#like yeah i think it was to wedge them further apart too

[volgeblaft]

Oh the intimate moments of 2 men that're way too horny for their own good😌🙏

I GOT A HELLA GOOD COMMISSION BACK FROM GIO, AND THEN SUMMER WROTE A SHORT FIC ON IT AND I'M -- DKSJJDJWJE ❤️❤️

Art by: @gixsess

Fic by: @tripleyeeet

Fic tags: Smut, Gojo Satoru x Male OC, biting, overstimulation, slight humiliation

Read below ⬇️

Satoru’s breath is heavy. The air that pushes from his lips bordering on literal steam as it puffs into the crook of Shichiro’s neck. The sound of it low and rhythmic, matching the low smack of flesh meeting flesh. Hips driving into ass to create a low groan that breaks through.

With a smile, his mouth curls into a grin and moves towards his partner’s skin, edging for a kiss to the throat that never comes while he drives further in. Every part of him watching in amusement as the man wrapped inside his forceful hold, shudders under his touch. His arms wobbling under the pressure of his pleasure, causing Satoru to hum.

“Aw, barely been at this and you’re already whimpering like a little pup.”

His voice is low and chastising. The desire to tease higher on his list of things to inflict as his fingers imbed themselves into Shichiro’s roots to roughly yank and pull back his head, smirking when their eyes finally meet.

“Thought you were tougher than that, Chiro.”

In response, Shichiro grits his teeth, a low growl emitting from his throat that only drives Satoru to pull away his hips and piston back. The rough sensation only making it harder for him to think of a comeback.

Because now that his mind is far focused on the feeling of Satoru’s cock wedged deeply in his ass, he can’t really think straight. Not when there’s this pressure building inside of him; the steady flow of movement practically ripping him apart as he wobbles on sore hands and knees against the floor.

So, instead he takes it. The pounding of Satoru’s cock; the teasing tone of his annoyingly smug voice; the pain of knowing he’ll inevitably lose this round and never hear the end of it. He takes all of it begrudgingly, knowing that, despite wanting to argue —to defy and conquer the man he often seeks to pick fights with— he just has to relent for once. To give into his more human desires in the form of groan that just makes Satoru laugh.

“So noisy,” he teases. “Might have to muzzle you next time, huh?”

Again, Shichiro just growls, not really helping his case. Especially not after Satoru’s hands start to roam to new places including his own cock to gently stroke and make him twitch. A shiver of motion running through his spine that has the man wrapped roughly around him starts to pick up the pace. Both his cock and hands moving in tandem to render Shichiro practically useless.

Panting loudly, his fingers dig into the floor beneath him, itching to hold onto something as he’s stimulated to all hell. Every part of his body allowing that same pressure to build without protest as Satoru works him up, muttering words of humiliation in his ear —telling him what a pathetic mess he is, until Shichiro’s coming in the man’s hand. His breath absolutely ragged as his head dips down and his eyes close, everything becoming too much as Satoru refuses to stop.

At which point, his gaze gets a little hazy. Alongside his emptying mind, all he feels is the subtle pain of continued pleasure. The sensation bordering the exit of enjoyment as Satoru continues to have his fill, pushing harder and faster while his hand moves back to Shichiro’s hair for support —the other digging his fingers into his hip.

“Fuck, Toru, I—“

Satoru huffs, his hips alternating positions until he feels himself teetering on the edge, his body leaning forward to engulf his partner. “Just be a good boy for me, yeah? Just —shit— just for a sec.”

Giving in, Shichiro just nods and breathes. Everything feeling too much as Satoru’s mouth moves to his neck, offering an uncharacteristically soft nip that he laps at with a groan. The sound causing both of them to twitch and writhe, eventually trigger their shared pleasure to end when Satoru finally comes, too.

[laneysmusings]

At Ease

₊˚.༄ Pairing: Mike Logan x GN reader

₊˚.༄ Synopsis: you get a phone call and suddenly, everything around you is spinning and before you know it, you're calling the only person who knows how to help — or, essentially, the one where Mike comforts you through a panic attack.

₊˚.༄ Warnings: explicit mentioning of a panic attack, medication (assumed sedative or anti-anxiety medication, explained no further beyond a little white pill), talking down and breathing exercises, words and language describing the feeling of a panic attack and the sense of doom (written partially by my own experiences having them, but if there are any flagrant inaccuracies let me know so I can better depict this in the future) use of pet names/terms of endearment such as sweetheart, mentions of food

Everything’s in a haze after that call and suddenly you can’t really breathe. 

The way your chest feels like it is both being cleaved apart and wedged in a trash compactor makes you reach for that unlabeled orange pill bottle in your bag in desperation, catching the way your hands tremble at unlatching and unzipping and rifling through the junk at the bottom of the bag you didn’t get a chance to clean out to find it and quickly pop the top. Three perfect white little pills are tipped from the bottle onto the lid and then dropped onto your awaiting tongue. They turn to a sticky-tacky feel the second they meet your spit from your slick mouth, clung to your tongue. 

The tip of your tongue presses to your teeth before flicking back those little tacky white pills into your throat and swallowing, followed by deep gulps of water that are more than you need but it's better to feel your throat seize around the water than around nothing. 

Your hands are moving on their own accord, forgetting to lock the doors to your office, pacing and trying to think of what to do as you just sit in the panic as you wait for your medication to kick in and bring ease blanketing over you — you’re calling him before you can stop yourself or even realize that you’re methodically dialing his number, muscle memory and a greater sense of preservation taking over as you continue to shake, nearly misdialing before you put the call through. 

It's not like what they say when the doctors or your friends ask if you feel that you’ll die or that the world is going to end. You feel like everything is disintegrating, like you’re drowning inside yourself while you remain a vessel, a husk. It's all hot but it's all freezing your skin is too warm and you can feel the sweat under your sweater that’s clinging to your skin and you want to peel it off but the second you do you’d freeze and shake even harder and everything hurts but its not pain pain its this weird sense and — 

“Yeah sweetheart?” 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck fuck fucking fuck. 

Barely getting your voice to work, you manage a stuttery hey halfway through him asking what was up and he knows, of course he knows.

He’s seen this go down before and watched as you dissolved before him once about who knows what, and you can hear Mike’s tone change and that he’s going to call you back in just a second, “just one, gotta’ get to a place I can hear you. Hold on, I’ll be right back I’m not goin’ anywhere,” and hangs up. 

You wait, just hovering by the phone and feeling the sense of panic begin to just gnaw at your innards like some weird internal manifestation of a dread-vulture, picking you apart, a weird spin on guilt and the tale of Prometheus but instead of your liver the cursed bird just rips and tears at your stomach and all the soul in you. 

Mike calls back, and you jolt at the shrill noise, forgetting how quiet it was in your office barring your faltering, panting in and out breath before you pick up and he’s softly asking you where you are and if he needs to come get you. You’re shaking your head even though he can’t see it but you know he can just sense it, see it even though it's over the phone and Mike’s miles away and god it hurts. “Got it, ‘kay? I’ll stay on as long as y’need.”  

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” he’s immediately carrying on and the tears are welling at your eyes because no it does not feel like anything’s okay, that nothing ever will be okay but you sniff and hum out a note in response so Mike knows you hear him, “you safe and sound right now?” 

“Y-yeah, in my of-office.”

It’s like forcibly pulling teeth to get you to talk right now and not like you don’t want to, it's just like wrenching into yourself to find the ability to even speak, and sure his voice is helping it always does knowing that he’s here for you, that he’s not judging and is just concerned and cares and you get to tell that little voice in your head that sounds louder than normal that no, he does care about you and does not think of a burden. he loves you and that’s real, this isn’t real — but he is. 

“Did’ya take your meds? Water and snack?” 

“Took meds ‘n water, no snack,” you murmur into the phone receiver, the cord wound around your finger until it's tight enough to indent your skin, now feeling the pulse in your digit. It's nearly childish the way Mike phrases it but it's true — your attacks roll through you so much worse when you don’t take care of yourself and run on low energy. 

You know he’s going to ask if you can get one and tell him before he even questions that you’ll grab a spare granola bar from your desk in a second but after sitting by the phone you don’t feel like you can even move let alone get up. 

“Stay put then for a bit,” Mike pauses and you can just picture his furrowed brows and him sitting somewhere quiet or standing out in the hall, away from the casual chaos of the precinct’s bullpen, but you still hear muffled noise. “Want to do that breathin’ thing or the senses exercize you do wit’me when I call you after a nightmare or a panic attack?” 

It's quiet for a beat before you get the words out, your voice soft in a way that hurts his heart through the phone. “Yes please.” 

You hear him inhale into the receiver before shuffling. “Breathin’ first, ‘kay sweetheart?” 

You’ve noted that Mike’s heavy-handed with the terms of endearment and it makes your heart cease from its panicked seizes to flutter every once in a while, bringing a watery smile to your face, eyes still stinging from the tears. “Inhale for me, four seconds, I’ll count you down.” 

He pauses and waits for a moment, and you tilt your head back and feel your throat bob tight. “Four.” 

Inhaling slowly, your breath stutters as you begin to breathe in gradually. 

“Three.” 

The milliseconds pan out and you make it to two and shakily inhale to him saying one. 

“Hold it, counting down.” 

“Four.” 

Your nostrils flare as your lungs start to fight. Mike can hear you through the phone and he’s weaving through people while glancing down at his watch and marking the seconds. 

“Three, y’got this baby.” 

Tuning out, you don’t hear the signal for two or one second left and already start exhaling when he tells you “Exhale.” 

Your head feels more solid compared to the hollow bees-nest feel of earlier and your lungs no longer shake so viscerally, you follow along with the countdown and follow when Mike asks you to repeat and repeat and repeat until he asks “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better,” you blink, still not really present and now regretting not asking him to come and get you but you’re not going to say it, you’d feel worse if you had to ask after assuring him that it was not needed, “not good, but a bit better.” 

“That’s a start, alright, what can you feel? Five things if you can manage.” 

It takes you a second, thumb swiping the plastic of the phone receiver in your hand and you tell him that, following with the desk beneath you that you’re sitting on. The soft itch of your sweater is said next, then you falter when your hand brushes against your skin and you tell him you feel the ring on your finger, the both of you noting the slight lift in your voice when you say it, and you end with the feel of your skin under your hands. 

“Good, taste anything?” 

“The mints I had earlier, my meds slightly. Salt?” 

He laughs a little at the way you question the taste of salt, knowing it's from the frenzied panic tears but the way your voice lifts amuses him. “‘Kay, smell?” 

You sniff, nose upturning. “Must.” 

“C’mon now.” 

“Must and dust,” you mouth back before sighing, “my perfume a lil’bit and my hand lotion.” You’re moving finally into the chair behind your desk and ease into it, scooting close to the desk and toy with the cord on the phone again, curled around your finger just like he is.

“Alright, let me know what you see.” 

You oblige, not noting the sounds in the background on his call and how it muffles at some point but you look around your office, “I see the books on the shelves, the flowers I was given last week,” you list off, tilting in your chair to look away and you hear steps nearing your office. That seize in your chest constricts and you’re now on alert and it feels like you’re about to regress back and before you can tell him that you need to hang up, the door opens. 

Sighing and then grinning, you tell him one last thing before the two of you hang up. 

“And I see you too.”

[riddikulus-writings]

Born To Run

FRISAL; 3ABY

DAY 6; Very Late Evening

Two hours until midnight.

Something was off.

The two of them had begun to stave off their drinking. Anaya was… loopy, but coherent. Kolphi was…a partier. His tie loose, shirt half untucked. Black hair a wild mess. He was still as friendly as usual, but would. not. leave. the two. of them. alone. 

He’s clingy.

Cal’s dress shoes had begun to make his feet ache sometime around hour thirteen, so – after ensuring that Anaya was alright with it – he’d gone back to the apartment and swapped both their pairs of shoes for their comfortable footwear instead.

He’d come back to find a group of party goers gathered around the Javals and Anaya, fawning over her almost-mint-condition Imperial droid that’d been a discontinued type for years. 

His hackles rose, but he allowed it, wedging into the centre of the group to loop an arm around Anaya’s waist and hand off her shoes to her with a quick kiss to her lips. [Said crowd swooned and cheered, raising their drinks at the two of them].

Man, parties are weird.

It’s hour twenty-two, soon to be twenty-three, now, and said party was still, somehow, in full swing. Anaya was getting a little too comfortable, straying further and further from Cal’s side to go mingle. She never moved from his sight, but it still made him uneasy. These were still Imperial puppets, they should be careful.

Cal’s nerves were teetering. Something was buzzing in the air, mixing with the music into something lethal. He’s at a party, he should be able to relax but it’s hard to relax with something gnawing at the back of your mind telling you to run.

“Jax!” Cal pointed his wandering attention to Kolphi, who’d materialized from thin air to stand far too close to Cal, “Jax, I’m happy to see you’re stickin’ it out to the end, buddy!”

Cal smiled at how ridiculous he sounded, “Oh, yeah. Val’s the partier, not me. She’s really loving it here, thank you again for inviting us. If she’s happy, I’m happy, and she’s been having an absolute blast.”

It wasn’t a lie. Anaya was enjoying herself, and Cal has come to notice that – like everyone else in his life – if Anaya is happy, then so is he. He’s always been a people pleaser; Cere once told him it was a bit of a flaw of his to put everyone’s well-being above his own.

Kolphi clasped Cal on the shoulder – shaking him back to reality – and brought him in for a one-armed hug Cal didn’t want, “Oh, it was absolutely our pleasure. We love to make new friends, and Orron really seems to love you guys.”

“He’s a great kid,” Cal agreed, “Where is he, anyway?”

Kolphi made a scoffing noise and waved his drink in the general direction of the whole room, “Ah, he’s off over there somewhere, I’m sure. He’s found a group of his friends from school that finally wandered in. That group is like a whole ‘nother family to him.”

Cal is going to be honest with himself, he’s been getting a little too comfortable here. Everyone is welcoming and… warm. Unnervingly so, considering their views. Lately, he’d been finding himself completely overlooking the fact that Kolphi Javal is a dead man walking, “I’ve come to see you guys as a second family,” Cal muttered, almost involuntarily, and it made his stomach churn.

He needed to find something to eat.

Kolphi’s grin grew, but something about it seemed a little forced, “And us, you. Have you two figured out where you’re going to settle down? Start your own family?”

Cal’s lips spread into a little smile, and he turned his gaze down towards his boots, “Ah, no. Not yet, anyway. Val is… Val’s sensitive on the topic of children. I’d love some,” he looked up, meeting Kolphi’s eyes, “But I’ll be alright if she doesn’t come around to the idea.”

“It’s not that I don’t like kids. I do but I don’t, it’s just that this galaxy is nothing but a warzone no matter where you go. What kind of parent would I be if I brought a kid into a fight? I was born into a fight, and I think mom regrets it. She loves me, her and dad both do. Did. Do, whatever, but I was an accident. Obviously. I don’t think I’d be able to do that, have a kid during a war, and keep a sane state of mind. Plus, I’d need to find someone to procreate with, first, and I do not have time for that right now. Sure, casual flings are probably nice, too, but still not with the intention of children.”

And then the next night Cal had found himself buried in her.

“I’m sure she’ll come around to kids eventually, if you can find her.”

Cal’s eyes bugged before his eyebrows scrunched down into a scowl, “What was that?”

“Iavys took your wife on a walk,” Kolphi clarified calmly, downing the rest of his drink. He let the empty glass hang loosely from his fingertips, “She’s showing Val around the building. I could see a future in architecture with her, Jax.”

“She does like working with her hands,” Cal agreed, trying his best to shove down the unease rising up his throat, “And an imagination like none other, too. She’d be good at architecture.”

“You’re one lucky man,” Kolphi trailed off, glancing around at the other partiers before locking his eyes with Cal’s, “So, tell me, what are two Jedi such as yourselves doing on Frisal, of all places, anyway?” Cal’s chest locked up, his breathing stalled. He couldn’t hear the music anymore over the thump thump thump of his heartbeat in his ears. Kolphi’s lips spread back into a grin, but this time it showed nothing but malice, “Ah, lothcat got your tongue, Kestis?”

“How did you–”

“It took us a while. All week, actually, but Iavys did finally figure out you two.” he explained slowly. Casually. Like they were still having a civilized conversation, “No worries, we don’t want you. You’re not so much as a thorn in the Empire’s side as dear old Kenobi is.”

“Kenobi is dead,” Cal’s voice shook. With what, he wasn’t sure. Fear? Anger? Both, most likely. His fingers itched to reach in his jacket and pull free his saber.

“The original, yes. This one shares the blood of both him and Valena Kesikki. Honestly, she’ll do quite nicely, since we can never seem to catch her mother. Blood relation to two impeccable Jedi Masters makes one a high target amongst your enemies. Her bounty puck hasn’t been working, lately, she’s such a hard woman to find.” he clicked his tongue, admonishing Anaya’s knack for avoiding death, “Imagine my surprise when I finally noticed her trailing me when I recognized your bright red hair in the picture as well.”

