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#best boy chiffon
bimbobaggins69 · 2 months
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✧˖*°࿐18+ mdni
𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳
𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: fluff, cursing, eddie has a prince albert, daddy kink(not sorry), unprotected p in v sex, squirting, multiple orgasms.
𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦
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you’ve been aching, desperately aching for Eddie’s cock— since that night of his fourth week healing. He’s eaten you out and fingered you every chance he’s gotten, like: on your way home from the hideout and the grocery store, even in an elevator up to your mutual best friend Steve’s apartment. So needless to say he’s been pleasuring you in any way he can that doesn’t involve penetration; but it’s his eighth week and you’ve been impatiently awaiting it’s arrival. Finally, his prince albert piercing is fully healed and can be used as it was intended. You hoped you’d be the one getting used by the end of tonight.
Once eddie walked through the front door, you couldn’t help but to pounce on him. The thoughts you’ve had today alone, made you drip with need.
“Whoa, whoa!” He bemused with a chuckle as he sat his work bag down.
“I would ask how work was, but I’m trying to get in your pants.” You beamed, sending a salacious wink his way.
“Well, thank you for asking,” he smirked, grabbing the nape of your neck and pulling you into his chest. “I did this really sick piece on this older dude, it covered his whole back and he sat through it like a fucking champ.” He passionately spoke— it wasn’t unknown knowledge that eddie loved his job as a tattoo artist, he came home everyday telling you about the ‘cool shit’ he gets to draw on peoples bodies.
“That’s amazing baby! I can’t wait to hear all about it, right after you’re done fucking me.” You boldly challenge, looking up into his big doe eyes.
“Jesus, you’re like a kid on Christmas. Need it that bad, huh?” He mocks, face splitting with a sly smile.
“Ed’s, it’s been eight weeks since I’ve had you inside me, trust me when I say I am a kid on Christmas. I’ve thought about it all night; was so excited I even put on this little number for ya.” You suggestively bite your lower lip, slipping the black silk robe off of your body, revealing a cute chiffon two piece, the top was long sleeved and the fabric daintily gathered at your wrists, while the tops sat below your shoulders revealing them and an ample amount of cleavage, which was unnecessary considering that both the top and bottoms were completely see through, so much so that you could see just about every detail on your skin; the color of your nipples and how peaked they were, any mole or freckles, and especially the mound of hair you had just above your cunt— Eddie’s eyes specifically zoned in on the growing wet patch just below it. The bottoms were practically non existent, aside from the pretty silk ribbons that were tide into perfect little bows, sitting high on your curvy hips. One look at Eddie’s face and you knew the outfit or lack there of was doing its job.
“Fuck, when did you get this?” Your boyfriend asks, as his pupils burst wide with lustful hunger.
“Last week, when I went shopping with Steve and his new boy toy.” You giggle while his eyes roam over your body, as if every new inch of skin that his eyes met were logged into his brain to be treasured later. “You like?” You ask knowingly, unable to keep the satisfied look off of your face.
“You fucking know I do.” Eddie groans before picking you up and throwing you over his leather clad shoulder. You shriek in amusement as the wet patch in your panties grows double the size.
Once in your shared room, eddie roughly throws you onto your luscious king sized bed; your body flops down as you’re the one to now laugh at Eddie’s eagerness. The metalhead begins yanking off his clothes, desperate to match your nakedness, and he gets them off in record time, before enthusiastically pulling down his black briefs. His beautiful pink cock springs out, hard and leaking as the silver jewelry stares you right in the face. Apart from all of the lascivious thoughts you’ve had these past eight weeks, there was a side of you that was slightly nervous for what it’d feel like, if it would hurt or even bring you pleasure at all. But you’d been waiting too long with bated breath to care now, so you open your legs wide, silently telling eddie you’re for the taking.
His knees fall on the bed before crawling over you, once again hovering like he did that first night you both mutually masturbated and rubbed against each other to completion, except this time you’d be getting all of him and you couldn’t help the swoop in your belly from that thought.
