just maybe, Jungkook got you to wear his dark gray sweatshirt, forcing you – respectfully, he called you noona, after all – to get on your hands and knees for him, then make you wait in said embarrassing position with his sweatshirt bunched around your neck – because, er, gravity – while he casually made you watch him roll the condom on, highly amused by your impatient glare, only to move away and slowly shove his dick inside your soaking wet pussy and spank your ass until you backed up into him enough times to make yourself cum on his stiff length without him moving his hips.

Respectfully, of course.

“Fuck, noona, that was so fucking hot…”

“Jungkook,” you gasped breathlessly, ass stinging in glorious pain. “F-Fuck me, please.”

He made you scream.

He fucked your hard, making the bed creak, pounding you so roughly into the mattress that your fingers curled into the mint sheets, and when you gasped that you were close, he fucking stopped, the damn sadist, causing you to slam your fists into the bed and buck back into his crotch, Jungkook chuckling at your desperation. In your haze of begging for Jungkook’s cock, you heard a judgmental meow from your bathroom, but before you could address it, Jungkook seemed to have accepted your pleading and began to thrust into you once more, making you lose your train of thought and all thoughts in general, except your dire need to orgasm.

Jungkook had made you moan for hours.

Right now, however, Yoongi’s sharp look was making you mute. You were so mortified that you swore your soul stood up and walked out of your body, too ashamed to be in Yoongi’s presence any longer.

“Mmm,” the dark-haired man mused absentmindedly, pointed ears flicking.

From spitting onto the mirror to mentioning his possible castration to remembering that you had locked Yoongi in the bathroom for hours to have mind-blowing sex with Jeon Jungkook under the guise of repainting your bedroom walls…

Too bad life doesn’t have an undo button.

You suddenly remembered Jungkook pushing you up against the bathroom door, your leg hooked around his waist, his cock plunging in and out of you, lips on your neck, and your wrists pinned to the door, rattling it as he fucked you, whispering against your skin.

“You sound so fucking sexy, make more sounds for me, I’ll fuck you as much as you want, fuck you until you can’t think, can’t move, just to hear you say my name over and over…”

“Jungkook… f-fuck, you f-feel so fucking good, o-oh, Jungkook…!”

He pulled his lips away from your neck and smirked in your face.

“Yeah… noona?”

Respectfully.

“Fuck!”

Your back arced against the bathroom door as you came, pussy throbbing and spasming, the top of your head touching the wood, gasping Jungkook’s name in ecstasy, slamming your wrists against the door, Jungkook moaning as he came inside you, cock jerking inside the condom and swelling it with his orgasm, lips crashing down on yours and you whining pathetically into his mouth as he sucked on your tongue roughly.

A quiet, disapproving meow below you.

A master yikes.

You deliberately shoved the dark gray blob back into your underwear drawer.

Yoongi pursed his lips.

“Why is it in your underwear drawer, anyway?”

You slowly closed it, the wood snapping as the drawer touched the dresser.

Silence.

A crow cawed in the distance.

“You know what, let me make a trip to the convenience store…” was your hollow reply as you mechanically walked out of your bedroom, followed by a mint duvet.

“Do you know what size I would be?” came the husky, amused chuckle behind you as you pawed around your apartment for your wallet, two masks, hand sanitizer.

“I’ll just… buy a variety…”

“Or you could measure.”

You heard a rustle and you whipped your head around, only to see Yoongi’s cocked eyebrow and a slight bit of his exposed shoulders, collarbones on display, silver bell jingling. He yanked it back up, frowning at you.

“Are you a pervert?”

“N… no!”

You jerked away and hastily hooked the masks on your ears, fumbling with your sneakers before declaring, “I will be right back!” And then you threw yourself out the door.

Yoongi sighed, finally releasing his hold on the duvet.

“Ugh, so stuffy…”

His long black tail whipped about.

The door suddenly jerked back open and you plucked your keys from the side dish.

Only to see Yoongi fully naked, sleek black tail whisking around, blinking at you.

He was naked.

Really naked.

Very, one hundred percent, naked.

The mint duvet was pooled around his legs on the ground and Min Yoongi, who was formerly your cat Shooky, was a fair-skinned, long-limbed, lean-bodied, very attractive tall man, with velvety black cat ears and tail and – urk! – completely intact human male genitalia. Your neck, ears, cheeks, chest, ancestors from generations long ago, all turned red in embarrassment. Once again, you soul completely left your body in pure mortification.

“D… Don’t leave!” you blurted, snapping the door closed.

Yoongi just stood there, sighing as he heard the door lock and a body bolt down the apartment building stairs.

“You didn’t even change out of your pajamas…” he muttered, picking up the duvet.

-

"I can't wear these."

It was a few hours later. Thankfully, when you arrived home with your purchases, your cat... man was asleep, wrapped like a mint cake roll in your duvet. You tried not to think about his naked body on your bed, therefore ending up thinking about his naked body on your bed. 

"You need to wear pants! For..."

Dark eyebrows raised. 

"Decency!"

After getting home, you had spent the next thirty minutes hand-washing a black t-shirt, black boxer briefs, and loose black pants that were definitely too short but it was the only size available that could fit that waist, so you had to make do. You put the other shirts and underwear in the washing machine, but you needed to wash at least one outfit and hang it to dry. You tried to use the hottest water your hands could handle to sterilize the clothing, wincing at the blistering heat. 

You didn't know if Yoongi could get coronavirus but you weren't going to risk it. 

Eventually you placed everything on the drying rack and positioned your space heater on them to dry them off. 

Then you passed out on the couch. You deserved it, after working so hard.

Only to be woken up by Yoongi poking your shoulder roughly and telling you he couldn't wear the underwear and pants. 

He was still holding the duvet around his body and your neck was still regretting every second of sleeping on the couch. Ow. Too much physical labor. Quarantine had turned you into a formless potato. You sat up halfway, wincing. Ugh, pain. You jabbed your finger at Yoongi, who gave you a displeased narrowing of his eyes. 

"Put the pants on, you animal!"

Yoongi swept around the sofa, mint duvet and all, determined glint in his dark orbs, lips pursed in annoyance. You started, cracking your neck by accident, yelping in pain as you fell back against the couch.

Yoongi planted himself on top of you nimbly.

You froze.

Partly because you were shocked, but mostly because your neck seized a bit.