His feet were frozen to the linoleum flooring. This conversation was leaving him feeling completely helpless, “You won’t–”

“I’m afraid we already have gotten away with it,” Kolphi interjected, his voice too smooth for the topic of conversation. He placed his empty glass on the tray of a wayward waiter, “Now if you’ll excuse me, our wives are waiting for me.”

Cal finally found his head, reaching to grab at some part of Kolphi Javal just as the man stepped away and quite literally disappeared into the party. No matter how many circles Cal did, he couldn’t lay eyes on Javal. From one end of the party to the other, he was shoving people out of his way, only half apologizing as he whizzed by in his desperate searching.

Cal stopped beneath the hefty chandelier and did his best to slow his breathing. Anaya was somewhere, alone with two Imperial rats that wanted her dead. She was about to be completely blindsided. This wasn’t helping to calm his breathing. His breaths were coming out in short, sharp pants as he wrung his hands through his hair, knotting his fingers in it as he willed himself not to cry.

He blinked the would-be tears away and set his jaw before marching to the only other person at this blasted party that he knew by name. The small crowd of teenagers parted like water when they saw Cal coming towards them. He tried his best to look calm and friendly. The droids were set on the countertop next to Orron’s elbow, regarding Cal with cocked heads and wide eyes, “Hey, Orron,” please please please, “Have you seen your parents around anywhere? Your mom took Val on a walk, but I think it’s almost time we should be headed to bed.”

Orron smiled widely at Cal, “Oh, hell yeah, Jax. They went down through the back hallways to the far end of the building. There’s some cool paintings back there that mom fuckin’ loves to show people.”

Cal’s heart sank even more; Orron had no idea his parents were the way they were, did he? “Thank you Orron. You two,” Cal gave the droids a pointed look, “C’mon, boys. It’s bedtime for you, too.” BD sprang up and clambered up to Cal’s left shoulder, and Cal stretched his arm out so VD could scramble up to rest on Cal’s right. He waited until he was out of earshot from Orron before muttering to the droids, “Cover’s blown. Naya’s been taken. Find her."

Ope.

[cowboybuckleys]

i don’t find Callum’s reaction all that surprising tbh. anger and hurt cloud everything, logic and common sense be damned. the whole thing felt more for the benefit of Phil’s involvement in the storyline anyway. the callbacks to the fish and chips, to Paul, to Kathy saying what Ben has been saying for years, to what i’m assuming is his fear of losing another kid. something had to motivate Phil to track down Lewis, and that episode was just that. go get ‘em Phil, we’re rooting for ya.

maybe we’ll get more context once BBC remembers to upload Monday’s ep, but they were always gonna drag out the reveal where Callum is concerned. i’m just grateful this isn’t an American soap, they drag some shit out for 2+ years O_O

[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!

[metalbuckaroo]

Birthday to Remember

SUMMARY// After being pulled along to a strip club by your friends on your birthday, you end up leaving with some company.

WARNINGS// smut, oral (f receiving), kinda corruption kink, pussyjob, cursing, mentions of tobacco and alcohol use

AU// Stripper!Bucky x Innocent!Readee

AN// Requests and asks are always open, 18+ ONLY Minors DNI

Masterlist

Moodboard by// @commonintrest Dividers by// @skylightlantern

The last thing you wanted on your birthday was for your friends to drag you to a strip club. You felt awkward and out of place walking amongst the room full of half naked men and drinking customers.

"This just feels weird." You sighed, following your three friends towards the bar that was in the corner. "We'll get one of those private rooms they have here for parties and a beefy man. It will be a birthday to remember, c'mon." One of them grinned.

You pitched in on the drinks and a private room, one of the men walking in right after you. Dark, chin length hair and a sweet smile that nearly distracted from the tight leather shorts that left little to the imagination.

You spent most of the time staring down into your glass, having to silently remind yourself you were suppose be having fun as your friends cheered and giggled as they stuffed bills into the waistband of the man's shorts; whose named you learned was Bucky.

You weren't really paying attention to what he was doing. More to the way the silvery metal of his arm gleamed under the dimmed lights and where metal met flesh at the base of his shoulder.

Wondering how he got it or if he could feel when someone touched it, rather than thinking of the smooth way his body moved.

One of your friends said something to him that you couldn't quite make out. Bucky nodding and looking over at you with a half smile.

"Want the birthday special?" He asked, moving to stand in front of you. Your face warmed at his words and you swallowed thickly, shaking your head. "No, it's fine."

"Oh, come on. Don't be a prude." One of the three girls groaned, poking one of your crossed legs.

Wetting your lips, you glanced up at Bucky who looked at you with welcoming eyes. "Yeah, okay." You nodded.

Your stomach flipped when he took the drink from your hands, handing it to your friend before the cool metal of his left hand nudged at your knee for you to uncross your legs.

Bucky placed his hands on the back of the couch, your shoulders trapped between metal and flesh as he leaned down to talk in your ear. "If you're uncomfortable with anything, just pinch me."

You gave another nod and he smiled, flashing his pearly whites as he leaned his knees against the edge of the plush cushion on either side of yours.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest when he tugged at the laces of the shorts to loosen them before taking your hands in his.

Bucky was eating up every reaction you gave. The way you chewed your bottom lip as he guided your hands along the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen, your fingers feeling every dip in the smooth skin and grazing over the barbells that pierced through his nipples.

He especially liked the way you weren't trying to rush his hands to go under his shorts; letting him be in full control.

Your eyes went wide when he stopped your hands at the waistband of the leather, the sound of your heart beating and blood rushing in your ears almost drowning out the sound of your friends giggling and squealing.

And the sound of the door opening.

"Buck, you've got a set." Another man said from the doorway. "I'm in the middle of a session." Bucky huffed, looking over his shoulder but not moving your hands. "Cap is gonna fill in."

Letting out a heavy sigh, Bucky finally let go of your hands, but his close proximity wasn't letting your body relax just yet as he leaned to peck a kiss to your cheek. "Happy birthday." He chuckled before standing.

A broad blonde took his place, this one letting you sit in peace and stare into you half empty glass.

"I'm gonna head home." You exhaled, glancing at the happy looks on your friend's faces. "Fine, buzz kill." One of them muttered.

Pushing through the crowded club, you pushed the heavy metal door open. Bucky was leaned against the concrete wall of the building not far from the door, now in a pair of sweats and a hoodie as he smoked a cigarette.

"The birthday girl." He grinned, blue eyes meeting yours as you stepped closer. "Want one?" He asked, holding the cigarette out towards you. "Uh, no. Thanks."

"Listen-" he cleared his throat, pushing away from the wall to stand in front of you. "I can find someone to cover for me if you need some company on your walk home." He offered before bringing the cigarette to his lips.

"I'll be fine, I'm not too far." You shrugged, looking to the sidewalk. "You can't walk alone, it's one in the morning." Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "That's different than walking with a stranger?"

His tongue jutted out across his bottom lip, eyebrows twitching upwards. "Well- I was about five seconds away from putting your hand in my shorts around thirty minutes ago. I think I'm a little better than a stranger." He teased, leaning forward slightly. "Besides, your friends kinda seem like assholes."

He wasn't wrong. They were sometimes pushy, telling you to loosen up a little and dragging you along with them to places where you felt out of place.

"Ok, fine." You exhaled. Bucky cracked a smile and dropped his cigarette, stomping it out under his shoe. "Let me get my stuff, just wait here for a second." He said, brushing his fingers to your forearm.

"Thanks, for walking with me." You said as you unlocked your front door. "This isn't the worst side of town but it's not the best either." Bucky said with a small laugh.

"I forgot to tip you, by the w-" his warm hand stopped yours from digging in your wallet, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it. Just- invite me in for a drink." He shrugged.

You narrowed your eyes at him, cocking your head to the side. "You're not a creep, are you?"

Bucky laughed, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "No, just don't want a pretty girl to spend her birthday alone. Plus, I had someone take over my shift."

"Well, my apartment is dry. So, you're out of luck on that drink." You smiled, opening the door to walk into the small studio apartment. "That's fair."

Bucky was good company as the two of you sat on the couch in your living room, telling you funny stories about his time working at the club and listening intently to anything you said. The lighting in your apartment made his eyes even more blue than you'd noticed earlier and his features look sharper, framed by his dark locks.

Over the last couple of hours he had slowly moved his way closer to you. Close enough that you could smell his woodsy cologne mixed in with the scent of cigarettes, his metal arm resting on the back of the couch as his right hand would occasionally brush against you when he'd talk.

"You're cute, like a bunny." He said with a small laugh, making your face heat up. "Thanks, I guess?" You mumbled, chewing your tongue as he lifted his hand to your cheek.

He hummed in response, leaning closer until his lips brushed yours and your breathing hitched.

You pressed a hand against his chest and leaned away slightly. "I've never..." You trailed off, hoping he'd get the point. "I figured that much. Can go as far as you want, or we don't have to at all."

"How many girls have you said that to?" You silently cursed yourself for saying it as soon as you did, biting down on the inside of your cheek. He just chuckled and brushed his thumb over the tip of your nose. "I'm more of a long term guy. Pretty sure I can count who I've slept with on one hand."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." You said quietly, pulling at a string on the seam of your jeans. "I know." Bucky said before slotting his lips over yours, the kiss gentle and sweet.

The taste of cigarettes and mint gum flooded your tastebuds when his tongue slipped past your lips to press into yours, the softness of his plump lips contrasting the scratch of his stubble.

Bucky just felt so welcoming, his touches cautious to wait for you to stop him as his hand moved from your cheek. Fingers ghosting down the side of your neck to leave goosebumps in their wake, along the buttons of your blouse and finally stopping to wedge between your thighs.

He pulled away, leaving your breathless as you blinked your eyes open to meet his lust filled blue ones. "Remember to pinch me if anything makes you uncomfortable." He teased, pecking a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Things were moving fast, clothes quickly discarded on the path from the couch to your bed. Bucky's hands and lips only parting from you long enough to rid another clothing item that shielded his skin from yours until all that stood in his way was your underwear and his leather shorts.

You weren't sure if it was the head rush from only knowing Bucky for a few hours after holding out for so long, or the way his darkened eyes looked you over as he bent his body over yours.

"You're so beautiful." He breathed, leaving a brisk kiss to your lips before trailing wet kisses down your neck and chest.

Your hands gripped onto the sheets harder the further down your abdomen he got, trying to keep your breathing even as fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear.

Bucky looked up at you one last time before dragging the fabric down your legs, tossing them to the side and taking his spot back between your legs.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he peppered kisses to the inside of your thighs, cold metal and warm flesh gently massaging the outsides of them as his stubble scraped at your skin.

A squeak erupted from your throat when he sunk his teeth into the supple flesh, making you move your leg away from his face to pull the skin from between his teeth.

Bucky chuckled and placed a soothing kiss on the mark. One to remind you that none of this had been a dream.

An excited chill ran down your spine when his hot breath fanned your dripping folds. Bucky giving one last glance before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, a soft chuckle bubbling in his chest when your body jolted and you drew in a sharp breath.

"So responsive, I could get use to that." He winked, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit.

Bucky basked in every breathy sound and reaction he elicited from you, moaning at the taste he wanted to burn into his memory. In hopes he had another chance at this, the slice of heaven he held in his hands.

The chance to have his own angel to bend and mold into his filthiest dream.

He moved his hand to ease his middle finger into your heat, groaning at the immediate flutter of your walls as your hands fisted the sheet and chest heaved with a soft moan.

"Oh, c'mon. You can be louder than that, bunny." Bucky purred, curling the long, thick finger to find the sweet spot to set off the reaction he wanted. A louder moan pulling from your chest when he found the rough patch just inside your cunt making him smirk. "There it is."

He locked his lips around your clit again, fingers curling into the spot that pulled the vulgar sounds from your sweet lips as he sucked and flicked his tongue over the bundle of nerves. An unfamiliar feeling quickly building in your lower belly.

"Bucky-" You keened as white hot pleasure surged through you, your trembling thighs closing on his head as his metal hand moved from your hip to grope at your chest.

His fingers pinched and grazed the pebbled bud before massaging the flesh under his palm as your back arched, your breath catching in your throat and ears ringing.

Bucky lifted his head from between your legs, finger continuing to stroke your walls to work you through your orgasm as he pulled the laces of his shorts loose.

Your skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve alive as you opened your eyes again to Bucky standing at the end of the bed and shoving the shorts down his thick thighs. Erection springing free to give a glance of the two barbells on the underside of his cock. One under the ridge of his swollen head, the other at the base.

Your heart pounded in your ears when he moved back between your legs, stomach flipping from the nerves as his leaking tip ran through your folds and prodded your entrance. "Wait-"

Your hand pressed to the firm muscles of Bucky's stomach made his movements still and eyes flick up to meet your nervous expression. "We can stop if you want. Or we can try something else." He suggested, leaning on his palms to catch your lips in his briefly.

You nodded and let out a shaky breath. "Yeah, something else." You breathed.

A whimper passed your lips when he rocked his hips forward, the barbell sliding over your clit sending shocks of pleasure through you.

Bucky's bottom lip disappeared behind his teeth as let out quiet groans from the feeling of your slick coating his shaft.

"Talk to me, bunny. This okay?" He panted, gaze raking over your naked form that still had the sheet clutched tightly as melodic sounds spilled from your lips.

"Feels good," You panted, words slightly slurred from the dizzy feeling in your head caused by the pressure quickly building again. "So good." He moaned, holding his base to have better guidance through your folds.

You bit your lip into your mouth as tears prickled your eyes from the second wave of warmth that spread, choking out a moan as his pace quickened.

"Fucking shit-" Bucky huffed, his grip on your thigh tightening and release spilling onto your lower abdomen.

You inhaled a few deep breaths, trying to steady your heart beat as he pecked a kiss to your knee before standing from the bed to grab a piece of clothing for clean up.

You pulled the blanket from under you to hold to your chest, waiting for him to get dressed and make an excuse to leave like you'd heard your friends talk about after a hook up.

Instead, he wandered towards the kitchen, finding an empty can as he lit a cigarette, your eyes staying fixed on the way the muscles in his back rippled with his movements.

"C'mere." Bucky said with a soft groan as he got under the blankets with you, sitting the can on the nightstand. "You're staying?" You asked, furrowing your eyebrows at him.

"If you want me to, yeah." He shrugged, holding his arm out for you to lay on as he placed the cigarette between his teeth and grabbed a pillow to cushion the metal.

You gave a soft yeah and cuddled into his side, the soft whirring of his arm under the pillow helping you slowly drift to sleep.

You felt yourself waking up as the bed dipped under the weight of Bucky moving, deciding not to fully wake up and let him leave in silence.

"Hey," Bucky whispered, moving his body over yours to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "Hmm?" You hummed in response, peaking an eye open to look at the slate blue eyes that held adoration in them.

His knuckles brushed down your arm, a sweet kiss placed on your lips as he gave you a soft smile. "I gotta go, but I left my personal number under your alarm clock. Give me a call sometime."

You nodded and smiled lightly at him, another kiss pecked to your lips before he left the bed to gather his things, walking towards the door.

"I'm gonna hold ya to that, bunny."

TAGLIST: @likeahorribledream @cxddlyash @iwannabekilledtwice @bookstan0618 @glxwingrxse @yliumy @pineprincess @makbarnes @cupcakehinch @doasyoudesireandlive @magicwithinnightmares @andy-is-gay @stucky-my-ship @marvel-3407 @maladaptivexxdaydreaming @i-l-y-3000 @avoxzy @impala1967666 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @supernaturalbaesduh @bucky-hues @suchababie @eireduchess

[kiss-inthekitchen]

let the devil out | m.m

summary (which is just a paragraph i had to cut but i really liked it): Okay, so your loving boyfriend who can’t see and also defends and upholds the law for a living is beating people up in the dead of night. That’s fine, right? You know Matt, you know there has to be a reason for his actions. The man was so tortured over his own morality, there’s no way he was beating on innocent people as a stress reliever. And beating on them with such skill…

wc: 2.6k (my longest yeah boy ever)

warnings: canon level violence, the criminals are tr*ffickers but its only mentioned, everybody’s emotions being all over the place and then settling on Horny, smut, Matt having realizations™, reader being kinda fucked up n nasty

“Alright, love, it’s been so good seeing you, but seriously, I have got to get home!” your friend Jess exclaims for what is probably the third time tonight. The two of you didn’t get to catch up very often, so when you did you ended up talking for hours. You’d closed out your tab over an hour ago and had been attempting to say goodbye ever since.

“Shit, how is it after midnight already?” you say after checking your phone, sighing internally. You’d been toying with the idea of stopping by Matt’s place since it was on your way home, but it was too late now. Matt should be asleep by now, and if he wasn’t, your presence would definitely only keep him up longer.

“We ask that same question every time,” Jess laughs, grabbing her purse.

The two of you head for the door, hugging one last time before you take off in opposite directions. You pull your jacket tighter around you, the chill outside confronting you all at once. The walk back to your apartment wasn’t too long, just a couple blocks away from the bar, and you pick up the pace a bit, thinking how Matt would probably– scratch that, definitely– scold you for walking home alone at this hour.