“You ready, sweet girl?” Eddie murmurs, as he waits for your answer he rubs his thumb along your cheek, eyes raking along your face as if committing every little twitch or pout of your lip to memory.
“I’ve been ready, daddy.” You gently rub the tip of your nose against his before pulling him into a needy, sloppy and tongue filled kiss.
“Need you so fucking bad, kitten.” He whines before latching his lips back onto yours, his ringed hands fall to your hips and he works your pretty panties down your pretty thighs so he could get to that pretty pussy.
“Mmm, needy boy.” You whisper back with a cocksure gleam in your eyes.
“Is that how you’re wanting this to go? Hm? Cause you keep talkin’ to me like that and I’m gonna have to punish you.” He huffs but the smug smile he’s fighting tells you he’s enjoying every minute of your bratty attitude.
“Just want you to fuck me now, I’ve been a good girl I deserve it. You can punish me later, please.” You batt your lashes up at him as a pretty pout graces your lips.
“I’m gonna give you what you want, angel. Don’t worry.” The words leave his mouth just before he takes his cock in his hand and slaps it against the curls sitting just above where you’re aching for him.
“Don’t tease.” You mewl as you stuff the side of your face into the sheets, impatiently whining; begging was on the tip of your tongue until eddie lined his cock with your entrance and sunk in, cunt swallowing up his offering with the hunger you felt in your chest. The tip of the piercing immediately hit your sweet spot making you moan so loud, eddie had to pull back and asses your face before moving any further.
“Pleasedon’tfuckingstop!” The sentence rushing out of your mouth as if it were one big word.
Eddie, who is feeling just as desperate as you, needs absolutely no further proof before he’s sinking back into your warm, wet pussy. You suck him in as if you were made for him, heaven on legs.
“Yes, yes fuck! Thank you daddy, thank you!” You babble off praises as the piercing on the tip of his cock pounds against your g spot, unforgiving but so fucking welcomed.
“God, you’re dripping down my dick, baby.” The wetness from your cunt spurs him on as his thrusts speed up quicker, relentless and with passion.
You begin to tighten around him, squeezing him as the fire in your lower stomach blazes hot; hotter than ever before.
“Are you fucking coming, already?” He didn’t mean for it to sound so mocking, he was genuinely stunned that you were coming on his cock within a matter of minutes.
“Yes! Yes I’m coming!” You squeak as your legs begin to shake and your nails dig into his soft back, creating crescent like shapes in his milky white skin. 
“Oh shit, oh fuck!” Eddie begins to shout as you come for him, his cock squeezed so tight it was bordering on painful pleasure. You shake in his arms as you come down from your high but Eddie isn’t finished with you yet; his pace picks up and he’s fucking back into you like he never stopped, the silver, blunt jewelry continuously hitting your inner bundle of nerves. A few more thrusts and the fire is back with a blazing vengeance. Your cunt spasms around him again, making his eyes shoot to yours in disbelief, as he takes in the way you’re utterly falling apart for him.
“Holy shit.” He whispers, so close to your face his breath skims your lips.
“Eddie! Oh my-” you cant even finish your words as they dislodge from your brain, absolutely no thoughts but eddie, eddie, eddie. The second you feel that burn and need to push, you begin to stammer, wanting to tell him somethings not right, it feels different but nothing leaves your mouth. Instead a loud gush of fluid, echoes out around the sex scented room.
“What the-” eddie begins to ask, confusion written on his face as he looks down between your bodies, where you’re connected, immediately witnessing the soaked sheets and the droplets splayed on both his and your thighs.
“You squirted, holy fuck! You squirted kitten.” He beams with lust filled excitement, you lay there dumbfounded. You heard that these kinds of piercings were known to make pussy owners squirt, and you were hoping you’d be lucky enough to experience it but weren’t banking on it actually happening, it was more wishful thinking.