His legs were on either side of you, body still wrapped up, perfectly balanced despite the sudden leap, surveying you with a disapproving and discerning eye. The silver bell on his neck jingled with his movement. You could feel his calves against your knees.

His bare calves.

"Are you dumb?"

"What?" you croaked in response.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. "You always forget things."

You blinked at him, confused, neck heating. "What are you talking about?" you snapped impatiently.

"This."

Thump.

You felt something long and furry hit your leg. Your body almost jerked up in surprise, but Yoongi hissed at you, making you lurch back, somewhat stunned at how cat-like it sounded. It was definitely a warning. You were still in your pajamas, slightly thinner material than your usual clothes. It had been cold outside, but your everlasting embarrassment had kept you toasty warm.

Like it was now, because you realized your clothed outer thigh was touching his inner thigh.

His naked inner thigh.

You let out a noise between shock and confusion.

"Urk?"

The long, furry thing brushed against your legs as Yoongi watched you reach your slow realization.

"O-oh... Right. You have a tail..."

He grunted, thinning his eyes into slits. "Yes, because I am a cat."

Highly debatable at the moment, but you were too busy remembering your cat also had a human dick and nuts. Well, not also. Only had? Well. Maybe if you had a seco–

No. No, never mind that. Yeah.

Never.

Mind.

You gulped, trying to suppress the rising heat in your ears and failing. "I can sew?"

Yoongi tilted his head, nose wrinkling a bit. Then he got off you, circling around the couch. You sat up, neck still hurting, but the warmth of your embarrassment somehow helping. Yes, great, trading temporary physical pain for lifetime mental embarrassment, only for such moments to be remembered at the most inopportune times to throw you off guard.

Awesome.

You visibly cringed before standing up, seeing Yoongi's hand snake out and nab the boxer briefs, making them disappear into the duvet. You saw the fabric rustle and then the briefs reappeared, chucked at your face.

Your head snapped back at the force, arms flailing.

"Mmphf!"

"Should be about four or five centimeters. Make it quick. It's hot under here."

You yanked the underwear off your face, scowling. "I'm not your maid!"

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, black ears flicking. He was smirking at you. You narrowed your eyes. What was this guy so high and mighty for? If anything, he should be grateful that you even car–

"You're been cleaning up my literal shit for a few years now, so you are practically are my maid."

... Wait a second, he's right.

You growled and hauled yourself up.

-

An hour later, your cat was dressed.

Cat?

Man?

Whatever.

Min Yoongi was finally wearing clothes and not your duvet and your fingers stung like a bitch.

You ended up snipping a hole and using bias tape to seal off the raw edges. You didn’t own a sewing machine, so this was the next best thing you could think of without destroying your fingers by trying to imitate zig-zag stiches, although you ended up destroying your fingers anyway because you had to sew small, delicate stitches to attach the bias tape. The area was too high traffic to not reinforce.

Sigh.

“Please tell me you know how to use the bathroom by yourself from now on.”

Yoongi had raised an eyebrow.

“Of course. I’ve watched you enough times to know how to expel human excrement.”

Right. Because he was your cat. Don’t think about it too much. You were trying to take everything one thing at a time so you didn’t overwhelm yourself. Those were future-you problems. Why does he talk like that anyway? You didn’t even know how he knew Korean. Was it because you watched too much television? Yikes.

You rubbed your forehead, dismissing the discussion. “Good talk.”

You realized you would have to cut openings for his tail for all the underwear on the drying rack but, again, that was a future-you problem. Instead, you let him change in your bedroom and went to retrieve the laptop on your coffee table. Plugged it in and turned it on.

All your settings were wack.

“The fuck?” you muttered, resetting your display, volume, brightness, sigh, nearly everything. This only happened when a certain someone stepped on the keys when you weren’t looking. You raised your voice, still looking at the screen. “Did you fuck with my computer last night?”

“No. Oh, well, I did sleep on it,” Yoongi was saying as he stepped out of your bedroom. You growled in your chest, annoyed, but setting everything back into its place before opening your Google calendar. Nothing due immediately, thank god. “Er, maybe you shouldn’t…”

You looked up.

Oh.

Oh?

Oh!

Yoongi mussed his black hair, scratching at his velvety black ear. You noticed he didn’t have a set of human ears. Well, duh. That’d be weird. He was still wearing the black choker with the little silver bell on it. The t-shirt was nicely loose on his frame, the black standing out against his fair skin. The sweatpants were a little short on the ankle, the slim fit showing off his leanness. The sleek black tail swished back and forth.

He was… handsome.

Yoongi looked apprehensive, twisting his lips to one side. “Hmm.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He shrugged. “Well, when I woke up as a human, I was cold, except for…” His hand ghosted towards his crotch. He pulled it away, waving it aside. “Mmm, never mind.”

You gave him a confused look and went back to your keyboard, typing away. Yoongi winced but you were too busy replying to an email to think too much about it.

-

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to inform you of the following.

Min Yoongi had woken up on the coffee table, fucking freezing because humans didn’t have fur, and because his nuts and dick were getting roasted by your overheating laptop keyboard.

Upon waking up, he had a mild mental breakdown as you continued snoring loudly and unceremoniously, before scurrying away to the warmest place he knew – your bed, where he claimed the duvet and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Is this real life?

He had poked at various parts of his new body, trying to figure out if this was a dream or a horrific nightmare.

As we all know.

Life is a horrific nightmare, so indeed, this was real life.

-

You jumped as Yoongi slumped down on the sofa next to you, sticking his head and ears into your view, blocking the computer screen.

“I’m hungry.”

You gawked at him.

“What a-are you d-doing?” you sputtered.

“I’m hungry,” he repeated. He had a bit of a raspy, almost growly voice at times, reminding you of a cat’s meow. His meow, in fact.

You scooted away, neck heating. Yoongi followed, prodding you.

“Why are you like this?” you grumbled irritably, smacking his hand. Yoongi persisted, as if you did nothing at all.

“This is how I get your attention, because you humans will ignore me if I don’t.”

“You’re a human too!”

“No, I am a cat.”

“Hello?” You grabbed his hand and jabbed at his palm, pointing to his thumb. “Cats don’t have thumbs!”

Yoongi yanked his hand out, shockingly similar to how Shooky used to pull his paw out when you were massaging his little white socks and he was over it. You noticed his cuticles looked a bit dry and torn up. Lately, Shooky’s paws had been a little chewed up too. You frowned at it, tilting your head.