You slow down as you approach the alley you usually take as a shortcut, hearing what sounds like a fight taking place further down. Probably just some drunk idiots, you figure. Ugh, now you’d have to walk the long way home. You step into the alley just barely, peeking around the corner to see what was going on.

But the scene you come upon is anything but a drunken brawl. There’s a van stopped in the middle of the alley, it’s doors open, and a whole group of guys going full force at each other. No, this isn’t a drunken fight. This looks dangerous. You freeze, trying to make sense of what you’re witnessing.

As you look on, you realize the men aren’t actually fighting each other, but three of them are going after one man– a masked man. You almost scoff. Only in Hell’s Kitchen. Then your gaze lands on the body of another man, lying unconscious on the ground.

You’ve seen enough. You’re about to fast-walk it across the street like you’ve never fast-walked before, when the man in the mask knocks a second guy to the ground, turning to face the remaining two, and something about the way he moves is suddenly so familiar to you…

Your feet start carrying you forward before you can think to stop them. You’re about twenty feet away from the fight now, the masked man only becoming more familiar the closer you get to him. Yeah, you definitely know this man. You know him well.

Matt punches one of the criminals in the face, kicking the second guy’s legs out from under him immediately after. They both fall to the ground with a groan, already trying to get back up. It’s then, during those few seconds of reprieve, that he registers a sound that absolutely should not be there. He cocks his head to the side, confirming it. It’s those shoes you have with the little wedge heel, the ones that make such a satisfying sound against the floor of his apartment. His head snaps toward you then, and you freeze. Now that he’s aware of you, he can hear your heart rate pick up exponentially. Shit.

You’re standing completely still a few feet away from the masked man who is definitely your boyfriend. Your blind, lawyer boyfriend. And he definitely noticed you.

As the two of you are having this moment, suspended in time for what is only actually a few seconds, one of the criminals has risen to his feet again, lunging at Matt with an attack that he only barely manages to dodge.

Matt shakes himself free of the shock of seeing you. He’d deal with that in a minute. All that matters now is ending this fight, because the fact of the matter is you are here, and he can’t let you get hurt.

If either of the men noticed you standing there, they don’t even get the chance to acknowledge your presence. Matt immediately kicks his attacker in the stomach, sending his body into the side of the van. The metal dents with the impact, his body crumpling to the floor. He doesn’t get up this time. The other guy doesn’t get off so easily; Matt grabs him by his collar, slamming him into the ground and throwing punch after punch to his face until he passes out. Matt rises to his feet, stumbling back and heaving for breath before he turns to face you again.

Part of you wants to scream at him, and another part of you wants to go to him, but they’re both drowned out by the part of you that needs him to confirm it. Even though you already know. You take a few steps closer to him, keeping your arms crossed tightly to resist the urge to reach out and hold his face in your hands.

“Matt?” you whisper.

Matt's shoulders drop. He’d been holding his breath, hoping that somehow this wasn’t happening, that you hadn’t actually recognized him. And the way you whispered his name… his thoughts go into overdrive. He can hear your heart hammering away behind your folded arms, and fuck, you must be scared of him. Or are you mad at him? Probably both. He deserves both. Maybe you wouldn’t want to be with him anymore. Oh, he didn’t even want to think about that. He just needs time to explain. And he should really get you out of this alley, for your safety.

He steps over one of the criminal’s unconscious forms, stopping right in front of you. “Sweetheart, I… W-what are you doing here?” he stammers. “I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to see any of that, I–”

“God, Matt, shut up,” your breathy voice cuts off his rambling, and he barely has time to be confused before you throw yourself at him, your arms going around his neck as you crush your lips to his.

Oh. Oh. Yeah, he’d misread that situation big time. For a hot second, he’s too shocked to do anything, and then he’s kissing you back, pulling your body even further into his, gasping when you bite down on his bruised bottom lip.

And then he hears sirens.

“We should get you back to my place.”

“Fuck yeah we should.”

“Jesus, not for that,” he laughs on an exhale. “The cops are coming.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” You let Matt lead you back through the alley. Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that it was weird for him to be leading you, but it was also fucking weird for him to be effortlessly dodging punches that he couldn’t even see. “I guess the law does frown upon vigilante justice. Wait, doesn’t this go against your moral code as a lawyer? Or something?”

You’re about to turn the corner to get back on the sidewalk, Matt reaching up to remove his mask as he answers. “Sometimes, you have to do things outside the law,” his voice comes out deeper than usual, a steely determination to it that makes you shiver.

Matt can feel the way you’ve reacted to him, but you voice it anyway. “Okay, I think I might be mad at you, and this whole thing is definitely insane, but also, that was so hot.”

“You know, I think you might actually be the one with more explaining to do,” he huffs, smiling despite himself.

“Oh, no, you still have all the explaining to do, and you’re definitely getting yelled at. Later,” you finish pointedly.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks, in lieu of responding to your statement. He’s still trying to process the fact that you’ve found out about him. He knows he should be worried, he’s really trying to be concerned, but it’s hard when you’re overwhelming all of his senses with how badly you want him. Every coherent thought he manages is an accomplishment at this point.

“I’m your girlfriend, you idiot. The entire bottom half of your face is visible. And anyway, I would’ve been able to tell from the shape of your ass alone,” you hiss, speaking in a hushed tone even though the street is all but deserted.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yeah, oh. You think I don’t know your mannerisms by now? Even though I’ve never seen you move like that before…” you trail off, shaking your head slightly to get back to your point. “I mean honestly, Matt, you think I wouldn’t recognize you from your mouth alone? I think I know your lips from anyone else’s, considering–”

“Okay, point taken,” he cuts you off, bringing you to a stop outside his apartment building doors.

You turn to him, looking him fully in the face for the first time since you left the alley. “How in the hell did you do all that?”

“Can we talk about it upstairs, please?” Matt urges, ushering you inside.

He starts up the stairs ahead of you, and it dawns on you that he didn't even bring the cane with him. He’s never needed you to guide him anywhere. All those times he held onto your arm when you were walking together, the times you described other people’s reactions to him, he didn’t actually need any of it.

“You know what? Don’t even tell me yet. I’m just gonna start yelling now, and you’re just gonna listen and not say anything,” you start as Matt’s unlocking his front door.

This was more along the lines of what Matt expected.

“I mean, were you ever going to tell me?!” you exclaim. He opens his mouth to answer, but you don’t let him. “Do not start.”

He closes his mouth again, walking over to the couch. He sinks heavily into the cushions, momentarily distracting you from your rant.

“And the– hold on, are you hurt?” you ask, concern lacing your tone.

“Just a few bruises,” he rasps, resting his head against the back of the couch to prepare for the rest of your onslaught.

“Oh, good, I can keep going then,” your tone is biting, but you’re genuinely glad he’s not worse off. “Oh! And you’re a liar! You’ve never run into a door, have you? Or fallen down the stairs. You don’t even need the cane, you don’t even need me, you are such a faker, Matthew!” your voice wavers a bit, the hurt you feel breaking through your anger.

“First of all, I do need you. But, you’re right, not in that way. I want you to know that I never took that for granted. You put a lot of effort into accommodating me, that’s one of the things that drew me to you initially. You’re a truly kind person. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Oh, come on. How are you supposed to keep yelling at this man now? “I’m pretty sure I told you not to talk,” you reminded, your resolve cracking.

“Sorry,” he says, lips quirking up the slightest bit.

But it’s too late. The fight has gone out of you, you’re not even mad so much as you are worked up, the adrenaline still coursing through you. “I mean, when I first saw you absolutely pummeling those guys… you’re so graceful, and strong…

Matt scoffs at the word ‘graceful.’ That’s something he’s never considered himself to be.

“Who were they? Those guys you beat up?”

“Traffickers.”

“Like human traffickers?”

“Like human traffickers, yeah.”

“So you beat a bunch of human traffickers half to death.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Okay,” you say mostly to yourself, what’s left of your frustration with Matt dissipating for the time being. All that’s left now is the feeling you had when you first realized it was him in that alley. “Okay, yeah. I’m done yelling now.”

“You are?” he asks, surprise evident in his voice.

“Yeah. Cause my boyfriend just beat the ever loving shit out of a bunch of lowlifes, so I think the yelling can wait.” You finally join Matt on the couch, straddling him and winding your fingers into his hair, your lips almost meeting his.

Matt practically sighs with relief. He’s been keeping it in check since you kissed him, trying to give you the space to work through it all, but something in him had cracked open since that moment in the alley. He knows why he has to be Daredevil, he’d made peace with it a long time ago, but when you accepted that part of him so readily, so enthusiastically… it made him realize that he’d been scared. Scared that if someone truly knew him, they couldn’t still want him. He’d never even known that fear was there until you quelled it.

And now that you’ve given in to the feelings he’s been sensing in the background this entire time, now that he doesn’t have to keep his composure anymore, now he can feel everything. The desire radiating off you, the warmth of your body, the heavy thump of your heart that he now knows is definitely not caused by fear... It’s almost too much, and entirely not enough.

He leans into you on instinct, trying to close the distance between you, but you stay just out of reach.

“First,” you breathe, your mouth inches away from his, “I’m gonna fuck you, and then you’re gonna explain everything to me, and then you’re gonna start on making it up to me. Sound good?”

He hums an “mmhm” and it’s all you need to hear, finally meeting his lips with yours. He moans into the kiss, his hands going to your waist, pulling you as close to him as you can possibly get. You bite down on his lip again and he groans, moving one hand to your hip, rolling your hips over his hard cock and making you gasp into his mouth.

“Fuck, want you so bad. Been wanting you. The walk home was torture, could feel how turned on you were the whole time.” He’s still guiding your hips, breathing heavily below you.

You inhale sharply at his confession. “You can feel that?”

The smirk on his lips is so cocky you almost don’t want to hear the answer. “I can hear your heartbeat. Could feel your skin heating up every time you looked at me,” he huffs out, moving his lips to your neck, sucking in a way that was definitely going to leave a mark. “Fuck, I can smell you soaking through those pretty panties you have on right now.”.

“Oh fuck, that’s so hot,” you gasp.

You can feel his smirk against your neck. “I think you might be the weirdest girlfriend I’ve ever had,” he pants.

“And?” you challenge.

“And I fucking love it,” he finishes, making you giggle as he lifts you up from the couch, carrying you into his bedroom. “And I’m gonna make it up to you over, and over, and over. Til you won’t be able to walk. And then maybe one more time, for good measure.”

Matt puts you down on his bed, and you’re about to reach for his shirt to pull him back down to you when he stops you.

“And maybe after all that, we can talk about the fact that you walked towards a fight tonight instead of running away from it.”

Oh, shit. “Sorry?” you try, shrugging your shoulders a little.

He smiles wickedly at you. “Oh, you will be.”

[tokoyamisstuff]

Weapons Don't Weep Ch. 3 - Doctor Otto Octavius x Reader

"Love should never be a secret. If you keep something as complicated as love stored up inside, it could make you sick." - Dr. Otto Octavius

Warnings: Angst if you squint, Mentions of Mental Illness, Vomiting, Foreplay, Oral Sex, Implications of Smut, Sweet Talk Words: 1671 A/N: The cursive text are the voices of the AI inside Otto's head. Also, I think I really f*cked up the pacing with this one, but well.

Masterlist

Taglist: @shameshomalo @real-actual-human-person @movieexpert1978 @irlzsasz @boop-le-snoot @faustlyaccused @pcrushinnerd @annoying-milkshake

"Uh...hey, Doc...?"

When your eyes opened again, one of Otto's tentacles was securely wrapped around your waist, having pulled you close enough for your nose to nudge against his shoulder.

As weird as it sounds, but it was comfortable with his acutator around you, his hands securely placed on your shoulderblades - and even the AI that was usually pestering his mind would agree.

Safe...............warm..............home........

A smile was tugging on Otto's lips as you ran a hand through his dark, messy locks, faces just mere inches apart as he whispered "Yes, my love?"

"...I think I'm gonna vomit..."

He gasped and immediately let go off of you, and you staggered to the bathroom as quick as your hungover self could manage.

After you had practically emptied your whole stomach over the toilet seat, the nausea would quickly falter - but sadly, it's not that easy with the embarassing memories from yesterday.

Did he just call you 'my love'???

You would stay sitting on the bathroom carpet, knees pulled to your chest as the sensation of his kiss still lingering on your lips was robbing you every last one of your nerves.

Stay rational, goddamnit!

You quickly discarded of your clothes and jumped into the shower, hoping that the cold water running down your back would distract you from those thoughts...

...and still: Things have happened, and it was basically impossible to avoid each other in a single room apartement with only so much space.

So you'd need to talk this out eventually - and you were dreading that moment.

Obviously, it would come way earlier than you could brace yourself, for a soft knock on the door disrupted your pondering.

"Y/N, dear?" Again, his affectionate calls made your guts twist nervously - this was surely not how 'butterflies' should feel like. "Are you alright?"

"I- uh...yeah. I'm coming!"

When you opened the door, the fact that he already cleaned up the mess from yesterday was the first thing thatcatched your attention. And for heaven's sake, that gentleman-behavior of his just made it even harder for you to not want him more than you already did!

"Sorry to keep you waiting" you stuttered, nervously gesturing around. "Stomach issues. Don't let me get started."

Otto's brows were still knitted together, expression hardened - but not out of anger but sheer worry. He felt responsible for your current state, and also too was haunted by that brief moment of closeness the earlier night.

"Come, you need to drink some water. "

You clutched the glass with both hands, sitting as far away from the man as physically possible. Unpleasant quiet filled the air, laying on the mood like a thick coat - on long term unbearable for the both of you.

"So...when are you gonna go back to your universe?"

Those words cut through the silence like a sword, and you already regretred them as soon as they left your vocal cords.

You just wanted to say anything to start a conversation really, but as absent-minded as you were, you only drove a further wedge between the two of you.

Otto was staring at you in utter shock, certain to have done something terrible that made you want him gone.

Yet he wasn't all that surprised, though - thinking himself to be a fitting companion for you was just insane, even for his standarts.

A remarkable person like you, kind and caring would only turn into a withering flower in his hands. You were a beautiful and cunning young woman with so many opportunities...

...and a monstrous, old lunatic like him would just be dragging you down together with him.

Octavius tucked on the collar of his sweater, finding himself at loss for words as a matter of exception.

"I-I don't know how." His voice was pure agony, but he tried to cover it up through clearing his throat several times. "And even if I could...there-there is nothing left for me in that world. I don't have anyone."

"Otto..." a choked sob wrung itself out your throat, and you rushed to his side before he was even able to object. "I'm sorry. It wasn't meant like that, I'm so sorry...I-I didn't know!"

"Shh..." he hushed you as your tears rolled off his leather coat, shamefully taking in that bewitching scent of yours. "I didn't want to burden you with that. It's not fair either."

It hurts.......make it stop...............do-n't.......run........

Even though he thought being used to the loneliness by now, you had showed him what he was missing so painfully all this time.

There was a certain sting in his chest whenever he thought of leaving you behind - yet it was for the best.

He had to let go - if not for himself, then for your sake at least.

"Please, don't feel bad because of an old wretch like me" he joked in his own, bitter way that left you hearbroken at his misery. "We- I mean I can get by myself very well. Just say it, and I can leave whenever you want me to."

"No!!" you blurted out almost screaming, regretful tears glistening in the rim of your eyes. "That was a misunderstanding, okay?! I don't want you to leave!"

Otto tensed as you pressed your body against his, his arms only daring to hover over yourself without returning the hug. You almost invitingly fluttered your lashes at him, lip shaking into a pout.

"You say that you're all alone, but that's not true" you spoke as sincere as never before, now looking straight into his eyes. One of your hands graced his cheek and he leaned into the touch, unable to resist.

"You have me, Otto. Always."

"So be it" he growled lowy as he pulled you onto his lap, curses unfitting a man of his education escaping his every breath.

In the wink of an eye his tongue forced itself inside your mouth, savouring your sweet taste. Yours complied immediately, engaging in a needy dance...

...until the smaller claws of his excess limbs grabbed your wrists and ankles, slamming you onto the table.

There it was again - that damn grin.

"Are you sure you want this? We can stop anytime." You frantically shook your head at his suggestion, and your expression revealed that you were in fact not afraid in the slightest. Not even right now, all bound and helpless - it was thrilling, even.

And you trusted Dr. Otto Octavius with your life.

"I may be unworthy" the man in front of you exclaimed, his voice like a low thunder. "But I will live up to this honor."

With ease, the tall man took a hold of your legs, his gloved hand squeezing your inner thigh ever so sightly as it ran up to your core, making you whimper.

"Otto, I...ahh~"

"No need to hold back, sweetheart." Octavius' grinded his bulge against your clothed slid, priding himself with every moan escaping your mouth. "Say my name. Let me hear what I do to you..."

Ecstatic sounds of lust flooded the room, together with sweet pleads to his name as you were completely at his mercy. In one swift movement, his hands pushed up your shirt and bra, revealing your chest fully.