You and eddie smile at each other, before he’s going back in for the kill; kissing your lips sweetly as his hips begin to snap against yours. Thrusts egged on by his itching need to come.
“Ah fuck, you feel so good kitten. Shit I’m coming!” He breaths out harshly, as his forehead rests on yours; eyes meeting in a love filled gaze as he empties inside of you. The warmth of his spend has you moaning with him, holding him in your arms and pushing his hair off of his sweaty face.
You both lay intertwined, limbs kissing limbs as you and eddie recap the best sex you’d both just had, to date.
“So, the wait was worth it then?” Eddie asks, knowingly scanning your face.
“So fucking worth it.”
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@wonderlandwalker hope you enjoy, babe!
tagging some moots <3
@corrodedcorpses @xxhellfirebunnyxx @taintedcigs @reidsbtch @chrrymunson @eddiesxangel @melodymunson @succubusmunson @mmunson86 @keeksandgigz @nailbatanddungeon @imyourdaninow
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mistydeyes · 6 months
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hiiiii I LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!!!!! Can you please do 141 with a model reader who does Chanel,Versace etc and she gets an invite to do Victoria’s Secret runway and they see her down the runway how would they react
she’s not any model shes and icon,sex symbol,brains,she is the moment
big inspo for me ( I want to become a model)
AHHH I LOVE THIS! anon i feel you tho, every time i look on pinterest i just want to be a model! thank you for requesting <3
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summary: The 141 has always had an odd connection of friends, allies, and connections. However, they can't deny that they don't enjoy your luxurious life as a model and the perks that come along with attending one of your shows.
pairing: Taskforce 141 x fem!reader
warnings: swearing
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A series of events in Milan allowed the 141 to cross paths with you. Staying in a lavish French penthouse was far from what they had expected on a mission dictated by Laswell but her connections with your retired INTERPOL mother had brought them the extravagance of your home and lifestyle. Laswell had to threaten to have their court marshaled if they delayed their arrival home any longer. You thought of that brief moment in summer fondly as you left Gaz a voicemail. "I have a runway in New York coming up, let me know if you'll be on leave," you spoke on the phone, examining your manicured nails, "accommodations and champagne are on me." 
"This is nice," Price said, dropping his duffle onto the marbled tile of their hotel room. "Are you kidding, Cap?" Gaz said as he opened every door into the massive suite, "This is fucking amazing." When they got off the plane at JFK, they had not expected a private driver who brought them to the ornate hotel. The room itself had four separate bedrooms with two bathrooms filled with the best amenities. Soap had taken the opportunity to run over and open a bottle of champagne while Ghost pilfered the small shampoo and conditioner bottles. While the men explored the vast rooms and fought over the beds, there was a knock at the door. Price opened it to reveal a well-dressed bell-hop boy, holding a tray with an envelope. "Four tickets sent by one of the models," he spoke and Price handled the black envelope with embossed pink lettering. "Hell of invitation," he muttered before he looked at the runway time and shared the details with his team. "Wonder what she'll be wearing," Soap mused as he turned to take over one of the bathrooms.
Behind the stage, there was organized chaos with models running around in their silk robes in between the stations. The chatter roared as they chatted with the various hair stylists and makeup artists. "First VS show?" your makeup artist asked as she applied glitter delicately to your primed lids. "Yes, but not my first modeling gig," you smiled as you felt the pressure on your closed eyes, "Versace was beyond a mess compared to this." The artist laughed as she continued to prep your look. You could see mixes of pink and gold applied to your lips and the apples of your cheeks. "We think an olive green liner would look stunning on you," she said before holding a green eyeliner pencil in hand. You nodded in response as you shifted a bit in your robe. You gently closed your eyes again as you envisioned your latest outfit for the night.