Yoongi stood up and his tail whacked you in the face.

“Ow!”

“Feed me.”

You scowled, rubbing your cheek. Yoongi stared down at you, face expressionless.

Okay, your cat might be a man now, but he was still a borderline asshole, so not much had changed.

“Fine.”

-

You both stared at the bowl of dry cat food.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“What am I supposed to do with all this cat food then? I just brought it last week!”

“That’s your problem.”

You threw up your hands and cooked you both some lunch.

-

This was too much.

You know what you did when it was too much?

You took a nap.

You had dishes to clean, underwear to make tail-holes for, a cat that was now a man, an existential crisis to address, but you know what? You took a fucking nap instead. You left Yoongi with your computer and Netflix and told him to do whatever as long as none of it involved him leaving the house.

Yoongi had snorted. “What do I need to go out there for?”

“Awesome. I’m taking a nap.”

And you passed out.

Only to wake up groggily because your lungs were being crushed.

Actually no, it kind of felt like your whole torso was being crushed.

“Urk…!”

You fought with your sleepiness, somehow worse off than you had been before the nap, scrunching up your face ad blinking blearily. Head on memory foam pillow, check. Back on soft mattress, check. Black hair with sleek cat ears and pale face pressed on your chest? Check.

What, wait?

“Gah!”

You lurched and the head grunted, shoulders solidly pinning you down. He was under the mint-colored duvet. Yoongi, your cat that was now a man, was under the duvet.

UNDER THE DUVET.

“Stop yelling. Is that all you humans do? Yell?”

“Why are you – what are you doing here?” you hissed shrilly, trying to wiggle out from under him, but it was impossible. Yoongi was far too big now for you to throw him off.

“Sleeping, obviously,” he grumbled. “Or I was, until you started shouting.”

“Yes, but this is my bed,” you emphasized, realizing you could move your hands so you grabbed him by the waist, fingers grasping the black jersey fabric. You pressed inwards, hands molding to his sides.

Yoongi raised his head, squinting down at you.

You froze.

An oddly familiar gaze of accusation and uncaring. His eyes were dark brown, not the recognizable mint, but the effect was the same. Pink lips upturned, slightly annoyed.

And.

You suddenly remembered he was a man.

A man who was pressed down against you, long legs around your legs, broad chest to your chest, and shockingly attractive for someone who used to be a cat.

“I sleep in your bed all the time. What’s the difference?” Yoongi muttered.

What’s the difference?

The difference???

You’re a man!

A HOT MAN!!!

You struggled to find words, completely entranced by how close Yoongi’s face was to yours, watching his ears adjust slightly to pick up all the small sounds around him. You opened your mouth and it only made a tiny squeak. The pressure on your chest was becoming unbearable. You were so shocked that you completely forgot that you were still dying. You cleared your throat as Yoongi looked increasingly displeased.

“You… You used to be over the duvet…”

Yoongi yawned, nodding a little. “Yes, but it’s colder now. No more fur. I don’t know how you humans survive. Must be why you buy these warm things.”

Your hands were still on his waist. You pulled them away quickly and Yoongi frowned.

“Y-Yeah, but… you weigh a lot more now…” you croaked. “Can’t… breathe…”

Yoongi sighed heavily, as if this was a great disappointment. He slid off you.

“Hmm, I suppose that’s true.”

He nestled close to you and you still stunned, pin-straight body.

“Guess it’ll have to be like this instead from now on.”

Like this?

From now on?

Oh. Oh no.

Yoongi’s velvety, pointed ear flicked against your cheek, a low hum resounding in his chest.

-

part ii

--

masterpost

[dreamwritesimagines]

Twisted 14 - Sinking Deeper [Spencer Reid x Reader]

A.N.: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves! Here’s the next chapter, I hope you will like it as well, and please let me know what you think of it! ❤❤ Ily, kisses! ❤❤❤ 

Ps: Special thanks to Bea for helping me!

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Murder, serial killers, violence, manipulation, mentions of sex, drinking, smoking.

Word Count: 4180

Summary: Not every night is for sleeping.

All things considered, you were sure that you were supposed to be more stressed out than you were right now. The FBI still had nothing on the copycat killer that had sent you flowers, or any of the others that were running wild all over the country. BAU was working nonstop because there was more and more pressure coming from the supervisors and higher ups, and Spencer had told you something about the profile evolving but hadn’t gotten into details.

Not that you would ever ask him to, what you heard was more than enough.

Despite all that, whenever you were with him, you managed to feel almost…peaceful. It was so unfamiliar to you that it had taken you a moment to acknowledge what it was.

Happiness. Pure happiness, enough to get rid of the mind-numbing panic and worries about the future.

Or, as your sister had so eloquently put it, you were so, so screwed.

You took a sip of your mimosa, texting Spencer under the table, barely aware of the conversation taking place but you had to look up when you heard your name being called.

“Would you want to, Y/N?” your mother asked and you frowned.

“Hm?” you asked, your eyes stopping on Lily playing with her dolls by the corner of the huge living room before you looked at Mina and Kenzie, “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“There’s this opera—“

“Nope,” you shook your head fervently, “No way. It’s Mina’s turn.”

Mina let out a whine, “I hate you so much right now.”

“She has a point,” your mother pointed at Mina, “Your sister was the one who came to the charity ball, you can come to this one.”

Mina heaved a sigh while Kenzie reached out to hold her hand.

“Babe come on, it could be fun.”

“Exactly!” your mother said, “Thank you, Kenzie. Besides, Nolan is coming as well, so we will be two couples there. Y/N, of course if you want you can bring Spencer—“

“I’m not exaggerating when I say I’d rather spend an hour in my serial killer father’s cell with Spencer.”

Your mother rolled her eyes and Mina tilted her head.

“Nolan Yates is coming too?” she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m spending a whole night with the boss of my boss?”

“You two should get to know each other!” Your mother said, “Besides, there’s no harm in telling your bosses that you should become a partner already—“

“Mom,” Mina cut her off, “We talked about this. I will earn that position by myself, not because of anyone’s influence. Including yours.”

Your mother sipped her drink, “It’s as if you like struggling, Mina.”

Kenzie looked between them and smiled brightly, trying to diffuse the situation. “I’m actually pretty curious about him,” she said, “Since you’re a couple now, I just need to see what kind of a person he is.”

“There’s nothing to see, babe.” Mina murmured, “The guy looks like he spends millions alone on his beard care and wears bowties to bed.”