A deep groan of his made you shudder, his eyes darkened with a bottomless pit of lust. The claws freed your hands, followed by a plain order: "Go on, touch yourself."

"Y-Yes" you whined and he rewarded you through pushing aside your panty, one finger slowly entering and massaging your walls. A pleasant shiver ran through your body and you started kneading your breasts together with his rythm.

Otto couldn't help but palming himself through his trousers at this magnificent sight and before you realized, the actuators had already locked your spread legs behond his head, his breath so close yet not able to ease the fire in your lends.

"Just look at you, darling..." the doctor licked his lips in anticipation of your dripping pussy and his look alone was enough to make goosebumps prickle on your skin. "So beautiful, so ready for me..."

You howled, fingers tangled in his hair as the tip of his tongue skillfully circled your knot of nerves alongsides his fingers fucking into you...

...but then he drew away from you, much to your frustration. You buckled down your hips, desperate for him, but to no avail.

"Patient, my love, patient" the man hummed praisingly and his mischievous gaze softened a little. "Not yet...Not like that."

Be it as it may, but the doctor felt compelled to remember how to be gentle - for you.

Sometimes it felt as if two hearts were fighting a battle over his soul, and the outcome of this war hasnt been decided yet.

So he picked your fragile body up with great care, the brief moment of carrying you to the more comfortable mattress almost making him doubt his decisions - but you were already wax in his hands, lightning crushing through every single one of your nerves at his touch.

You'd tug on his sweater impatiently, lips tracing a road from his collarbone to his neck. "Don't" he whispered softly as he took a hold of your hand, but you continued. Avoiding the microchip, rather caressing the skin on his neck ever so slightly, causing the thin hair to rise up. "It's okay, Otto."

There you laid, in all your glory and Otto could only watch in awe before you reached out your arms, welcoming him between your legs.

Indeed: Octavius had not felt such emotions for many years, ever since his beloved wife had passed. And he thought to be unable to ever feel that way again - feel human again - until he met you.

It felt so natural, so easy to love you - yet also like a blessing that should not be taken lightly...

...and tonight, Otto would show yourself through his eyes. Give you but a fraction of what he thought you deserved.

This was only the beginning.

[wri0thesley]

Hello Nat! May I humbly request a monsterfucking scenario/headcannon of milking cow!risotto?

i have never written anything like this before, please be nice to me

relief - reader x risotto (2k)

risotto takes a liking to a farmhand. 

(warnings: non-human/cow hybrid risotto, farmhand reader, milking/lactation, big strong cow man, not sfw, afab reader)

Approaching Risotto always feels like a Herculean task.

No matter how many times you do it, or how often you visit him, the first view of the man always makes your heart skip a beat. He’s just so big – the muscles, the haunches, the shoulders – the heavy broadness of his chest, clearly in need of what you were about to provide for him.

He sees you coming and tenses. It’s not, you know, that he dislikes you in particular – but Risotto has always been a difficult cow to work with. He has broken free of too many milking machines and damaged too much equipment, and you know that there are other workers on the farm who he will not so much let lay hands on him. For you, though . . .

“Easy,” you murmur, softly, putting up your hands. He’s not skittish, that’s not the right word for him – but he requires trust, and not many people bother putting that into working with him. Despite being somewhat of a loner, the other animal hybrids that had been acquired from his old farm and put into yours all have a strong attachment to each other and him that hasn’t waned at all.

(Melone told you, when you had been foolish enough to believe him with big eyes and a whimper that the machines hurt and he’d give more if you hand-milked him, that there had been two more of them once, but the other farm’s cruel mistreatment had lost them. You think that’s what Risotto is afraid of.)

He sees it’s you and relaxes, the flare of his nostrils receding, his ears relaxing. You’re smiling despite yourself.

“I’m glad they sent you,” he says, after a moment, his voice a very low rumble deep in his chest. His dark eyes – so unusual, but pretty nonetheless – look at you and you see that the amount of milk that he’s holding onto must be painful for him. The last farmhand they sent to try and hand-milk Risotto--

Well. They had not gotten on as well as you did with him.

He’s swollen. You reach up, having to get on your tiptoes, and gently pet Risotto’s face, fingers dancing across the sensitive skin, to the flare of his horns. He exhales deeply, the big gust of air making his long ears flutter.

He’s really cute. You like him a lot; other farmhands are pretty scared of him, but you’ve established that you’re not a threat to him, and that you’ll be kind to both him and all of the other hybrids that are sequestered on the farm.

“You want me to take care of that,” you say, keeping your voice very soft and docile so he doesn’t interpret you as a threat. “Right?” You motion to his swollen pecs, the nipples puffy. You can see one of them is already almost leaking. “That’s gotta hurt, huh? Sore?”

He bows his head, embarrassed, but he nods. He swallows, the bob in his throat very big – just like everything about him, really.

“Y-yeah,” he affirms. He’s definitely not the most talkative cow you’ve ever worked with – but honestly? After being sent to take care of some of the others in his herd, you’re not going to complain about that.

“Alright,” your voice is still soft, soothing. You turn for a moment to grab the extra-large sized buckets that you’d brought with you from the farmhouse proper, setting them on the ground. You need the extra capacity they can hold with Risotto, knowledge gleaned from prior experience. “Get down, come on. I’ll help you.”

Even on his hands and knees, he comes up high against you. In an ideal world, something like Risotto would indeed be left to the machines, which are much more equipped to deal with his unusual size than you are – but in the old days, you guess, farmers would have had to do this themselves, so it’s the least you can do--

For something so big, he’s surprisingly reserved about this – his face flushing warm as you wrap your arms around him. The position is a little awkward – you’re so much smaller than him, and he is so broad – but as your hands gently massage his chest, squeezing softly, Risotto lets out a fluttering whine, his body curling into it almost automatically.

“Hey,” you murmur again, “don’t buck too much. You’ll lay me out flat.”

It’s not like you haven’t been knocked down before – but Risotto’s so strong, he might actually put you out of commission for a while. The stories of broken milking machines have not passed you by – if he can break things that are industrial standard, you know it would be no bother for him to break you.

(You shouldn’t have thought of it like that; your face heats up despite yourself.)

Another squeeze, a soft massage – when he wasn’t carrying so much milk around, the planes of his abs and chest were usually flat and hard. They’re soft and swollen right now, and he pants as you touch him, his back arching. Your teeth bite into your bottom lip as you wedge your feet against the ground hard, trying desperately to keep your balance where you are.

The fingers on one hand latch about his engorged nipple, tugging gently – the other hand massages the soft skin of one of his pecs, coaxing the milk in him out. He groans again, curving – and you hear the tell-tale noise of liquid hitting metal, and know you’ve gotten started.

If you had a spare hand, you would be petting his hair soothingly. You do not, so you have to be satisfied with quietly humming pleased epithets at him.

“Good boy,” you say, all softness and light. His body is warm beneath you, his head ducking further. He never knows how to respond to praise. “That’s right, Ris. We’re gonna get this done and you’re gonna feel so much better, right?”

The thick noise of him swallowing again.

“Already feels better,” he confesses, sighing as you continue to tug and massage and the steady drip of milk becomes a steady rush, a stream. You maybe should have brought extra buckets, you think, as his supply doesn’t seem to dwindle. God. It really has been a while, huh?

He moans softly as you milk him, shifting from one side of his chest to the other, and despite knowing that you’re on the clock and it’s uncomfortable for you to be feeling like this, you find yourself shifting. It doesn’t help that the position you have to assume behind Risotto leaves your legs spread wide so you don’t even get the relief of being able to press your thighs together – his soft noises and the feel of his muscle beneath your front, the way he’s reacting to being milked are a siren’s call. You’re going to have to lock yourself in a bathroom or somewhere and take care of your problem before you tend to any of your other work, too many of the hybrids on the farm would smell arousal on you the minute you got within ten feet.

“Good boy,” you repeat, and you receive in return a rumble that’s almost like a purr. Whilst it’s easy to imagine him breaking machines based on the raw power coiled in his muscle, it’s also hard to imagine him being anything but pliant, what with how he’s reacting to your stimulation, his groans and shivering.

You can’t see how full the buckets are, but you sure can imagine.

“A-ahh, Risotto--”

He whines and you hear the click of his back hooves on the floor as your own feet are suddenly lifted off the ground despite all of the work you took to keep them dug in, your body bent double over his as he--

Your cheeks heat up in realisation. Risotto is dry-humping the air, the stimulation to his swollen teats obviously having an effect someone further down. It’s not unusual for a cow to be stimulated by this happening, of course – but last time you milked Risotto . . .

Well. Last time you’d milked Risotto he hadn’t given off so much milk, he hadn’t been so swollen, and he hadn’t been dealing with the feel of being full and unmilked for so long, you suppose. Knowing what Risotto has swinging between his legs, though, you can’t help but be glad that you’re basically on his back. It would do nothing for the arousal that you’re desperately trying to fight off to see his cock all hard and thick pressing against the flat planes of his stomach.

“Hey,” you say, weakly. “Down, please--”

“C-can’t,” Risotto replies, desperation evident in his voice. “N-need . . . Ugh--”

The grunt goes right through you like a jolt of heat. Your hands haven’t ceased in their machinations, still milking and massaging, but you can hear that the stream is thinning out. You must be close to milking him dry, then. Maybe once you’ve done that he’ll calm down a bit.

“Come on, shh, let me finish--” Your words are not so soothing with the panic of basically being mid-air and the breathless sounds of being so turned on you can barely concentrate, but you do your best anyway. Risotto’s powerful hips flex underneath you as he ruts into thin air. His tail is swinging side to side – a farmhand who didn’t know him as well might say it seemed irritated. You know a little better.

You try and block out anything but the feel of his chest, the repeated motions of massage and tug and tenderly coax forward the milk, but it’s so fucking difficult to concentrate on anything. Risotto breathes out deep again and the stream turns to a drip, drip, drip. So close. He whimpers, his body not stilling--

And then, you’re done. He’s stopped. You’re about to ask Risotto very nicely to put you down and you’ll let someone know that he could be doing with a different type of milking, but before you can really say anything the cow is bucking you off.

Your back hits the ground with a thump and you wince. He could definitely have been rougher – you’re not broken – but it’s hardly a nice sensation to be forcibly pushed off of something with as much raw restrained power as Risotto has.

“H-hey—” You try and say, weakly. “Ris, please, I’m just doing my job--”

Your calves are being pushed apart. The clack of hooves on the ground as Risotto’s body settles over you. The silky warmth of one of his flopping ears presses against your cheek as the cow nuzzles into you lovingly. His deflated (oh, it’s all hard muscle again) chest presses against your own, his nipples damp where they meet your shirt. Oh, cute – he’s thanking you--

“Please,” Risotto says, breathily, and you realise that he’s not thanking you. You look down past the dark patches of his markings on his shoulders and stomach to see that his cock is still achingly hard and leaking, and right now it is pressing (insistent and massive) into your thigh. “Need. . . please—”

“Oh,” you breathe. “Risotto, I shouldn’t – I should get someone else to do that, it’s not my forte--”

He exhales against your neck, making you shiver, hot breath rushing all over your skin.

“Don’t wanna be milked,” he grumbles against the shell of your ear. “Want you.”

Oh, that’s bad. He shouldn’t want you. It’s never a good idea when cows get too attached to their farmhands. But . . . Risotto’s bulk over you is so massive. He’s such a problem cow for so many other workers. Would it be that bad? Maybe they might want to breed him in the future, his milk is good and he produces so much of it, but . . .

“I shouldn’t,” you repeat helplessly, but your hand is already reaching for his cock. You can barely fit your fingers around it. If it goes inside of you, it might actually break you in half. The thought should not be as hot as it is.

“Please,” Risotto repeats to you, still nuzzling against your neck, sending needy signals all through your body. You bite your lip as you give the shaft a pump that has his powerful hips following the motion. You can only imagine what it would feel like to have all of that force thrusting into you.

You don’t have any other duties today, do you? They gave you all morning with Risotto, thinking that you’d need the extra time--

You give in to the siren’s call. The hand not around his cock fumbles with the button of your jeans.

“Okay,” you say, and Risotto’s nostrils flare again, his tail beating, his big dark ink and blood eyes lighting up. “Don’t break me.”

[biggest-stupidhead]

Never Ready

Summary: “It’s not like I’m ready to take her in.”

“And I was ready for you? Kid, nobody is ever ready for things like this. That doesn’t mean they don’t happen.” Levi is faced with the difficult decision of taking in his newly orphaned cousin. But he can't do it alone.You're a newly graduated college student looking to make some extra cash, but get more than you originally bargained for...

Word Count: 2.3K 

--

The day had started just like any other day. He woke up early and worked out before making himself a small breakfast of tea and an English muffin with some jam. Then he got dressed for work in one of his perfectly tailored suits. His routine was flawless, perfected over many years to allow him to seamlessly slip from one task into the next. He arrived one full hour before work actually began so that he could organize his desk and get a jump on the day’s cleaning. He liked working in a clean environment, if this step was missed (or really any of them for that matter), his entire day was thrown off. 

And today was one of those days. About four minutes before the office officially opened, Levi got a phone call. He had the phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he finished wiping down his desk with a clorox wipe. 

“We regretfully inform you that your cousin and his wife were involved in an armed robbery.” 

He froze at this, his eyes narrowing as the woman waited for his response. 

“What was stolen?” He asked before continuing to wipe down the surface. 

“Sir…” The woman spoke slowly and Levi began to lose his patience. 

“Listen, I appreciate the phone call but quite honestly I don’t have time for this.” He said bitterly as he disposed of the wipe. 

“This is very important sir, your cousin, and his wife were both murdered in the process.” The woman informed him and his blood ran cold. Although he had never been close with his extended family, the news was still tragic. 

“I see,” Levi grumbled as a boulder seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. 

“I’m calling regarding their daughter, Mikasa. Seeing that Mr. Ackerman was an only child, as was Mrs. Ackerman, and their parents have passed, you and your uncle are her next of kin.” The woman continued as Levi sank into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What do we need to do?” Levi sighed as he closed his eyes, waiting patiently for her response. 

“You have a few options, either of you could gain full parental rights to her, or she will become a ward of the state.” Some shuffling could be heard on her end of the line and Levi felt his heart rate spike. For a time in his own life, he had been thrown into the system, that was until his own uncle had gained custody after sobering up. 

“I understand,” Levi grumbled, watching as his coworkers set about their daily business as he was dealing with this unforeseen issue. 

“The decision doesn’t need to be made immediately of course. I strongly encourage that the two of you discuss this at length. The funeral is this Thursday, Mikasa and myself will be there and we can talk in greater depth then.” The sound of a keyboard clacking filled the short silence as he considered what an appropriate response would be. 

“I’ll...get back to you.” He leaned forward in his seat and clicked on his calendar, crossing out the lengthy list of tasks and replacing it with, FUNERAL. 

“Thank you, and sorry for your loss.” He hung up the phone and reclined back into his seat. This was quite possibly the biggest disruption he would ever face in his life. He hated that his cousin and his shitty wife had left this burden to rest on his shoulders. But upon further thought, his own mother had done the same thing to his uncle. You know what they say: history repeats itself. 

It seemed that as soon as he had set the phone down, it rang. His uncle’s contact lit up his screen and he let it ring three times before picking it up. 

“Did ya hear?” Kenny’s deep voice crackled over his speaker and Levi grunted. 

“Yeah, just got off of the phone with the social worker,” Levi informed him and Kenny hummed deeply. 

“What do you think?” He pressed and Levi felt his annoyance increase by tenfold. 

“I think that it’s a load of shit. And you?” Levi asked as he crossed his legs under his desk. 

“Same here.” Kenny agreed. 

“It’s not ideal, but we can’t let her go into foster care,” Kenny grumbled and Levi hummed his agreement. Kenny was right, even if she was distantly related, Mikasa was still a part of their family. 

“So are you going to take custody then?” Levi scoffed, knowing damn well that Kenny was pushing fifty and had a chronic case of bad arthritis. 

“Hell no, I’ve done my part by raising you.” Kenny laughed bitterly and Levi’s expression soured. 

“It’s not like I’m ready to take her in.” Levi countered and Kenny let out another bark of laughter. 

“And I was ready for you? Kid, nobody is ever ready for things like this. That doesn’t mean they don’t happen.” Kenny chuckled mirthfully as Levi shifted in his seat. He knew that Kenny was right, and he knew from the moment that the social worker had said that Mikasa needed someone, that it would be him taking her. 

“I’ll need to get a bigger place then.” Levi sighed his fingers rubbing tight circles over his temple as he thought of his bachelor-sized apartment. 

“Damn straight.” Kenny chuckled as Levi shot a look at the clock, it was nearly twenty minutes into the workday already. 

“Look, I’m at work. I’ll talk to you on Thursday at the funeral.” 

“See you then.” Kenny hung up and Levi let out a long exhale. His week was off to a terrible start. 

--

In movies, funerals are usually held in dreary weather. But today was almost too beautiful for a funeral. It was late January and the ground was covered in a thick blanket of sparkling snow. As the coffins were lowered into the two holes the social worker held Mikasa on her hip. She was only four, and there was no way that she could fully grasp what had happened. Levi stood with his hands shoved deep inside of his pockets. 

Kenny stood off to his left, a large distance between the two of them. There couldn’t have been more than seven people here, Levi assumed that they were friends of the family. The other attendees came up to him before and gave their condolences to Levi and Kenny, who both said nothing in return. The service was quick, Levi and Kenny had opted out of paying more than what the state offered. In Kenny’s own words, “Dead is dead, no fancy funeral is going to help them now.” 

To some, it may seem heartless, but it was the way that the family coped with death. Once the funeral was over, Kenny and Levi joined the service worker to get a cup of coffee in a nearby cafe. She had passed Mikasa off to a brunette woman before leaving the cemetery. Levi assumed that she was the foster woman that they had placed her with, or possibly a family friend. 

“So, I understand that you wish to gain custody?” Michelle was a middle-aged woman with graying hair and prominent wrinkles on her forehead. As she flipped through files that were spread across the table Levi nodded as he sipped his tea. 

“That’s correct,” Levi affirmed and she nodded before spinning the paperwork so that he could read the form. 

“I’m sure that you understand that this is no small commitment.” She spoke as she passed him a pen. He scoffed and began initialing and signing where necessary. 

“Of course,” Levi grunted before flipping the page. 

“Before you can gain full custody, the state will need to see some changes in your lifestyle, for starters, you’ll need to move within her current school district and continue to hold a steady job.” 

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Levi mumbled, pausing to read the paper before signing. 

“Excellent, once these needs are met, she can be placed under your care,” Michelle informed as Levi skimmed over the page. 

“Anything else?” Levi asked as he signed the last form presented to him. 

“Not at this time, I’m sure that you’re well versed in most of our policies, seeing that the two of you went through a similar process.” Michelle continued as she neatly returned the papers to their folder. 

“Yes.” Levi agreed as he brought his cup back to his lips. Kenny had been silent for most of the exchange. If Levi was being honest, he was relieved to have him there, even if he wasn’t contributing. 

“Great, we’ll be in touch then.” Michelle smiled tensely before excusing herself, leaving Kenny and Levi alone at the table. Kenny finished his coffee and stood up, stretching with a loud groan. 

“Well, I’m off to the office,” Kenny said with a short wave behind his shoulder. Levi watched him go, feeling a strange sense of dread settle into his gut. It all felt so surreal, even if he was thirty and most of his peers were already parents themselves, he still felt unprepared. It was just like Kenny had said, nothing could prepare him to take on this role. That didn’t mean that it wasn’t his to take, and he would be damned if he let Mikasa get thrown into the foster care system. 

Levi set to work on finding a house in the district that the social worker had given him. He had never been a fan of suburbs, but at this time it was all that he could afford. So he found a decent house with four bedrooms, one for himself, one for Mikasa one for guests, and a final for a study. He was lucky enough to have a decent job, and a respectable grasp on his finances, it took him a week to finalize the buy, but in the end, he was glad that he did. 

He had been meaning to get out of his stuffy apartment anyway, (or so he reasoned with himself), he moved his belongings out of his downtown apartment in less than a week. Once the house was effectively moved into, he then began the tedious process of preparing Mikasa’s things. He started by doing research on what four-year-olds needed and then set about buying the necessities. He felt out of place as he shopped through Target in the little girl’s section, buying bedding and such. But he got the job done, he knew that she had to have some clothes, and decided that he’d cross that bridge when he got there. 

It was the night before Michelle was scheduled to visit, and Levi had invited Hange over for a drink. Hange had nosed around for about an hour, acquainting herself with Levi’s new space and gushing when she saw the modest room that he had prepared for Mikasa. 

“I can’t believe that you’re actually going through with this!” Hange cooed as she sat on the small bed. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked defensively as he propped himself on the doorframe. Honestly, he had been avoiding this room, it felt that if he acknowledged the space, the heavier the weight of the situation crushed his chest. 

“I just...never thought that you liked kids. But I’m really proud of you.” Hange beamed as she smoothed out the pink comforter as she stood. 

“What made you think that I didn’t like kids?” He scoffed as the pair left the room, he closed the door quietly behind them as they made their way into the kitchen. 

“Oh I don’t know, maybe I just made the assumption based on your obsession with cleanliness.” Hange waved her hand dismissively and Levi clicked his tongue as he poured two glasses of wine. 

“They are filthy.” Levi agreed as he brought the glass of red wine to his lips. 

“What’s she like?” Hange asked, wrapping her own fingers around her glass as she eagerly awaited his response. 

“....I haven’t met her.” Levi felt a wave of panic crash over his chest as Hange’s eyes widened. 

“Never?” Hange couldn’t hide her astonishment. 

“Never,” Levi said with a roll of his eyes. 

“You’re serious?” Hange pressed and Levi glared at her. 

“Do I ever joke about these things?” Levi snapped and she held her hands up in defeat. 

“I’m just surprised is all,” Hange mumbled before taking a long sip of her wine. 

“I wasn’t close with her parents,” Levi explained as he put the cork back on the bottle. 

“Well...maybe you should take some extra time off of work,” Hange suggested and Levi sighed deeply. 

“I can’t, I’ve already taken off more than I planned.” Levi sat on the barstool next to Hange and she swiveled to face him, their knees knocking against each other. 

“But this is not something that you take lightly Levi. She’s a four-year-old girl who lost both of her parents. She’s going to need a lot of attention.” Hange looked concerned and Levi’s expression soured. 

“I understand that, but my job is-” 

“Is not your priority anymore. Have you thought about what you’re going to do for childcare yet? She’s too young for school. Or at least not full days.” Hange interrupted. 

“So I’ll put her in daycare, or preschool.” Levi shrugged and Hange pursed her lips. 

“That could work, but don’t you usually stay late at the office?” Hange pressed and Levi chewed on the inside of his cheek guiltily. 

“Maybe you should consider getting a nanny. Plenty of my student’s nanny, I could give you some good recommendations.” She offered before lifting her glass to her lips. 

“Maybe…” Levi suddenly felt way in over his head, if all went well in the morning, then Mikasa would be sent his way in nearly a week. 

“I’ll ask around on Monday,” Hange said, reaching out to pat his shoulder. For once, he didn’t shy away. 

[parvuls]

fic: need seek no further

Jack shrugs. “Eh. Bittle likes Cabot butter best.”

a disgustingly fluffy, plotless ficlet about how well jack knows bitty and how he perfected the skill of nonverbal communication through the force of sheer will. also, the frogs.

read on ao3

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Dex called Bitty one evening in early May, let Bitty shower him with hellos, and then stated, “We won the NCAA championship.” He said it matter-of-factly, like maybe Jack and Bitty hadn’t been there when it happened, like Jack hadn’t watched him cling to Bitty for a full minute after the stands had spilled onto the ice.

“You did,” Bitty replied, raising his eyes to meet Jack’s with confusion wrinkling between his brows. His phone was set on the kitchen island between them, Dex’s voice filling their kitchen through speaker phone while Bitty’s floured hands were busy kneading dough. Jack was keeping him company on another last-minute testing session for his rhubarb pie recipe, even though the last proof of his book had been approved by his editors over two weeks before. Jack was running out of team members to send leftovers to.

“And Whiskey got voted captain,” Dex continued.

Jack watched as Bitty squinted down at his phone. Bitty had spent half an hour on the phone with Whiskey the night of the banquet; he hadn’t disclosed the details of their conversation to Jack, but his face when he’d returned to their room, had sat down next to Jack on the bed and had leaned his forehead on Jack’s bicep for a long while -- Jack had seen that face before. Had known that expression meant pride.

“So we were talking about it just now,” there was the sound of more people whispering furiously in the background, and Jack thought he could maybe hear Chowder’s unsteady voice calling out, hey Bitty!, and only then he began contemplating the solid possibility that Dex may have been a little drunk. “And -- so we won last year, with you, and now we won again, and we wanna keep winning, right? So we gotta make sure to keep doing everything that’s working.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” Bitty said agreeably, faintly amused. It was obvious to Jack from his tone that Bitty, at least, had already realized Dex was a little drunk, but was only too happy to play along.

“‘Swawesome,” Dex said fervently, like Bitty had agreed to something very important. “So you see why Whiskey’s gotta learn to make a pie.”

That stopped Bitty in his tracks. Jack blinked, watched Bitty’s long fingers halt their motions in the dough, the pressure of his fingerprints leaving crescent grooves behind. “William Joseph, that doesn’t make a lick of sense,” he said, and narrowed his eyes at the screen of his phone like Dex could feel their weight on him through the line. But then he seemed to think it over again, and the pitch of his voice rose as he demanded, “Wait, are you sayin’ Whiskey’s willing to learn how to bake?”

“He says he’ll do it for the win,” Dex said, and Bitty gaped at the phone, then gaped at Jack, and with his cheeks pink and his eyes wide he exclaimed, “Of course I’ll do it!”, like there’d ever been any other option to consider.

Jack kept it to himself, but he had no doubt in his mind that there hadn’t been.

.

.

.

Dex, Chowder and Nursey wait for them at the doorway of the Haus, broad shoulders wedged together in the narrow doorframe.

Bitty had said before they left home, “You don’t have to come, sweetpea,” and Jack had said, simply, “I want to,” and had meant it. It was only in the summer months that Jack had the privilege to see his friends whenever he wished to, and now that the Falconers were out of the playoffs -- well, Jack was feeling a little more withdrawn lately, even quieter than usual, but this felt like something he genuinely wanted to do with the time on his hands. There was also the fact that soon the frogs would graduate, and with them gone Jack would be too far removed to visit the Haus comfortably, even if Bitty still could.

Right now Jack could, and he wanted to, so Bitty and he got in Bitty’s car and drove the forty-five minutes down to Samwell, Bitty’s phone hooked through the aux and his hands tapping on the wheel to the beat. He was nervous, although Jack wasn’t sure exactly why -- only knew it was obvious in Bitty’s restless hands and the frequency he switched songs midway through. Jack reached out and placed his hand on Bitty’s thigh, squeezed, and let Bitty burn his nervous energy whatever way he deemed best.

“We did all the shopping!” Chowder announces as Jack and Bitty walk up the porch steps, and then immediately bounces forward and wraps Bitty in a hug. His long limbs envelope Bitty within them, and soon Jack’s dragged into their circle, too, feels Nursey’s arms fold around his shoulders and Dex’s tentative hand patting him on the back. It doesn’t overwhelm him like it could’ve, maybe, a year or two ago -- it just feels nice, familiar, welcoming. A display of affection he readily returns.

When the huddle breaks, the five of them shuffle through the door and head straight into the kitchen. It looks about the same as it has since Bitty took over it five years ago -- no longer just a room with a fridge full of beers and a broken down table, but a real kitchen, with Suzanne’s hand-sewn curtains and clear countertops and the oven that Jack is still irrationally fond of. Although it seems like it’s been revamped in the months since Jack has last seen it; the cupboards’ hinges are no longer busted, and there are actual shelves stacked along the walls. Jack assumes the likely suspect is Samwell Men’s Hockey current captain, and has to curb a revealing smile that would surely draw questions. It’s another unspoken team tradition, Jack thinks, recalling freshman Will Poindexter: no one leaves it entirely unchanged.

“Y’all are joining us for some baking lessons?” Bitty asks Nursey and Chowder, hand almost unconsciously drifting over the edge of the counters. He looks good there, really, looks right. He’s not the same as he was when he graduated and certainly not the same as when he first claimed this kitchen, but to Jack, Bitty would always look right in the sun streaming through the Haus’ dusty windows, puttering between pots and pans.

“Nah, C and I will get out of your hair for that, but Whiskey isn’t back yet so we’ve got some time. And anyway --” Nursey glances sideways at Dex and Chowder, fails at stifling a smile, “uh, the waffles heard you were coming today, Bits.”

“Going by their reaction, they’ve definitely missed you,” Dex says, arms crossed over his chest, his face serious but a single upwards quirk to the corner of his mouth. It could be a chirp at the waffles, maybe, but Jack is almost certain that it’s sincere nonetheless.

Bitty turns to the shopping bags spread across the counter and starts picking them apart, taking out the ingredients for inspection before setting them down with that same nervous energy, the one that rarely ever follows Bitty into his domain in the kitchen. Jack watches him smile at Dex, honest but jittery, and realizes what he should’ve already known -- how very important it is to Bitty that this goes perfectly.

“Oh, bless them, I’ve missed them too! I’ll tell them hello so we can get started right after,” Bitty says, setting down a bag of brown sugar and taking out a packet of butter from the bag. He looks -- momentarily disappointed, and Jack frowns, searches Bitty’s face. It’s probably only visible to Jack, who recognizes the subtle shift in Bitty’s jaw and the fleeting movement of his eyebrows, but still. He follows Bitty’s eyes down to his hands and to the butter in them, and surveys it for a moment, deep in thought.

“You’ve got two seconds to prepare yourself, bro,” Nursey warns, and then Bully, Hops and Louis descend loudly into the kitchen, flock around Bitty like ducklings. Bitty’s always had that effect on hockey players, on people, even before he got the C. It’s with intense fondness that Jack thinks it, knows the feeling intimately as someone who’s lucky enough to experience that affect every day. He can’t blame them for the way they beam down at Bitty, fight for his attention, laugh when he laughs at the rising volume of their clashing, simultaneous stories.

It’s a good opportunity if nothing else, though, so Jack shoulders his way between Bully and Louis, brushes two fingers over Bitty’s elbow to get his attention. When Bitty turns his head, Jack takes advantage of his height to lean in and say into Bitty’s ear, “Hey, bud, I’m stepping out for a moment.”

Bitty smiles at him, reaches up to stroke a hand down Jack’s cheek just warmly enough to be soothing, just quickly enough to be appropriate. “Yeah, of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and thinks, it will be. He pauses, looks down threateningly at the waffles, and leans in to kiss Bitty's temple swiftly, before someone he can’t intimidate as easily as these sophomores could try fining him for it. The space he leaves between Bully and Louis closes as soon as he leaves their side, Bitty disappearing from sight behind their tall forms, but the sound of his cheerful laughter rings after Jack as he walks out of the kitchen and exits through the front door.

.

.

.

When Jack comes back he has to open the door one-handed, the other one busy clutching the handles of a grocery bag. His cap is pulled down low, a protective measure from the crowd that swarmed the Stop and Shop on Pemberton, so it takes a few steps into the Haus’ hallway for him to notice Whiskey hovering in the kitchen doorway, apparently stopped right on his way out of it.

“Jack,” Whiskey looks surprised -- or maybe still mildly star-struck, Jack has always had trouble telling with his face. “You’re here. I haven’t seen you.”

“Got some stuff from the shop,” Jack raises the bag by way of explanation, adjusts his hat, and after a brief moment of stillness hunches his shoulders to bypass Whiskey into the kitchen.

Whiskey bends his neck to peer down into the bag as Jack passes. He looks somewhat horrified at what he finds, as much as Whiskey ever betrays his emotions -- a slight frown, a barely noticeable widening of his eyes. “We need more groceries for this thing?”

Jack shrugs, noncommittal. They don’t, really, but. “Eh. Bittle likes Cabot butter best.”

The frogs and waffles have moved to the den while Jack was out -- he can hear them now, Bully’s low voice and Chowder’s quick speech and Hops’ rolling laughter -- but Bitty must’ve heard Jack come in, because he appears next to Whiskey in the kitchen doorway. His gaze darts between the two of them before it lands on the bag hanging from Jack’s fingers, and Jack reaches in to pull out one stick of butter, holding it out so Bitty can see the brand. Bitty’s eyes light up when he realizes, go round and bright, and he declares, “Sweetpea, you shouldn’t have!”, in the tone that means he’s beyond pleased that Jack did.

“That's more butter,” Whiskey says, staring at Bitty and then at the butter already stacked on the counter from the frogs’ shopping trip, clearly bewildered.

Jack twists his body, turns his back to them to find an empty spot somewhere on the counter. “Cabot has a half percent more fat, and Bittle likes his crust flaky,” he explains absently while emptying the contents of the bag onto the spot he chose. It’s important to Bitty that this goes perfectly, and while Jack can’t control Whiskey's abilities in the kitchen, wouldn’t be able to fix baking mishaps if those occur, this is something he can do. Make sure Bitty has the best conditions to work in, grant him a little peace of mind.

When he turns back around Whiskey is gone, and it’s only Bitty standing behind him, his eyes twinkling and his lips parted slightly.

“What?” Jack asks, confused.

There’s a long stretch of silence while Bitty just looks at him. Jack’s rarely comfortable with intense scrutiny from others, but Bitty -- Bitty’s gaze is soft, and he looks at Jack like he’s something good, something to admire. It’s a look he gives Jack often, usually accompanied by the gentlest of kisses, the warmest of hugs, the kindest of words. Sometimes Jack’s mind is slow to catch up, too stubborn to be convinced of his own worthiness, but this is the look Bitty gets when his emotions are broadcasted so loudly that even Jack’s mind has to pipe down and listen.