“Yeah but bowties are cool,” you grinned and a silence fell upon the table.

“I will get back to you sleeping with my boss’ boss in a minute mom but—“ Mina cleared her throat and turned to you, “I’m sorry, was that a Doctor Who reference?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I started watching it because Spencer likes it so much. It’s actually pretty fun, he said we could go to Sonic-Con next year if I want.”

“Comic-Con.” Kenzie corrected you helpfully and Mina blinked a couple of times.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I don’t get it,” Kenzie said, “I told you to watch it with me and you said, and I quote It has like one billion episodes Kenz, I don’t have time for that.”

Mina stole a look at Lily to make sure she couldn’t hear you before she turned to Kenzie, “Yeah, the difference is that you weren’t dicking her down.”

“Nobody is dicking me down!” you whispered, and your mother gasped, putting her mimosa glass down.

“Girls, not at the breakfast table!” she insisted, “Not that this kind of language is acceptable anywhere…”

“Yeah Mina, leave her alone,” Kenzie said, “I think it’s sweet.”

“What’s next? You will want to get a doctorate as well because he likes them so much?”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” your mother mused out loud, “Y/N, I know the lovely dean of—“

“No!” you pointed at them, “No to both of you. And thank you Kenzie.”

Before your mother could say anything, Lily ran to you to climb into your lap.

“Hi there bug.”

“Can we play after brunch?” she looked up at you, making you smile at her before you pinched her chubby cheek, making her giggle.

“Of course,” you said, “Dibs on green unicorn.”

“I like pink better,” she nicked a piece of cheese from your plate, “Are you talking about your prince?”

Mina smiled into her glass, “Something like that sweetheart.”

“Lily, why don’t you ask auntie what you asked me the other day?” Kenzie told her and Lily nodded fervently.

“Can I wear pink on your wedding?”

“Whoa-“ you cleared your throat, “Lily, baby, there’s no wedding.”

Kenzie and your mother grinned at each other and turned to you and Lily but she looked as if she was confused.

“But if he’s your prince…” she trailed off and Kenzie cleared her throat.

“I would like to come up with a tamer version of that question,” she said, “When do we get to meet him?”

“Mom and Mina already have,” you said but your mother shook her head.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Because you treated him like you were going to hire him?”

“Oh you did the same to him as well?” Kenzie asked your mother, “I thought Mina would have a heart attack when you did that to me.”

“I honestly thought you would break up with me after that.”

You fixed the huge bow on top of Lily’s hair while she sat still in your lap, listening to the conversation.

“How about dinner?” your mother said, “It’d help us to get to know him better.”

“Nope,” you shook your head, “It’s too early.”

“Oh come on Y/N!”

“I will introduce him to you guys when I’m sure you can behave.”

“He has spent hours with dad, you do realize that?” Mina asked with a small laugh, “You think he behaves? The guy is a—“

“Mina.” Kenzie nodded at Lily and Mina stopped herself immediately but Lily had already heard it.

“I thought your dad was a bad man, mommy.”

“He is, baby,” she nodded, “That’s why he’s far away, remember?”

“Then why is auntie Y/N’s prince talking to him?”

“Because he catches bad people, bug.”

Lily gasped and looked up at you, her eyes shining with excitement, “Like a superhero?!”

“Mm hm, like a superhero,” you grinned at her and she fidgeted in your lap.

“When will I meet him?”

“Yeah Y/N, when will we meet him?” Kenzie batted her lashes and you pointed at her.

“That’s evil, you know that right?” you asked, ignoring Mina’s laughter, “Low blow.”

                                                 ***

Towards the evening, right before it was time to meet Spencer he had texted you, saying that they would be doing overtime at work. You were bummed, but you still texted back to tell him it was alright, that you would be going home and he could drop by whenever he was done.

After having dinner, you went to the couch with a bottle of wine and turned your laptop on to take a look at the files your assistant had sent you. Campbell wedding was almost done, Vincent had sent you a couple of new ideas to add into the theme, and you had to email back two pastry shops to confirm the wedding cake orders.

You were so lost in work that you had barely realized downing the half of the bottle and it was only when your phone started buzzing on the coffee table that you looked away from the screen of the laptop.

“Hi Lincoln,” you answered the phone, still typing your replies to your assistant and he took a deep breath.

“Hey,” he said, “Are you watching it?”

“Watching what?”

“TV. They’re talking about the copycat killers.”

“What?” you grabbed the remote to turn on the TV and of course, the first TV channel you found was already covering the story.

“The FBI has confirmed that the body that was found dead earlier today belonged to one of the copycat killers that has been—“

“What the fuck?” you murmured, keeping your eyes on the screen and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, “I know it’s creepy but I mean…I don’t know, isn’t that a good thing?”

“Someone killed one of the copycat killers?” you asked, “That makes no sense at all.”

“Do you think it’s the same one?” he asked, “From the charity ball?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, “I didn’t know if I should call, but…”

“No no, I’m glad you did.” You muted the TV, then filled your glass again, “What’re you doing?”

“Just leaving work,” he said and you raised your brows.

“Linc, it’s eleven p.m.”

“I had to attend a meeting overseas.”

“Workaholic.”

“I prefer the term hard working,” he chuckled, “How about you? You weren’t sleeping, right?”

“Nah, I was waiting for my boyfriend,” you said, making him pause for a moment, “And checking client files. And drinking.”

“You’re lucky you can deal with your job while drinking, these sharks would pounce on me if they ever saw me like that.”

You took a look at the TV and typed in the copycat killer’s name into the search bar, sipping your wine.

“You’re being safe, right?” he asked you, “I haven’t heard from you for like a week or so, you’re alright?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to decide whether to tell him about the flowers or not, but in the end you decided not to.

“Family drama,” you said, “I’ve been running everywhere, and what with work and everything…Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be silly,” he chuckled, “Just wanted to make sure you were alright, that’s all.”

“I’m alright—“ you started but then looked over your shoulder when you heard the doorbell ring, “Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, see you,” he said and hung up, so you jumped over the couch to rush to the door before you opened it to see Spencer standing there.

“Hey,” you smiled at him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him, “Long day?”

He nodded silently and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you closer to inhale your scent.

“Hi,” he muttered into your hair, “Yeah. Long day.”

“I have wine?” you said as you pulled back, and closed the door after he stepped in, “I also have a bathtub even you could lose yourself in.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he said and hesitated for a moment, “On second thought, do you have coffee?”

“Are you sure you want to drink coffee at eleven at night?”

“I still have some reports to go over,” he said, stepping into the living room while you put the coffee on and his eyes stopped on the huge screen that was still giving details about the copycat killer.

“You saw that huh?”

“Mm hm,” you watched him as he dropped his satchel and you went to sit down next to him on the couch. “I was checking the other news. That’s why you had to work overtime?”

He rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his fluffy hair as if it would help, “We thought the profile was changing but this whole thing just proves someone is trying to keep it stable.”

You pulled your brows together, “What?”

“The victimology didn’t match with the last two victims, and now one of the copycats ended up dead, probably the one who went rogue.”

“How did it not match?” you blinked a couple of times, “They all left a flower in the crime scene, no?”

“Well yeah, but the rest—“ he stopped for a moment, staring at you, “You never actually checked his victimology?”

“I never watched any of those interviews he gave after he was imprisoned, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yeah, and those interviews are the reason why we still don’t have a specific suspect because everyone knows everything about him, and most of your family life,” he heaved a sigh, “But you know what his victims had in common?”

“They all bled out while he watched,” you crossed your arms, leaning back to the arm of the couch, “I know that. He liked watching that.”

“Your father never killed anyone outside his social circle,” he reminded you, “They were all wealthy and overly successful people, remember? That’s why it took FBI so long to find him, because the previous profile was wrong. They thought it was someone who didn’t have access to the same resources, the same wealth and status, and it was for revenge.”

“Yeah but Spencer, he killed those people because he is evil.”

“He killed those people because in his mind, he was creating this…perfect business environment. Most of the people who got murdered were either failing business people or people who failed to meet his expectations. He was very successful, he expected the same from everyone. That’s his victimology. The flowers on the crime scene, they were just his signature. Well, his signature and his small offering to you.”

You thought for a moment, then went to the kitchen to pour him a cup of coffee before walking back to the couch.

“I still think this is a bad idea professor,” you muttered as you gave him the cup and he smiled at you, then took a sip while you lit up a cigarette.

“So then,” you crossed your legs, “His victims were the cream of society and that means something? Other than the fact that he was a psychopath?”

“That means a lot of things,” he said, “So far, most of the victims had a higher status in society, it means that the copycats actually wanted to continue his legacy from where he left off. Maybe not the people who disappointed them per se, but until these last two victims, they all had higher financial status, either family money or with their own successful companies but last month, someone first killed a bartender and then a social worker. The only thing that told us it was remotely connected was the flower in the crime scene.”

“That’s why the profile was changing,” you muttered to yourself, “Okay. Is that normal?”

“No, not at all,” he shook his head, “It’s very unfamiliar. It did prove our multiple copycat killers theory but other than that, it was going to make things incredibly harder until…” he nodded at the TV and you pulled your brows together.

“Hold on,” you sat up straighter, your mind working nonstop, “Multiple copycats who are trying to continue that monster’s legacy, and one happens to taint that legacy by going rogue…”

“And he gets killed,” he finished your sentence for you, “Exactly.”

“It was one of the copycats who killed him?”

“That’s my theory.”

“So they’re not actually working together then?” you asked, exhaling the smoke, “Or- or- wait, you said there could be one copycat that was controlling the others, maybe they did it?”

Spencer took a sip of his coffee, “It could also mean that the leader wouldn’t want to take chances like this again,” he said, “Someone tainted the legacy, he might begin to believe he cannot trust anyone with that again.”

You let out a breath, stubbing the cigarette, “What does that mean then? For…all of this?”

“It means that someone cares so much about your father’s legacy that they’re ready to kill anyone and everyone over it, even their partners,” he said, “It also means that their whole operation is starting to crack. It’s only a matter of time someone makes a mistake and ends up getting caught.”

You massaged your temples, “Well, at least one of us can see the light at the end of this psycho murder tunnel.”

“You can’t?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “It feels like it won’t stop,” you croaked out, “It’s like… It’s like I can’t wake up without dread filling me. It’s always there, at some corner of my mind. The more I think about it, the more I feel like—“ you stopped yourself and Spencer frowned, putting his coffee down.

“What?”

“You don’t want to hear that, trust me.”

“Try me.”

“The more I feel like it will go on until the day I die.”

“It’s impossible for this case to take that long, Y/N—“

“I didn’t say it’d take long,” you took a sip of your wine and heaved a sigh before you looked up at him, the expression on his face almost hurting your heart physically, “Told you that you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Don’t say that.”

You forced a small laugh and got up from the couch, suddenly restless.

“You said it yourself,” you said, pacing in the living room, “His victimology. He went after the people who disappointed him, right? Can you guess who’s disappointing him right now by not turning into the monster that he is?”

“That’s not what I—“ he shook his head fervently and stood up from the couch as well, “No. No way. It’s his victimology, but none of the psychiatric evaluations or anything on his file, including the list of his victims suggest that he would go after his family. There was a reason why he never tried to hurt you or Mina or your mother even back then—“

“No I’m sure they’re safe,” you said, “But Mina didn’t get flowers, professor. I have.”

“If our theory of him being in contact with the copycat is right, it means that your father is involved as well—hey,” he stopped you from pacing, reaching out to hold your hands in his, “Listen to me. Whoever it is, they will never, ever touch you. I’ll make sure of that.”

A painful smile pulled at your lips, “Spencer, that’s not your responsibility.”

“It is.”

“FBI can’t—“

“I’m not talking about the FBI, I’m talking about me.”

You took a shaky breath and wrapped your arms around his middle, burying your face into his chest as you swayed slightly.

“Is it okay if we stay like this for a moment?” you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to another “I don’t— I can’t sit still, I don’t know why.”

“Do you want to hear the reason why?” he ran his fingertips over your spine up and down, as if trying to soothe you and you nodded.

“Yes please.”

“You feel threatened, so your brain is trying to understand where the danger is coming from. It’s telling you to either stand or run away, so it’s pumping adrenaline into your system. We call that nervous energy.”

“That could be my stripper name,” you mumbled, making a chuckle vibrate deeply in his chest, “Tell me more.”

“The nervous energy happens when you’re under stress,” he said, “Our primitive brain is used to physical threats and it created this system in order to protect us. The threat you’re afraid of is not here, not physical, but your brain is still sending that energy to your limbs so that you can attack that physical threat, or run away to somewhere safe. It’s all a part of your defense mechanism.”