Bitty takes a few steps closer, grabs Jack’s palm between both his hands. “Marry me?” he asks breathily, with a smile curling at his lips.

Warmth flutters in Jack’s stomach at the words, and an answering smile grows on his own lips. The ring glints on Bitty’s finger whenever he moves his hands, is glinting now, where his fingers are curled around Jack’s in the sunny kitchen. It’s been a distraction many times in the past year, but each time Jack sees it he’s reminded of what Bitty and he have promised to each other. The future that is still to come.

There’s no one in the kitchen but them, and the Haus residents sound busy enough in the other room that no one would notice if Jack stole a lone moment. “Sorry, I can’t,” Jack deadpans, grabs Bitty by his hips and gathers him into his arms. His fingers slide over the soft fabric of Bitty’s clothes and find the gap between his top and his shorts, dipping inside to rub against Bitty’s warm skin. “It’s a tempting offer, but I’m already engaged.”

“Leave him, then,” Bitty says without missing a beat. He tilts his head up to nudge Jack’s cheek with his nose, wraps his strong arms around Jack’s neck. His face is so close to Jack’s that Jack can count his pale eyelashes, can see the splotches of fading pink on his skin. He’s been spending a lot of time editing his cookbook on their balcony since springtime has arrived, and his body tans nicely but the bridge of his nose has been reddened and peeling for a while. “Run away with me.”

Jack can’t help the temptation, kisses Bitty’s right cheek and then his left one. “Sorry, bud.”

“Why ever not,” Bitty sighs, most dramatically, and uses his grip on Jack’s neck to lean his upper body backwards. “A man who knows his butters? You better believe I’m willing to fight for you, mister.”

It’s the sincerity in his voice that has heat prickling across Jack’s skin, raw pleasure squirming in his chest. It’s a futile battle, though, a battle Jack realized was lost when he dropped Bitty off at this very Haus after their very first summer together, longingly watched him skip up the stairs and thought, oh, I wanna marry him. “I can’t,” he tells Bitty quietly, pulls him closer so the words stay trapped between them, rough and intimate like a secret. “I love my fiancé too much.”

“Oh,” and Bitty flushes at this, red blossoming on the apples of his cheeks like he’s flattered -- like the ring around his finger hasn’t been there for a year, like Jack hasn’t taken to kissing it before kissing Bitty goodbye on nights he leaves for games; like Jack loving him too much to ever consider anyone else is still a novelty, a compliment, after all this time. “Well. Lucky him.”

Lucky me, Jack thinks, and bows his head to fit his mouth to Bitty’s in for a lingering sweet kiss.

[tickly-trashcan]

Useless {Zen x Reader}

A/N: FIRST MYSTIC MESSENGER FIC LETS GOOOO I hope i did okay with this one! I havent played mystic messenger in a while so I hope he’s still in character fnjdkfd and I also hope you enjoy! :D (this is a prompt, it was just sent through discord instead of an ask! :D)

Summary: Zen has been feeling a bit down about his acting lately, so you decide to try and cheer him up.

Word Count: 1.1k (under the cut)

Zen huffed and tossed the script off to the side, making a loud thump noise echo through the apartment. You looked into the room, concerned as you watched Zen.

He held his face in his hands for a few moments before checking his phone, sending a message to the RFA group chat before setting his phone down and curling up on the bed. You wait a moment, checking what he sent.

“Do you guys ever feel… useless?”

You sigh, tucking your phone in your pocket and walk over to Zen, sitting down on the other side of the bed. He doesn’t glance at you, but he shifts slightly, and you reach your hand to his shoulder, gently rubbing it.

“You okay?” You ask, and Zen sighs, sitting up, still not facing you.

“I’m just… yeah, I’m fine. Thank you for asking,” He says, finally turning to face you with a smile. He may be an actor, a really good one at that, but you can tell that it’s forced.

“Zen, I saw what you said in the chat. What’s wrong?”

Zen bit his lip, and you scoot further up on the bed, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him closer.

“You can tell me anything, y’know.”

Zen sighed. “I know… I’m having a hard time with this character, and the script is a garbled mess, I can’t seem to make sense of it. I feel like I’m not a good actor. If it were my first play, sure, it’d make sense. But I’ve been acting my entire life, I shouldn’t have any trouble with this one.”

Zen started to trail off, fiddling with his thumbs as you took in what he was saying. You waited a moment, making sure he was done before you spoke.

“Just because you’ve hit a bit of a block doesn’t mean you’re bad at what you do. I struggle with plenty of things, but when I try it again or look at it from a different angle, it helps. You’re not a bad actor, Zen, and I honestly think Jaehee would be heartbroken to hear that.”

Zen chuckled softly and you smiled, continuing.

“You’re going to do amazing with this character, you just need to try something different. Something’s in your way that’s making it difficult, and I’ll help you find it so you can feel more confident,” You finished with a smile, and Zen returned it.

He nodded his head, but his frown quickly returned when he glanced at the script that sat on the ground of his bedroom. You reach for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze as you try to get him to smile again. He smiled weakly, and you frown.

“Zen,” You whined softly, and he huffed fondly.

“Yes?”

“You need to cheer up.”

Zen shook his head. “No, I just need to work. I’ll figure it out if I keep practicing.”

You pouted, grabbing onto Zen and pulling him back onto the bed as he gasped at the sudden motion. “If you force it you’re gonna burn yourself out! We’re gonna take a cuddle break together, whether you like it or not.”

Zen huffed fondly, nodding his head slowly as you held him. You lightly drum your fingers, something you do out of habit when you get fired up, and you feel Zen squirm in your arms.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, and Zen shakes his head, pushing lightly at your drumming hand. 

“It’s nothing,” He says quietly, but you can tell it’s not ‘nothing’. You drum your fingers faster, feeling annoyance at Zen keeping something from you bubble up. He huffs again, more desperate this time before pulling your hand completely away from his side. You raise an eyebrow as realization starts to click in your head. You smirk and Zen pouts.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing~” You tease, using your other hand to lightly begin pinching at Zen’s waist, making him freeze. He figures out what you’re up to almost immediately, trying to wiggle away from you but your arms are already wrapped around him, hands squeezing his waist as he burst into frantic giggles.

“Nohohoho!” He immediately exclaims, caught off-guard by the sudden onslaught of sensations despite anticipating them coming. He’s quick to squirm, kicking his legs slightly as you hold onto him tightly, hands pinching up to his ribs where you start to dig in slightly, making him squeal.

“No what~?” You tease, and Zen hiccuped out a burst of laughter as you chuckle. He shakes his head, whining through his laughter as he holds onto your hands desperately, trying to peel them off of his sensitive ribs.

“Plehehease, not this! Lehehet’s just cuddle!” Zen begged, but you shook your head, smirking as you kiss the back of his neck.

“Nah~ If you’re too energized you might try to practice again! And right now you just need rest,” You say matter-of-factly, and Zen shrieks as you reach his highest rib, vibrating your fingers against it.

“I’m nohohohot resting right nohohow! You-You’re tickling mehehe!” He squeals, his normally composed, rich voice sounding much more like a young boy as he squeaked and squawked. 

“Yes, I am tickling you! Good observation, Zenny~” You tease again, making him whine.

“I cahahan’t rest if y-you’re tickling mehehehe!” He gasped out, shaking as his laughter increased. You wedged your fingers in his armpits, lightly skittering your fingers around as he clamped his arms down, yelping as you hum.

“Can’t rest, hmm? But you’re not practicing, doesn’t that count as rest?” 

He shook his head and you rolled your eyes, reaching down to squeeze his hips a few times before giving him a break, very amused by the sudden cackles and snorts that erupted from him when you touched his hips. He panted when you finished, still held in your arms as you hummed sweetly, acting innocent as Zen whined.

“Did you have to tickle me?”

“Mm, I suppose I didn’t have to. But I can’t help it, you’re so fun to tickle,” You teased, and Zen covered his face with his hands, despite his back facing you. You mock whine, grabbing his hips again and squeezing as he shrieks, more laughter spilling from his lips as you coo at him.

“Don’t cover your face, Zenny! Come on, I wanna see how handsome you are!”

You continue to tickle and tease your partner for some time after that, making him completely forget about the negative feelings from earlier about his acting. He would be able to pick up the script later and focus on his character, but right now, he was stuck in your arms, receiving nothing but the best.

[amerrierworld]

Babysitter (pt 11)

Pt 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Summary: Loki and Hela come to break you out.

Characters: Hela x fem!reader, Avengers

Word Count: 2,780

Warnings: some light smut to start~ and then battle time! whoop whoop 

Her cold lips pressed against the back of your neck, a firm presence in the swirling dark. You couldn’t see her, but you could feel her. Could feel her wandering hands snaking over your bare skin, making you squirm. 

You could see your breath form in the cool air around you, and you were pulled back against her front, feeling her hook her legs over yours, her dark hair falling into your sight as she enveloped you. Hints of green pulsed in your peripheral vision.

“Hela,” you breathed, clinging onto one of her hands as the other traveled lower and lower. You stared up into the darkness, falling back even further into her hold, her body and soft cushions catching you. Her voice rumbled in your ear, but you couldn’t understand what she was saying. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as familiar fingers searched and caressed your cunt, pushing between your folds and collecting your wetness on her fingertips. Your hips bucked weakly, as if you were caught in molasses, and you moaned softly.

One of your hands tried to reach back, felt the brush of her hair against your palm, but couldn’t find her head or her shoulders to hold onto. Your legs were still trapped, the fingers were still moving inside you, but your hands were grasping at nothingness and-

You sat up in your bed, shaking, eyes looking around and wondering if Hela could be in your room with you. But there was nothing, and no one out of the ordinary. 

Sweat had gathered in every crevice of your body and you clambered out of bed to take a quick shower, trying to wash the feeling of Hela off your body, without succeeding. You didn't sleep the rest of the night.

-

The next day you were sitting by yourself, reading a book after lunch in a small reading room away from the main offices and training rooms where you knew the rest of the team would be. 

Something crept up the back of your neck and a chill ran through your body. You tried to ignore it, but it persisted. And when you looked up from your book, Loki was standing by the doorway, looking quite unimpressed. You shrieked, your stomach dropping at the sight of you.

He raised his hand to shush you and eyed the doorway, hoping no one would come through there. You stared at him, and in a split decision, chucked your book at him.

It went straight through his form, only causing a faint green glimmer as it landed on the floor. You gaped at him and he raised an eyebrow, silently asking if you were done.  

“Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Loki said after you had calmed down somewhat.

“What are you doing here?” you hissed, “weren’t you..”

“Dead? No, not quite. Almost.”

You sank back in your seat, your hand over your heart as you sighed, “what is it with you lot and always coming back from the dead?”

“It’s an occupational hazard with what we do,” he shrugged.

A pair of footsteps walked by the room, and Loki slunk back into the shadows, fading away for a moment. You didn't move until you were sure whoever it was  had gone. 

“Look, I don’t have much time,” Loki said once you were alone again, “but we’re here to break you out.”

“Who’s we?”

Loki rolled his eyes, “who do you think? Your murderous girlfriend who unfortunately happens to be my sister as well.”

Your heart nearly jumped out of your throat, “Hela? So she is here?”

“Of course she is.”

You sat quietly for a moment; so your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you. Hela had come back for you, and she was here.. somewhere.

“I- I can’t believe..”

“Well you better, now get your things and follow me. We can get out of here without fighting.”

“Wait- what? No, wait, wait,” you got up hurriedly as Loki began walking to the doorway. You couldn’t stop him- it was only a projection of him, but you weren’t ready to just walk out.

“Why would I just leave?” you asked, making Loki stop in his tracks. He looked you over and slowly approached you, his eyes flashing.

“Because you’re being held here against your will and she’s come to bail you out? Mind you- it was her idea to come barging in and killing anyone in sight, so this is a much better upgrade from that plan.”

“No- no I know. But.. when we get out, what then? What am I supposed to do? Loki... the world’s fallen apart.”

The Asgardian was quiet.

“Yeah, sure,” you continued, pacing from where you were standing, “I don’t like being kept here but- there’s not much else out there right now. Everything here at least feels a little... normal.”

“You can’t be serious. What about Hela then, huh? You think she’ll stay here with a team of heroes who tried to kill her? Just for you? Hela hates being imprisoned, Y/N. This would be a death sentence for all of us.”

“What about you then?” you retorted, “after you get me out, and Hela and I go about our merry way, what will you do? Tour the universe until some other evil plan comes up?

“This,” you gestured around the room, “is all I have right now.”

“No, no,” Loki mocked your gesture a bit more aggressively, “what you have is a prison, and only one person in the world who will stop at nothing to break you out of it.

“I’m not the most romantic, fine,” he admitted, “but I know that the two of you should never be apart, ever again. You should have seen her when I found her, Y/N- she was broken.”

A wave of tears threatened to spill at his words and you fell back in you chair once again. You buried your face in your hands and for a few minutes nothing else happened. Loki looked at you and felt his heart -or what was left of it- break to see you so defeated. 

“I love her, Loki,” you whimpered, “I tried to deny it when Tony said so.. but he’s right. I love her, but I’m scared. This world isn’t meant for her. It would drive her mad.”

“Not with you around.”

You wiped the salty tears off your cheeks and looked up at Loki.

“Let’s get you out of here, and we can figure it out from there, okay? Perhaps we can come to an agreement with the rest of your team.”

You eventually nodded and stood up, ready to pack the few things you had when a loud crash and alarms sounded. There was a hurry of steps outside the room and when you looked, the whole team of remaining Avengers were preparing themselves, running down the hallways to the source of the noise.

“You filthy humans!” a cry came from the direction they were running towards. Your heart shattered; Hela.

Beside you, Loki’s apparition groaned in exasperation.

“I told her to wait, for crying out loud. Why would she be so reckless?”

“She takes after her family, obviously,” you said. “Can’t you get her out of here?”

“You’re a fool to think I can control her now.”

“Then get over here and help her!”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Loki huffed, “I’ll be there in a moment.”

His image shimmered away, and you hurried down the hallway, hoping to stall before anyone was killed.

One of the ground level metal walls had been torn open like it was nothing but paper. Large metal spears and knives were wedged in the edges and the opposite walls. The sun was glinting off of Hela’s horns and blinded you for a moment before you could really look at her.

She looked.. regal. Well, she mostly looked psychotic, with bared teeth and clenched hands, but it was her and she was real and oh boy was she angry. 

Hela had Steve by the throat, holding him up so his feet barely brushed the ground. Tony and Nat had their weapons aimed but didn’t shoot. They were either waiting for her to drop Steve or didn't want to kill her. You hoped it was the latter.

“Wait!” you screamed, skidding to a halt at the scene. Dust swirled in the air from the debris. There were no bodies yet, and you prayed you could keep it that way.

The moment Hela caught sight of you, her face changed. Her eyebrows unfurled and her mouth dropped open a little bit- she looked at you with disbelief, as if she couldn’t comprehend you standing there, alive and well.

Steve took the opportunity as she was distracted and lifted his leg to kick her square in the stomach. She doubled over, dropping him, and he raised his arm to land a punch, but instead, Hela grabbed his offensive arm and whipped him away from her- effectively throwing him against the rest of the team, knocking them all down temporarily.

Before you could react and rush over to see if the group of Avengers were okay, Hela was by you in a flash.

Her hands trembled as they grasped yours, and she looked you up and down, checking for wounds, checking if you were there. Then she cupped your cheek, wiping away the tears you were crying.

“Hela-,” you croaked, because the touch of her was too much, too overwhelming, too good. She smiled, though barely, and kissed you hard on the mouth.

“Stand down, sister,” Thor’s voice boomed, and she turned to see the team back on their feet, aiming everything they had at her. She snarled, pulling you behind her, shielding you from them, as if they would ever hurt you.

“You’ve taken everything from me, brother,” she spat. “You won’t take this last ounce of happiness from me.”

Something flickered in Thor’s eyes and he had to retighten his grip on his hammer, which you realized wasn’t Mjolnir, but a makeshift copy that looked somewhat close to it. 

“Y/N,” Tony said, gesturing you over to their side, “come here. Quick. We don’t want you in the way.”

Hela’s focus sharpened in on him, hidden in his armour. There was a surge of jealousy through her whole being, at the memory of him by your side, threatening to hurt you, sparring with you, taking you from her. 

She pushed you back, hurled herself at Tony with lightning speed before anyone could shoot, breaking entirely through the next wall, and landing with a thud in the next room.

“No!” you screamed, shielding your face from the spray of debris as the wall broke down.

Hela tried to punch, but Tony’s right iron hand held it in place, arms shaking from the force. They stayed there, suspended in time for a moment. Hela lowered her face to Tony’s helmet as she growled and snapped, but he could see the tears streaming down her face, the wild fear and anger in her eyes.

“You won’t steal her from me,” she cried. 

Then JARVIS finished downloading Hela’s body scan from the first day at your home way back, analyzing her form, and realizing her weaknesses. Her left side was much weaker than her right. 

And so, he kicked, jabbed, and twisted her left leg and arm until she howled in pain and dropped to the side, giving Tony the chance to get up and put some distance between them again. 