You hmmed into his chest, still holding him tight as if someone would take him away from you before you sniffled and pulled back to look up at him.

“You know, I think I got something you can’t explain with science.”

He raised his brows, “Debatable.”

“Do you want to bet? If I win, you’ll tell me what you planned for the next date.”

“What if I win?”

You wiped at your nose, “Tell me your price, professor.”

“There’s this conference on smoking and its effects on health next week, if I win you will attend that with me.”

“That’s a very indirect way to say that you hate my smoking.”

“I mean, it’s better if you see the effects in that conference, I think it’ll be good for you. It has five sessions, so it’s around….7 hours, including breaks.”

You blinked a couple of times, then nodded. “7 hours? That’s— okay. Yeah, I’m sure— I’m sure it’ll be fun.”  

A smile pulled at his lips, “Okay,” he said, “What is it?”

“It’s just,” you nibbled on your lip, trying to find the right words, “I was thinking and I realized something. I— I think it’s instinctual somehow, you can’t really explain it with science but when you’re here…” you paused, “With me, I mean, this whole panic dissolves. I feel safe, and it’s so unfamiliar that I don’t—“ you let out a small laugh, “I don’t know how to deal with that. I normally don’t feel safe, ever.”

A small smile pulled at his lips and he tilted his head, his warm gaze focused on you. You scrunched up your nose.

“Don’t tell me science can explain that.”

“Oxytocin.”

“God damn it!” you exclaimed, making him laugh, “Oxytocin?”

“Yeah, oxytocin. It’s a hormone that ensures that you trust people along with everything else. Basically, your brain— when you’re attracted to someone, your brain releases dopamine, so your serotonin levels rise and it produces oxytocin. It’s a big part of romantic attachment, it’s released during sex as well.”

You arched a brow, a small smirk flashing over your face and he pressed his lips together, a look of mischief appearing on his face.

“It strengthens fidelity as well,” he explained, “Seeing your partner as more attractive than others, and preferring to interact more with your partner than strangers.”

You clicked your tongue, “7 hours of conference, here we come.”

“It’ll be fun, I heard they’re bringing a real lung.”

“Can’t wait,” you muttered and entwined your fingers with his, “Well for what it’s worth professor, I have a lot of oxytocin for you.”

He cleared his throat, “Scientifically, one of the most important aspects of it is reproduction, in females it triggers labor and in males it moves sperm so having a lot of oxytocin can be—“

“Spencer, I’m trying to talk dirty in a scientific way!” you groaned, a fire spreading over your face because of embarrassment and you took a step to walk away from him but he grabbed your hand to turn you around and tug you closer to him, making you let out a whine.

“I feel like an idiot,” you murmured and he shook his head fervently,

“No, of course not,” he said, pushing your hair behind your ear, “Hey. I don’t know anything about weddings. So we complete each other if you ask me.”

You scoffed a laugh and looked up at him, your brows furrowed together, “You really think that?”

He nodded and you heaved a sigh.

“Okay.”

“And…for your information,” he swallowed thickly, “I have a lot of oxytocin for you too.”

A giggle you couldn’t stop escaped from you as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss, making your stomach do a pleasant flip. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lungs full of his scent, making you dizzy.

“They’ll take away your doctorates for that joke, professor,” you breathed out as he pulled back, resting his forehead on yours while you raked your nails over the back of his neck gently.

“Worth it,” he murmured to your lips, leaning in to kiss you again, this time pressing you closer to his body and your heart started beating in your throat, a whine climbing up to your throat, desire filling your system faster than any other drug.

“Would you like to stay the night?” you whispered, and his eyes shot up to yours, both of you aware what you were really asking. He looked almost hypnotized by the sight of you in his arms and he blinked a couple of times, as if trying to focus before he nodded.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse and you took a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you managed to say, your whole being consumed by this moment. “Yeah, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You could swear he could hear your heartbeat echoing through the room,

“No scientific explanation this time, professor?” you whispered against his lips and his fingers caressed the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a pleasant shiver from there to your whole body.

“No,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against yours, “Not this time. Not for the lady who imparadises my mind.”

The lady who imparadises my mind.

That was how Dante described Beatrice in Paradise.

You stood on your tiptoes to pull him into a kiss, then tugged at his hand to lead him into your bedroom.

Chapter 15

[t-horn-n]

— teach me

PAIRING: kento nanami x reader (gender-neutral) 

GENRE: fluff 

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: the little things you teach each other. 

— what he teaches you

↪︎ he teaches you how to identify good bread by it’s sound. 

“Hear that crunch?  That’s how you know it’s good.” 

↪︎ he teaches you quick and efficient ways to iron and fold your clothes. 

“If you fold your pants this way they will take up less room in the drawer.” 

↪︎ he teaches you to manage self-doubt by telling yourself three things you excel at. 

“Tell yourself three things that you can do better than anyone else.” 

↪︎ he teaches you how to write with a fountain pen. 

“If you put less ink that the letters will not be as blocky.” 

↪︎ he breaks your habit of using random objects as bookmarks. 

“Is that the receipt from the grocery store?  Here, this is much better.” 

↪︎ he teaches you how to keep very organised planners. 

“If you write important dates there and there you can refer to both of them when checking your schedule.” 

↪︎ he teaches you how to fold a fitted sheet. 

“That is the wrong corner, love.” 

↪︎ he gets you in the habit of moisturising every morning and evening. 

“It’s a skin barrier, you’ll feel less itchy if you do it.” 

↪︎ he breaks your habit of matching ‘close enough’ socks together. 

“Y/N I know you know those two are not each other’s pair.” 

↪︎ he teaches you how to annoy Gojo.

“Just call him boring.”

↪︎ he teaches you how to make boba from scratch. 

“Good, now roll it in the tapioca flour again.” 

↪︎ he teaches you to, very rarely occasionally, appreciate the sunrise. 

“Aren’t you glad I woke you up for this?”

— what you teach him

↪︎ you teach him how to clip his cuticles. 

“First you push them up with this thing and then you trim them with the clippers.  Isn’t it satisfying?” 

↪︎ you teach him the most efficient ways to dice vegetables. 

“Cut it long ways first, that way you have less to do.” 

↪︎ you teach him how to dance in the kitchen. 

“Remind me next time to wear shoes, lest my toes get squished.” 

↪︎ you get him in the habit of carrying a little spray bottle of glasses cleaner in his coat pocket. 