You felt helpless, not knowing how to stop it, not knowing what to do, not wanting to hurt anyone- you had no weapons on you. Hela staggered to her feet, the helmet having disappeared long ago, and she raised her hand to summon a new menacing sword, when someone hooked an arm around her neck and pressed a rusty dagger against her neck. 

“Drop it, sister,” Loki hissed, the blade pressing finely against her skin. She hissed, but slowly let it slip from her hands as she realized defeat. You were panting, every inch of you throbbing with adrenaline and dread. 

“Stand down, everyone,” Loki continued, and then with a pointed look at Thor, “please, brother.”

Thor was the first to lower his hammer, though his face was still angry and unforgiving. Then Tony, and everyone else followed suit.

Loki kicked the back of Hela’s knee to make her drop down, to which she cried out in anger.

“Sorry,” he added, the blade still pressed against her neck, “but you’ve really got to stop going on killing sprees.”

“You were taking too long,” she snapped, “I needed to take matters into my own hands. How was I supposed to know what was happening?”

“Alright, okay, anyone wanna explain what the hell is going on? Y/N? Thor? You wanna explain what your dysfunctional family is doing here?” Nat asked, exasperated.

The God of Thunder looked at you, your eyes begging and desperate. “They’re here for you, aren’t they?”

You nodded weakly, trembling.

“Well, best let her take her then,” Tony sighed. All of you turned your heads at him in disbelief. His iron armour was short-circuiting from the blows Hela had landed and he quickly stepped out of it. You were reminded once again of how malnourished he looked- and how dark the bags under his eyes were. But his tone remained chipper.

“You’ve seen what she can do,” he gestured at Hela, “and she isn’t gonna stop until she gets Y/N. And I don’t think Y/N wants to stay here either.”

He looked at you knowingly, and you felt like you could cry all over again.

Hela struggled against Loki’s grip for a moment, heartbroken as she saw your face scrunch up and your hands grasp your elbows in an attempt to shield yourself.

“Is that true?” Nat asked, staring at you with a gun still in hand. 

You slowly nodded, making eye contact with Hela and not looking away. You heard Steve sigh and groan a bit from pain as he came up to your side.

“Y/N, she’s a vicious attacking machine, we can’t just let you two run off.”

“Why not?” you asked, your voice thick. “We won’t hurt anyone.”

“Look, we still don’t even know if she knows about Thanos, right?” Clint said, but Tony shook his head, sitting down on the armrest of a cushioned chair that was practically sliced in half from Hela throwing weapons.

“I doubt that,” he said, “if she had control over Thanos or any connection with  him, I don’t think she would have come alone, let alone with him,” with a nod towards Loki.

He rolled his eyes, “you’re welcome for saving you, by the way.”

“Can you- could you all, please, just, can we please just talk about this?” you hiccuped through your words, sobs slowly growing in volume. “Loki- the- the knife, please- please let her go.”

Loki looked at you apologetically, “not if she lashes out again.”

“Hela,” you pleaded, “Hela, please. Don’t hurt anyone else? Everyone- everyone has already been hurt so much.”

Hela looked at you, now seeing the tears sliding down your dirtied cheeks, and her shoulders slumped, before nodding. Her hands that were gripping Loki’s arm around her neck let go, and dropped to her sides.

Loki removed the dagger and stepped away. Tension filled the room, expecting her to attack again.

“Y/N,” Thor said, and he tossed you a new pair of handcuffs. “Go on.”

You stared at him, “excuse me? You want me to chain her up- again? After everything-”

“This is more to keep all of us safe. She’d kill us if we came too close,” Thor said, pointedly raising an eyebrow at you. “It won’t be for long. Not until we figure out what to do next.”

You stumbled over rand dropped on your knees in front of Hela, gently holding her hands for a moment. She stared at you, deep green eyes watering.

“Just for now,” you promised. “Just like before, okay?”

You waited for long, agonizing moments until she nodded, and only then did you snap the cuffs in place. Almost immediately, Tony was on Loki and had his wrists in chains as well.

“Wh- excuse me?” he scoffed, staring at the cuffs, “how dare you?”

“Precautions, my friend,” he shrugged. “Come on, all of you, this mess is doing nothing for my respiratory system.”

He pushed Loki ahead of him and you followed with Hela’s hands clasping yours, rubbing your arms together, her trailing behind you like a lost puppy. You were thrilled to see her again, but wondered where the hell you were supposed to go from here. 

A/N; I guess I kinda made Loki the unspoken hero didn’t I? :D

so the main reason why I haven’t been updating this series as much is because we’re at a point where multiple ideas branch off into totally different directions, and I keep changing my mind about where I want this to go, effectively stumping me when writing. but after much editing and changing of plot, this is what I’ve got, and I hope you like it :)

taglist: @midnight-lestrange @cheerfullyvenomous @germansarechill @gaylorrds @amii-nyc @waitingfortheendtocome @novakitten0901 @marvels-writings @jadewestwriter @thisisanexistentialcrisis @sapphiclyartistically​  

[carolmaximoffs]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAIT OMFG i can’t believe so many of the coolest ppl in my life that i know are aquas. ily you’re NINETEEN that’s wild!! you know i love a good roommates or friends w benefits fic gimme gimme gimme 😗💜

a/n: THIS IS SO LATE AGH...here is your long overdue wanda x reader roommates fic, my love! so sorry for the wait, but thank you for your sweet words and your patience <3 @subtlebucky

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

warnings: none really? maybe a curse. references to drinking, partying. jealous! reader. apologies to anyone named jillian, beck, or yasmine. sharing a bed, but not in THAT way. 

WHEN YOU WAKE UP, you smell coffee already brewing. You stretch leisurely as you pad into the main part of your shared apartment, faux-flirtatious smile already gracing your lips.

“Smells good, baby!” You call. The laughter dissipates from your body as you pause in the kitchen doorway. Wanda is indeed sipping coffee in the kitchen, but is also standing between the legs of a tall, rather buff girl you’ve never seen before who’s perched comfortably on your island. “Oh.”

"Jill, this is my roommate, Y/N," Wanda says, perfectly at ease. You wonder if your eye really does twitch at the sight of Wanda's hand on Jill's thigh, but you pray it's just your imagination.

“Hi, uh, I didn’t - we’re not - hi.” Your face burns as you duck past them, reaching up into the cabinet for your mug before realizing it’s missing. You whirl around, about to ask Wanda, when you see it. And Wanda must realize it the same time you do, because she gives you this tight smile and wide eyes. Jill sips idly from your favorite cup, the one with the funny handle and your initial in rainbow gradient. Pietro, Wanda’s brother, had gifted it to you a few Christmas’s back - you know he’d have stopped Jillian from using it. Instead, you fill the most boring mug you and Wanda own - black, with a white outline of Sokovia in a red heart - and send your roommate a sour look. “I’ll just...”

You jerk your head towards the bedrooms, and stalk off. Maybe out of embarrassment, but mostly out of stubbornness, you pretend not to hear Wanda apologizing and making excuses on your behalf as you leave.

.......

Two weeks later, just when things are returning to normal, it happens again.

Well, more or less. It’s significantly darker out now, and this time you’re putting leftover Chinese food in the fridge when the door bursts open. Wanda all but falls into your apartment, a sharp-nosed girl with a deep violet buzzcut hot on her heels. Space Army Cadet and your best friend are hand in hand, the latter barely tossing you a glance as she drags her guest down the hall. And yeah, you’ve seen Wanda bring people home before - even brought a handful of people home yourself. Hell, one of you two’s closest friends was an ex of hers; oddball physics major, Vis, had been Wanda’s lover for the notable first three years of college.

 Lately, though, you’d noticed this...pit in your stomach, carved a little deeper with each new bedmate. Every time you shook it off - it wasn’t any of your business what Wanda did in her free time. Was it because they were women? You catch yourself wondering, but no - you’d never had an issue with that, why would you start now? Shutting the fridge, you shuffle back to your room, turning your TV up to drown out anything from Wanda’s room next door.

The next morning, the eccentric friend is nowhere to be found, but you did find there was a severe lack of alcohol in your coffee as Wanda cheerily filled you in. Buzzcut’s name was Yasmine, she was in Wanda’s European lit. course, and they’d gone out for drinks to celebrate Yasmine nearing the acquirement of her masters. You stare into your cup and hum at all the appropriate points, choosing not to point out that it was only November and nowhere near graduating season. Maybe Yasmine was on the fast track - Wanda always did like the smart ones. 

You become so absorbed in thought you don’t notice at first that your housemate has stopped chittering away. When you look up, it’s to a pouty frown. You shift in your seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “What?”

“Are you...okay?” Wanda’s frown deepens, brows furrowed as she brushes a stray lock of auburn from her face and folds her arms over her chest. “We...You’ve been a little distant lately, I guess.” 

“I’m fine,” You say breezily, rising to your feet to dump the dregs of your coffee in the sink. Some irritating heartstring twangs at your tone - you hate brushing Wanda off, but what are you supposed to say? Hey, can you stop bringing girls home? I think I’ve caught homophobia. You repress a shudder at the mere thought as you move to sweep past her and get ready for your first class, but a small hand curls around your bicep.

“Just...don’t be a stranger, okay, kedvesem?” Darling. Swallowing the lump in your throat, feeling curiously parched, you can only nod. Wanda lets go, but you can feel her fingerprints burning like a brand even when you’re lying in bed that night.

.....

The holidays go off more or less without a hitch; there’s a very scary hiccup shortly before Christmas when you come home to find Wanda curled into Vision’s side on the couch, the pair of them sharing a blanket. But Wanda looks...as if she’s been crying? Love Actually is playing, Wanda’s go to Christmas comfort movie, and Vision is texting someone called ‘Peter M.’ with an alarming number of heart emojis, so you continue onward. 

Your subconscious must be looking out for you otherwise, because it’s not until New Year’s that you see Wanda with a mystery lover. Actually, you don’t see much of Wanda at all outside of Christmas, and even when you do, it’s always just the two of you at home. Of course, because of this, she insists on dragging you out for a New Year’s party. When her twin, Pietro, gangs up on you via Facetime, you give up arguing and steal a shimmery black slip from Wanda’s closet before flipping them the bird. 

Pietro arrives around 10 to pick the pair of you up, obnoxiously laying on the horn outside of your apartment building. Wanda trips several times as she tries to shove on her other heel and put lipstick on at the same time. Making it out the door is a whole other ordeal - after a short spat about Wanda needing a jacket, an awkward moment when the elevator doors open on some neighbors practicing for midnight, and finding Pietro just about to buzz in to get you, you and Wanda are sliding into the backseat of Pietro’s obnoxiously cramped sports car.

“Ladies, your prince, or princess, awaits!” Pietro announces grandly as you pull up to a shabby loft just a few blocks away. You can hear the music from the street, sighing inwardly as you force yourself to get out of the car. Wanda smooths out her flowy black pants - you keep your eyes trained politely above her shoulders to ignore the fitted, maroon sequined top with the plunging V-neck she’s paired with them. 

“I’m actually meeting someone here,” She says casually to her brother as the three of you make your way in. Pietro waves her off with well-wishes, but throws you a questioning glance. All he gets however is a shrug in reply, this is certainly news to you. He accompanies you to the makeshift bar where you fill a cup with copious amounts of liquor. It usually wasn’t your vice, but the strobe lights alone could be cause to drink. You made a mental note to ask whose idea this party even was in the first place. when you turn around, though, Pietro, too, has slipped off into the crowd.

So you do what one is supposed to do at sweaty, too-loud functions such as this one - push yourself from your comfort zone, get comfortably tipsy while you wedge yourself into the mass of bodies and move with strangers. As mentioned, liquor and strangers have never been favorite pastimes of yours, so once you finish off your second drink (maybe third - you deserved it), you set out searching for Wanda. Her glittery form is tucked into a corner with a small group you don’t recognize, but you definitely note that she’s in the lap of a tall, dark, and handsome type. She spots you before you can get to her, making excited grabby hands as you get closer. 

“Y/N!” The bubbly young woman squeals over the music. She leans forward to be heard better, and you gulp. “This is Beck! And Jade, and Marcie, and you remember Yasmine!” 

You offer only a wave and tight smiles as you, too, lean in further. “I’m gonna get an Uber!”

“What?” Wanda pouts dramatically, Beck snaking an arm around her waist to steady her as she jolts back in disappointment. “It’s not even midnight yet!”

“No, I know, I’m just not really feeling it, I guess!” Yasmine leads over to whisper something to Jade; it’s the furthest thing from your mind as Wanda reaches out to squeeze your hands understandingly. 

“I’ll see you later! Kisses!” You repeat the word weakly before shoving once more through the mass. The sidewalk and cool bite of the outdoors is a welcome respite - your driver doesn’t speak all the way to your apartment, and you give them 5 stars for it. After a cold, quick shower, you curl up in your fuzziest bathrobe with a cup of coffee and flick through Netflix. You know when midnight rolls around when the neighbors upstairs, hosting a party of their own, cheer and shout to each other. It can’t be 20 minutes later that your door is met with a tentative knock.

On the other side is Vision in the most disarray you’ve seen him in - he’s in pajamas, for Pete’s sake, hair and glasses askew over a chunky knit sweater. He’s supporting an equally-bleary but much more drunk Wanda, and passes her to you with a wrinkled nose.

“Y/N!” She crows, dissolving into giggles as you shushed her. “I wondered where you went.” 

“I told you I was coming home, bubs,” You mutter, hugging her back briefly before you notice Vision is still standing in your entryway. “Hey, how about you go get changed, and then I’ll make you some eggs?”

Wanda agrees, talking animatedly even as she walks away. You look back at Vision, smiling wearily. “Thanks for bringing her home safe, Vis. Did you want a cup of coffee, or...?”

“No, thank you,” Vision quips, polite as ever as he tugs his sweater down over his hands. He jerks his dimpled chin the direction Wanda had disappeared in. “Take care of her, please.”

“Of course,” You reply, instantly, brows furrowing. He nods briskly before turning to leave. “Thank you again.”

“Of course. Goodnight.” He’s almost to the elevators when you call a ‘Happy New Year’ after him, and that earns you a smile. “Happy New Year to you as well, Y/N.”

Back inside, you find Wanda spread eagle on her bed in mismatched socks, an old college hoodie, and the same underwear you’re pretty sure she wore to go out tonight. You poke her heel and she makes a frankly unhuman gurgle into the duvet. “How much did you have?”

“Nah a lah,” Is her muffled reply. “We’on dwink anymo’.” 

You realize she’s right, though you figured she was at least taking some of those dates to bars. Maybe not, though - Wanda was always a romantic. You push the mere though away and tug at the arm closest to you. “Yeah, I know. You’ll feel better if you eat something, though.” 

Her protesting grunts are less effective than when she kicks out blindly, narrowly avoiding your hip, and you huff. “Fine, I’ll bring the food to you.”  You make to leave, but she’s captured your wrist now. Wanda turns her head to make powerful puppy eyes at you. “Stay. Sleepy.” 

“I...yeah. Okay.” You were still a little tipsy in your own right - neither of you were college kids anymore, after all. Wanda’s smile was blinding as the pair of you made your way under her numerous layers of blankets. When she turned the lamp off, you wondered if she could hear your heart thundering in the dark.

“Y/N?” She whispers, just when you think she’s fallen asleep. 

“Yes, Wanda?” 

“I love you.”

You hum in acknowledgment, brushing it off as dreaming.

--------

Midday, you’re roused by someone laying across your stomach and shaking you awake. It’s Wanda, long lashes fluttering prettily as she rests her chin on folded elbows. You scrub sleep from your eyes as you croak, “Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning, Y/N.” She says your name with purpose - sort of always has, you realize. You’re running over last night in your head, and like a mind reader, Wanda answers your every question. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Still love you.” Wanda murmurs. You meet her gaze - completely clear, if not a little glazed over with absolute adoration. She pushes up a little, lips hovering over yours. They brush just barely when you speak, sparking like live wires. 

“I love you, too,” You breathe, and finally, finally, she kisses you. 

Things make so, so much more sense then.

[allaboutthebooz]

Still Learning Pt. Seven

Summary: After having everything stolen from her, the reader meets Bucky and they form a relationship, that works for the both of them. She needs money and he needs the company. There are rules that need to be followed. What will happen when the rules are broken?

Warnings: just a bunch of flirting.

A/N: I had this written up days ago, but because I’m a mom, nothing gets done around here. Thank you all for being patient and I hope you enjoy it!

You can catch up here!

“We’re going to be landing soon.” The curvy brunette flight attendant says leaning down close to Bucky like you weren’t sitting across from him with your legs stretched across the space between you both, your feet resting next to his thigh, and his hand gripping you where your calf meets your Achilles tendon, his fingers wedged between your limbs

You had been in the middle of a conversation about the recent mission he had been on with Sam. He was explaining how Sam had separated from him and by the time he had found his friend, he was tangled within some wires, hanging from the second story balcony like marionette doll.