“Here, you’re always telling me how much your glasses get smudged.” 

↪︎ you get him in the habit of using a spoon when eating spaghetti. 

“When you twist it up like this then you don’t get into that awkward situation when pasta and sauce are dripping down your chin.  

↪︎ you teach him how to braid hair by putting lots of tiny braids in his hair. 

“You alternate crossing the outer strands over the middle one.  Stop fidgeting, your hair’s going to be nice and wavy when I’m done.” 

↪︎ you teach him how to make a mug cake (only because he hasn’t before). 

“See, it’s really easy, you just put everything in this mug and then microwave it.”

↪︎ you teach him how to sleep in.

“You don’t get kisses if more than five toes are on the ground.” 

↪︎ you teach him how to make flower crowns by tying the stems together.  

“Kento, it ripped again!” 

↪︎ you teach him how to recognise some of the constellations. 

“That’s Ursa Major and Minor, that’s Venus, that’s Orion’s Belt.” 

— m. list

[jamespotterthefirst]

Mi Viejito (Ethan x f!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Words: 1K Warning: None Summary: Father’s Day more than twenty years later. 

Author’s Note: “Mi Viejito” means “Old Man” (affectionate). Thank you to the two anons who requested this!

Also, no editing. Oops. We die like men. 

Twenty five years are not enough to dull the impact of startling blue eyes meeting hers across a room. For a moment, she feels like that fresh-faced intern she used to be, meeting her medical idol for the first time. Except now, Ethan Ramsey has the elegance of time on his side, carved into every fine line on his handsome face. His hair, once dark brown, is a storm of silver now, making the blue of his eyes even more of a shock.

A pleasant sort of shock that makes her body thrum with warmth.

Ethan removes his spectacles and gives her a tired but breathtaking smile. Lilac returns it, moving to settle into her husband's embrace.

“Happy Father's Day, mi viejito,” she murmurs into a kiss. After his hum of thanks, they melt into the kiss, enjoying the rare few moments of blissful companionship.

“Where are the girls?” he asks after a while, as though reading her mind.

“Andy should be here any moment to drop them off.”

“Ah, the calm before the storm,” he muses with exaggerated dread. It doesn't fool anyone, least of all Lilac. Anyone who glances at Ethan Ramsey with his children for more than two seconds knows just how much he adores them. “What about Lori and Jonah?”

“Jonah hasn't texted me back and Lori is on her date.”

“Hrm.”

Lilac laughs. “Hunter's a nice kid. He's taking her on a boat ride at the Common.”

Ethan is not impressed.

“It's a cute date for two seventeen year-olds,” Lilac reasons with little success.

“Pitiful.”

“You took me on one of those when we were engaged.”

“I meant his name. What kind of name is Hunter?”

She laughs at that and places a kiss on his cheek, succeeding in softening his expression by a fraction. “You're just upset your little girl is all grown up.”

Ethan's expression is as impassive as ever but Lilac can see the brief flash of sadness in his eyes. She places a comforting hand at his cheek, sweeping the ridge of his cheekbone with her thumb.

“She'll be back in time for dinner. And I'm sure Jonah will text me back later. He's been swamped with school work these past few days.”

Ethan nods but is unable to elaborate an answer because the sound of approaching voices grows louder outside the door.

The youngest Ramseys arrive then, three times more boisterous than any teenagers their age. Though, to the surprise of exactly no one, the person in the little group arguing the loudest is Jasmine. Andy rolls her eyes, unable to contain a smile at the charming young girl trying to talk her way out of whatever trouble she's gotten into.

“Seriously, it's okay. Our dad owns the hospital.”

“He manages it,” her twin, Violet, corrects.

“Same thing,” Jasmine returns dismissively. “He as good as owns it if the place falls apart without him.”

“That,” Ethan intervenes, placing a kiss of greeting atop each of their heads, “would be your mother. She does the brunt of the work around here.”

Jasmine scoffs. “And yet the man gets all the credit.”

“Typical,” Violet adds.

Ethan and Lilac both laugh proudly. After Andy takes her leave for the day, the girls hug their father.

“Happy Father's day!” They chorus.

“We brought you coffee from that place you and mom are obsessed with.”

They thrust a to-go cup in his hand.

“We remembered,” Jasmine says importantly. “Not like Tweedle dee and Tweedle Ugly.”

“Jazzie,” her mother scolds. “Don't call your brother and sister that.”

“Ingrates,” Violet adds, agreeing with her sister. “Write them out of your will, Dad.”

Ethan is fully laughing now, a sound that is rare and wonderful, easily drawn out of him by his family. The little crevices on his face grow deeper with his mirth and it tugs at Lilac's heartstrings.

“If we're divvying up Dad's stuff then I call Minnie,” Jasmine proclaims.

“You can have that cat now,” Ethan returns intently. “I don't want anything to do with that thing.”

“I call Jenner the Second,” Violet calls out before her sister can.

They dissolve into an impassioned argument about who loves the dog more. Luckily for all of them, they are interrupted by the sound of more approaching footsteps, followed by even more arguing voices.

“... doesn't have his license yet.”

“What good is a license if he doesn't even have a car.”

“You don't need a car in the city. You can get around in the train.”

“Then why did you text me begging for a ride here?”

“You're such a jerk, J.”

The eldest of their children appear in the office, ceasing all bickering when their eyes fall on the father. Dolores, beautiful and bright faced from the sun, the freckles on her cheeks more vivid as she smiles. Jonah, tall, collected, and handsome—reassembling his father more than any of his siblings. Lilac watches fondly as they hug Ethan and wish him a happy father's day. After the brief surprise of their sudden appearance wears off, she can see her husband's eyes shining with emotion.

“We're taking you to lunch,” Lori informs him. “Jonah got us reservations at your favorite place downtown.”

“Nice, that place has the best chocolate cake,” Jasmine says excitedly.

“We said we're taking dad, not you freeloaders,” Jonah returns jokingly, ruffling his younger sister's hair.

“It’s father’s day! We deserve to be celebrated, too!”

“How do you figure that, squirt?”

“Who taught you how to throw a ball, Jonah Naveen Ramsey?” Jasmine demands indignantly.

“Who gave you pointers on how to impress that girl down the street you used to have a crush on?” Violet adds.

“Who Googled 'how to drive a stick shift car' when you borrowed Dad's car without asking him?”

“You what?” Ethan asks, turning to look at his son.

“Who—”

“Alright, alright! You can come with,” Jonah cuts in. “You two are insufferable, I swear.”

“That's no way to speak to your fathers,” Jasmine chastises.

The siblings continue their banter, taking turns predicting what their father will order. The one who knows his order exactly, Lilac observes, is Dolores, though she has no chance to boast to her siblings. Ethan’s pager goes off and he groans when he reads the message.

“There’s a problem with the paperwork in the Sawyer case,” he tells Lilac. With a mournful twist of his mouth, he looks at his children. “I’m sorry but I have to go handle this. Lunch won’t--”

“I’ll stay to take care of it,” Lilac interrupts.

Ethan studies her expression. “Are you sure, love? It’s an awfully complicated case.”

“I’m sure,” she assures him with a nod. “Go enjoy lunch with them.”

Ethan gives her a look so laden with gratitude and affection, her heart skips a beat.

“Geez, you were right, Dad,” Jasmine says. “Mom really does run this place.”

“Or she just prefers dealing with grumpy patients over hearing your awful jokes, Jazzy,” Dolores comments, side bumping her sister affectionately.

“Mom is a pro at dealing with grumpy, though,” Jonah tells them sagely. “She’s dealt with Dad all these years.”

Ethan laughs at that. “You kids won’t cut your old man a break on father’s day?”

“Nope,” Violet returns cheerfully. “Roasting you is our way of telling you we love you.”

______________________________

Author’s Note: Happy Fathers Day to everyone who celebrates! Thank you so much for reading this!

For reference, Jonah is around 20, Dolores (aka “Lori”) 17 going on 18, and the twins are 14

A few notes:

Though I am super behind on replies to my previous fics, please know I am so thankful to everyone who interacted! Love you guys so much!

I haven’t been able to work on Ch 2 of the OPH3 re-write, but I hope to do so soon. I think I’ve decided to take it easy with that series and see where it takes me!

Same thing with the Pictagram series! Thank you to everyone for your patience!

If you tagged me in your content while I was away, I apologize for the delay. I have it all saved up, ready to enjoy this upcoming week!

Tagging in a reblog!

[iturbide]

idk if you accept asks about writing in general. if you dont, feel free to ignore this! but if you do:

how do you come up with AU names? some of your AUs have absolute banger names (Affectionately Yours and Kintsugi for example) and i was wondering about the process behind coming up with those names. sometimes i come up with an au that doesnt really fit into any pre-existing category (eg modern au, roleswap, etc) and my google doc ends up being called something really stupid that only fuels my writer’s block

i realize this is also an ask on titles lmao

basically, how do i name the things i make

Heck yeah I love fielding asks about general writing it's my passion and I deeply enjoy talking about it

I definitely feel you, though: not many of my AUs really adhere to common fandom categories. Because of that, I usually have to figure out different ways to refer to and ultimately title them. The short answer is that I usually start with a more general handle that sums up either the general narrative feel (Bad End AU), the inspiration for the AU (Assassin's Creed: Awakening), or an overarching theme for the story (Life Goes On); eventually, though, once I have most of the writing done or at least a better handle on the overall story, I'll pick a final title which becomes the AU name forevermore (Cursed Fate).

The long answer is under the cut:

There are actually a lot of different factors that go into naming my AUs! A lot of my AUs start their lives as a narrative concept that I'll try to sum up succinctly for the sake of addressing it quickly: Pre-Timeskip Fix-It because it's a fix-it fic where the changes in the academy phase throw the narrative off the canon rails before the war phase can begin; Spite Project because I was pissed about the panning of platonic relationships in fandom events and wrote a 37.5k word summary. But at some point -- some earlier, some later -- I'll get to a point where a title presents itself, and that gets associated with the AU for the rest of time.

Kintsugi is a case where the name came to me more or less with the general plot summary. It's actually a term for a Japanese art form translating to "golden repair," where a broken piece of pottery is repaired using lacquer mixed with gold dust, treating both the break and the repair as a notable part of the object's history rather than the end of its life or something to be concealed. For a fix-it fic based in a Golden Deer route that seeks to fix the damage to Fodlan, acknowledging and addressing the various characters' flaws and issues rather than trying to sweep them under the rug or allowing them to lead to peoples' deaths...it just seemed thematically appropriate, enough so that whenever it does get written I'm definitely keeping that title.

Affectionately Yours, by contrast, was titled quite late, only shortly before posting. It started its life as "Chrobin Celebration 2020 fic," but as I reached the late chapters I realized that I wanted to add in an epistolary element, because characters writing letters to each other is a blast (and I love playing with fancy fonts). Once I made that decision, giving it a romantic title alluding to a letter's closing line seemed like a perfect choice -- plus it let me do a title drop in the last chapter, which was icing on my cake.

There are some fun tricks you can use to get yourself started with some AU names, though! Here's a few that I use:

Do you have a song that you associate with an AU? Use that for a title (Sigh No More, from a Mumford and Sons song)

Alternatively, pick a lyric you particularly like, or that you think fits the overall feel of the story (Nosferatank did this with Send the Scourge, Send the Swarm, taken from Prince of Egypt's The Plagues)

Is there a particular saying or phrase that captures the feel of your AU? You could use that, too (Smoke and Mirrors takes its name from an idiom related to disguising or distracting attention from the truth)

You can also pick terms or phrases related to major plot points (Prisoner of War gets its title from the fact that Chrom's captured by Plegians very early in the story and spends most of the narrative in their camp)

Is there a particular word that carries a lot of weight or influence in your story? That's a great choice for a name (Manwearer comes from a play on the taguel 'Rabbitwearer' epithet, and is how they address the human they've adopted as one of their own)

Similarly, if you're building toward a particular scene and have some dialogue planned, you can use a key bit of that description or dialogue (As You Are will ultimately build toward Robin accepting that his injury isn't the end of the world, and people will not only accept him but love him just as he is, rather than in spite of it)

Got a crossover of some kind in the works? Find a fun way to merge the two titles (Cardcaptor Lissa is an Awakening AU that draws narrative influence from Cardcaptor Sakura)

And if all else fails, you can give it a stand-in title based on the work that lends its influence (Promare AU is an Awakening AU drawing narrative cues from Promare)

I'm pretty sure there are others but that seems like at least a decent start of a list -- I really hope this helps! And if you have any other questions or are looking for any more advice/tips, hit me up, I love talking about writing stuff!