His gaze never left yours as he thanked her. She turned her attention to you with a slight sneer. Your smile turned into a smirk as you arched a brow in a slight challenge. As she walks away, Bucky lets out a light laugh, pulling your eyes back to his icy blue ones.

“What?”

“And they say that men are bad about staking their claim.”

“Not my fault that you didn’t even bother looking at her while she stuck her boobs in your face.”

“I prefer the view that I was already enjoying.” He tells you. You smile at him before pulling your legs from his seat to sit up straighter so you could prepare yourself for the plane landing. “No blushing this time?” He asks as you both click your seatbelts into place.

“I think I’m starting to get used to you saying things like that.”

“Guess I’ll have to find another way to make you turn red.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” You ask.

“I can think of a few different ways.” He says, spreading his thighs a little further apart and running his hands over them. Your eyes follow their movement before looking up at his face.

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, making your heart race and your cheeks grow hot. He smirks at the sight of the blood rushing to the surface of your cheeks and across your nose.

“That was easy. I wasn’t even trying that time.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing, Barnes.” You chastise.

He shrugs playfully. “You ready to meet Sam?”

“I am, yeah. I can’t wait to team up with him to irritate you.”

“Bring it on, Doll.”

Thirty minutes later the plane had landed and pulled into the private airport. You could see the land crew heading to the loading zone to start prepping the plane for anything it needs. You also spotted a truck sitting just outside the hanger, its driver leaning against the front. It was Sam, waiting to pick you both up.

The plane rolled to a stop and you both stood, stretching a bit before gathering your things. Bucky took your bag from you, no allowing you to carry it yourself.

“Ready, Doll?”

You inhale and exhale, nerves slightly rising. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” He asks, dropping one of the bags onto a seat, and putting a hand on your elbow.

“Yeah just-Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure that you’re ready for your friend to meet me?”

“Y/N, if I wasn’t sure, we wouldn’t be here.” He steps a little closer to you, his hand moving from your arm to the small of your back. “Don’t worry. He’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.” He smirks and quickly, but not too quick, leans in for a gentle kiss. You had just enough time to comprehend what was happening, to kiss back without being overly shocked.

It was only a second that his lips brushed yours, but you still reveled in their warmth and the way he gripped you a little tighter before pulling away. Your eyes opening slowly, tilting your head just enough to look into his. You must have had the same look on your faces because he pulled you in again for another kiss.

This one a little longer. Your hands clenched his shirt within their grip, as you tilted your head more to allow him better access. His sigh letting you know he had been waiting for that. His tongue lightly brushing against your bottom lip.

Before it could go any further or grow more intense, he pulls away. His breathing moving a little quicker through his lungs.

“You’re a dumbass for thinking they were just friends. They’re so into each other.” You hear a whisper behind you.

“Fuck you, Marie. How was I supposed to know? Not like they made any indication until now.”

“You should have known when he didn’t even glance at your monster boobs. Just look at how he looks at her.”

The two flight attendants had apparently abandoned their jobs to watch your interaction, not being as quiet as they thought they were.

You and Bucky decide to ignore them. He smiles down at you, putting your hand in his before tugging you towards the exit of the plane. You bite your lip, smiling as you follow behind him.

He helps you down the stairs as you notice Sam, moving towards you both.

“Are my eyes deceiving me or did James Barnes actually find himself a beautiful woman to put up with his shit?”

“Shut up, Sam.” Bucky says as you reach the bottom of the steps, feeling comfortable enough to let go of your hand so that he can shake Sam’s hand and clap him on the back. Like men so.

“I’m serious man. Any time I try to set you up, you just bitch and moan. ‘I don’t have the time’ or “I don’t need you to set me up, I’ll fine someone on my own.’”

“And it looks like I was right because I found someone.” He smiles back at you, reaching a hand out as a request to join them. You walk over, taking his hand in both of yours and lean into him. “Sam this is my girl, Y/N.”

You and Sam both extend a hand out to shake the other’s. “Nice to finally meet you, Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sam smirks at Bucky. “You been talking about me, Frostbite?”

“You wish.”

“It’s actually all public knowledge, for the most part. Bucky’s only told me how much of a pain in the ass you are.”

Sam’s mouth drops in feigned surprise, putting a hand to his chest. “After all that we’ve been through, and you still think I’m a pain in the ass?”

Bucky laughs before starting to pull you around Sam to lead you over to his truck. “You’ll always be a pain in my ass.”

“I’ll carry the honor with pride.”

You all pile into the truck, your bags stashed in the bed in the back.

The drive to Sam’s sister’s home wasn’t too long and filled with the two heroes constantly picking on each other, while you laughed.

“Sarah’s gonna be really disappointed to see you’re off the market, Buck.”

“I think Sarah will be okay.” Bucky says glancing back at you.

“Did you and Sam’s sister have a thing or something? You ask, your brows pulling together.

“No. Definitely not.”

“don’t make it sound like it would have been a terrible thing if you dated my sister.”

“Says the one who nearly had an aneurysm when she and I met.”

“Because she can do better.”

“Oh please! I would have been great for her!”

“I don’t trust you with her.”

Bucky opened his mouth to respond but realized how the conversation was sounding and closed his mouth, his teeth clicking together. He glanced back where Y/N sat. she had scooted herself away from the middle, where she had been leaning between them, towards the window behind Sam. Her face neutral and sunglasses pulled over her eyes.

This was not a conversation to have in front of the person you’re supposed to be in a relationship with. Especially, someone you were starting to care for.

He could hear Sam still going on about Sarah, but he wasn’t listening. Bucky cleared his throat to get his friend’s attention. When their eyes met, Bucky shook his head subtly. He watched Sam glance in the rearview mirror, wincing slightly.

“So, Y/N, what do you?”

Not turning away from the window, she responds “I’m a photographer.”

“Anything I might have seen?”

“Not unless you read fashion magazines.”

“I’ve glanced, but I can’t say that I’m an avid reader.”

“Most straight men aren’t.”

Bucky could feel the awkwardness cutting the air in the cab of the truck. The rest of the drive was spent mostly in silence, aside from the small conversation between the guys.

By the time that Sam pulled the vehicle onto the dirt drive, Bucky could tell that there was going to be a quick conversation between he and Y/N. Mostly, him apologizing and reassuring her.

As soon as the keys were out of the ignition, Sam was out of the car giving Bucky a ‘We fucked up, good luck’ look. Neither he nor Y/n moved to open their doors.

He turned as much as his seat would allow for him to face her.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. Sam really was kidding, and I meant it when I said nothing even came close to happening between Sarah and I.”

“But you wanted there to be something.” Not a question, but a fact.

“Honestly? I don’t really know. Sure, we flirted, but mostly because we knew how much it bothered Sam.”

“If she wasn’t just doing it to mess with Sam, would you have tried to be with her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do I need to be worried?”

He quickly reaches an arm back, resting his hand on her knew and pulling her attention away from the window. “Hell no. You’re my girl, they’ll know that when they see you.” She nods and starts to climb out of the car. “Hey.” Bucky says, stopping her. “I’m serious.”

“Then prove it, Buck.” She says, climbing out and slamming the door, making him wince.

“Not your best move, idiot.” He says to himself.

TAGS:

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*If you would like to added to the tag list, please send me an ask. I am able to keep up with them better that way!

[tparker48]

Request for preyslave

"Hello ladies and gentlemen of the internet! Welcome back to your lovely broadcast of our favorite games, Can. You. Take. It! Today we have a very special guest for you tonight. Allow us to introduce you to our lucky volunteer that we flew across to be here today. Give it up for.." A panel would open open from the floor as pole lifted up from. At the top of it, you would be tied to the to its side as a blind fold covered over your eyes. "This little guy!" nothing but the sound of cheering welcomed your senses as your legs dangled in the air.

"Grg!...ghh!...ghg!"

"Ah ah ah, don't go and hurt yourself little one. They may be props, but that strings is a real stinker. Begin of stinkers, let's bring in our contestants. Tim, Lyan, come on down to the stage!" the two would make their way down as they came in nothing but there briefs. Tim was a very lean figure. A little skinny when it comes to size but more tone muscled. Lyan was more broader of the two as he had a little more muscle compared to ryan. But only slightly shorter as his head reached Tim's shoulders. "There they are, quite the contestants am I right folks? Now, here's the deal gents. The game of the goal is make this little guy tap out from your smells alone. The one who wins, they get a very special prize!"

"There is no way im participating in your games" you yelled into the open air

"Well then my little friend, you'd be missing out on your grand prize to"

"Prize?"

"Yes indeed. for your participation, you'll recieve your own pass to a jacuzzi all to yourself. A courtesy on being a volunteer" the announcer bellowed into the mic. He soon covered it over with a hand as he whispered over to the contestants.

"A jacuzzi huh?...mmm...fine, i'll play your game. But could you at least remove the blindfold off!"

"Why of course" he plucked the strap along the side of your head as before lifting it upward. The lights blinded your eyes, but soon adjusted themselves as they were my by the two contestants looming overhead. "Oh ho...they are...massive" you looked up nervously.

"Alright contestants, ready your positions. First round will be judged by...belches!" The pole would shift as you found yourself between their torso. The pole would soon rise you more into the air as the tip stopped along their lips. "The rules are simple, make him tap, and you win the match. Lyan, you're up first".

"Ho ho, i've been meanin to let's some air out of this tank" Lyan gasped in some air into his mouth as he forced it down to his stomach. A light groan followed along as his belly extended slightly towards. Taking in a couple of more, his belly bulge into the pole as he lightly pushed into your form. "Yeah, i'd that's enough.." He flexed his stomach more into you as you pushed into it. Its surface was squishy, but his abdomen stopped you hands from sinking further.

He soon leaned down partially, just enough for your upper half to be aligned with his lips before he opened his mouth. Only a rumble came from back of the throat, as you stared into his gullet and seen the muscles inside tighten and then loosen in its place. The rumble would sound return. But this time, a rush of air came from his mouth and onto the pole. The scent was warm as you breath washed over you.

"Oh what a mighty belch folks! Let's get a close in view of the little guy huh?"

The camera screen zoomed into you as you rocked your head from side to side. "Ooh I think my head is spinning.." You say as try to take a breath of fresh air.

"My my folks, the little one seems to be in a daze. How much points shall we give him.." The crowd shuffled through their cards before holding up a panel of 7's. "Perfect sevens? Now that's a pretty good start of the round. Give him a round of applause!" The announcer said as the crowd cheered behind him.

"Sorry, little dude. Body tends to do that to people" he pushed his belly against you as its girth squished into the pole. "One you'll learn eventually..." With a shift he made his belly slide off the pole. As he made his way to the sidelines

"What do you mean by tha-"

"Alright folks! Next up in the round we have Tim! Think he can out belch Lyan? Let's find out" the announced said. A shadow would then cast over you as the tall figure looked down below. His chin partial visible, but his eyes peered into you as he lowered himself down.

"I may not have the muscle work as the other guy, but I got my tricks" he took in an a couple of breath as he swallowed it down to his stomach. Its form would swell behinds his six pack as it tucked its surface into sides of his arms. There was a brief moment of silence as you both stared at each other. The sounds of his stomach churning up was silently there, but soon its presence grew louder as his neck began to flex. He opened his mouth and release the air from within. His neck would tighten before a rocky rumble came out. It was more softer compared to the one lyan gave you, but it's scent was more sour as the air flow into you like a breeze. You nostrils would flare as you shifted it from left to right, but no matter where you turned, the hot breath still lingered.

"Gah that wreaks! What did you even eat!" You say doing your best to clear your nostrils.

"Heh, had some veggies before I came here. By the look on your face, that seem to do the trick huh squirt" he tapped a finger on you as he ruffled your hair. Returning back to his side aa he waited for the results.

"Now that's what I call a soft but fierce approach am I right folks? What do you think we should give for his fine performance?" He announced. The crowd whispered to themselves for a bit before drawing onto their boards. As they held them up, 8 would be on all their boards.

"Well well, a perfect eight! Looks like Tim's the winner in this round! Give him a hand folks!" The crowd cheered as the music played along the side of the stage. They would soon quiet down as the announcer rose up a hand. "And now, onto the round two. Hope the little guy's nose is fit for the job, cause this next round is based off of....butt sniffing!" The pole would lower down slightly as it shrunk to half to half to half height. A rotater would appear below the pole as wheels attached to the bottom. "Since we gave lyan the first start, let's say we give Tim the honors to go first. Show the crowd whatcha got!"

Tim would make his way to the pole as he stood in front of you. Appearing even taller than before at your current height, he placed his hands along his sides as he winked down at you. He turned around as he pulled down his briefs and spread spread them apart to reveal as slightly hairy crack in between. "Better brace yourself little one".

"Oh dear.."

"Alright Tim, when ever you are ready" the announcer ushered. Tim would would only reply with a nod as he leaned down wedged the tip of of the pole vertically into his crack. Ass hairs would fill your vision, and the fresh musk would fill your nostrils as you shuffled your upper half in between them. The wheels beginning to rotate as the. As it lifted you deeply into the crack and lowered you down. With each press, it pressed you harder into the hairs as the sphincter puckered just on the other side. Eventually, after about a minute, the wheels would cease as a bell rang to end Tim's turn. Still holding onto his cheeks, he would lift himself off the pole as his ass hairs caressed your face on its depart.

"My, that was the quite the hairy embrace folks. Let's take a look at the little guy" the camera would zoom in as focused on you. You had a furrowed look on your face as the as your puffed air through your nose. "Looks like the little guy was unfazed on that one, high spirited in fact. Well folks, what should give our contestant Tim here?.." The crowd would shuffle their cards for before as they conversed with each other. They soon drawed out a six as they held it in the air. "A six huh? A pretty good number for your performance Tim. And now, we have Lyan next up to the plate" Lyan would would stand in front of you as he gave out a smirk. Turning around, he pulled down his pants as his ass came into view. Its form starting bulging out as it wobbled in place. He pulled both cheeks apart as you have a clear view his crack further within. The walls were less hairy compared to Tim as slightly sweat made the muscled form glisten.

"Show us what you got Lyan!"

"Let's see how long that expression of yours lasts little dude" he pulled his cheeks past the pole as it eased between his crack. Your body would rest against the sphincter, but the cheeks would continue to wedge you deeper as they morphed the pole into them. As he let them go, his cheeks submerged the tip of the pole between them as the pole started to rotate.

Liquid would drench you close as the sphincter winked into you. The slick skin mushing into you as the wheel lifted the pole to drive you deeper. With each press, your face would squish between his sphincter as it clenched and relax.

"That's way too much...grgh!..sweat!" You muffled between.

"And That's not the only thing you're dealing with" Lyan said squeezing his cheeks together. The sounds of gurgles would linger behind the hole as its form would push into you. It soon rumbled his and released gas from deep inside its ripe smell sent your nose in rage. On the inside, your body would now ve struggling to get a chance of fresh air. But on the outside, only the mounds of ass could be seen as they hid your struggling form from sight. The crowd would listen to the farts Lyan sent out as they pondered what you were enduring deeper inside. Eventually, they got there chance to see as the bell finally rang. "Aww darn, looks like my times up" Lyan adjusted his legs before pulling his ass off the pole. From a slow ascent from the asscrack, you gasped for air as sweat covered your entire body.

"What a swell performance folks. I could smell that from all the way over here. What do ya say we give?" The crowd would raise up 10 as they shined it through the air. "What do ya know, a perfect 10. Looks like you hyped up the crowd on that one Lyan. A swell job".

"Never again...never again" you mumbled to yourself.

"And now, it looks like we've reached the end of the show. From the points we've gathered from the two contestants, we have concluded that...Lyan is the winner of todays show"

"Yes!"

"Aw well, there's always next time" Tim shrugged.

"Congratulations Mr Lyan. You've truly deserve it. You both do. Speaking of deserve" the announcer goes and retrieve you from the pole. "It's time for your reward little one. As promised, your pass to tour own private jacuzzi.

"Yes! Finally i get to relax from all this!"

"Indeed. for a special time only, enjoy your time at the luxury jacuzzi...lyan's belly"

"Hehe, that's a good one. But seriously where is it? Is it behind"

"You could say that.." Lyan would toss you into the air as he opened his mouth wide.

"No no, wait! That's not what i agreed to-**gulp**" Lyan's throat would take you in before you felt the throat muscles drag you into his body. A bulge residing along his neck before disappearing into his collar Bone. There wasn't a bulge to signify you, but Lyan could feel every move you'd make as he gave his belly a firm pat.

"Enjoy your time little one" the announcer spike to Lyan's stomach. "Speaking of time, thank you all for tuning in on tonights broadcast. Without you, this show wouldn't be any special without the lovely cheers from you my lovely. Catch ya next time on, Can. You. Take. It!" The announcer said before ending the show.

Meanwhile in Lyan's stomach, younwould be slouched along a side of his belly's wall as the sound of churns echoes around. "Knew i should've gotten that deal in writing. This always happens whi I don't" you groaned. "Well, least it's empty. Pfft, jacuzzi my ass" the opening of the stomach above would soon open as the chamber began to fill up with liquid. "Son of a..."