Weeks prior you had visited the city to see your outfit for the night. A sage green bra and panty set decorated with pink and glittery flowers to resemble a meadow. Your wings were made of a delicate rose pink chiffon that was reminiscent of a fairy. "Do you like?" the designer asked as you walked around the stand and examined every stitch and detail. You smiled as you nodded happily, feeling the soft fabric under your fingertips. "Any particular inspiration?" you questioned as you made sure to feel the weight of the wings. "The newest line of Victoria's Secret," she spoke dreamily, "the delicacy of nature."
With your makeup and hair done, you walked over to change and receive the final touches from the design team. The group walked rapidly around your figure, assuring every detail would shine when the lights hit your walk. "Have anyone special here tonight?" one of the designers asked as he cut a few loose stitches. "Just a few friends from Europe," you spoke, hoping you didn't sound too entitled. You wanted to talk more but your odd friendship with a small special forces group would definitely reach some tabloids. "You look perfect darling," another designer spoke and you nodded before beginning to walk in your heels. "You can mingle with the others. Your collection is after the classics set," she reminded. You took a deep breath and made some facetious conversation with the other women. They were in awe at your previous shows but you just simply talked as if each was a mediocre experience. "Alright ladies, walk begins in five," a voice called over the comms and you lined up accordingly. As you watched the excited group in front of you, you wondered what you would treat the 141 to for dinner. You were sure if someone knew this is what you thought of before a show, they would laugh.
"Move up, Y/N," the stage manager directed, pulling you out of your food-related musings, "almost time for you to go on." You moved forward, getting into the comfort of your model walk you had done so many times before. You took a deep breath as you heard the live music stream through the curtains and the ethereal light peek through. You looked down at your attire one last time before the model ahead of you returned and it was your turn to awe the show. "Go, go, go," you could hear the stage manager command as the bright lights and menagerie of faces met your gaze.
"I think this is her!" Gaz commented, leaning forward in his chair. "You've been saying that for the past four models," Ghost corrected before he turned to see who was coming out next. As the men directed their gaze to the stage, you confidently strutted onto the platform. They were glued to your figure, perfectly accentuated by the flirtatious lingerie set. The details were delicate and encapsulated your aura. "Fuck." Soap whispered under his breath as the glitter and flower additions to your ensemble shimmered underneath the light. Your wings bounced and looked like they flittered in the air as you made your way in front of the watching crowd. "She's a natural at this," Price commented as he watched the way you walked in a straight line with an air of elegance in each step. He also couldn't deny the way you shined on stage and how the cameras clicked in rapid succession. As you reached the end of the runway, you took an opportunity to look over at the seats you had picked for the 141. You gave a small wink before blowing a kiss in their direction. 
Upon your exiting, there was a clamor amongst the group as to who the kiss was directed to. Primarily, Soap and Gaz were at odds thinking you made eye contact with them as you puckered your glossed lips. Price attempted to put a stop to them before Ghost spoke up. "I'm sure that was for me," he spoke quietly, leaving everyone to shelf the conversation and bring it up later over dinner.
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apuckishwit · 1 year
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When Your Boyfriend's a Reformed Mean Girl
100 percent inspired by this tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTR75sjkf/
Time seems to do wierd things for Eddie Munson.
It's something Steve has gotten used to, in the year they've been dating. Eddie is attentive and affectionate, always makes sure Steve needs are being met, always goes the extra mile to let Steve know how much he loves him, how much he cherishes their time together. In many ways, he's the best partner Steve's ever had.
Just...sometimes things like approaching deadlines and important dates seem to literally not register in his brain until it's almost too late. And not even then, sometimes.
Eddie acknowledges that it's a problem. He puts every effort into finding workarounds. There is a calendar hanging at both his (brand new, government-funded) trailer and Steve's house, hanging right by the door with color-coded schedules and a pack of Post-It notes and a cup of pens sitting on a little table below it in case something changes or comes up. Steve has a dedicated half hour every night where he's allowed to remind Eddie of things they have coming up, or ask if they've been added to the calendar and Eddie is one hundred percent not allowed to gripe about being nagged in that thirty minutes. Not that he would, because most of the time there's at least one, "Oh, shit, forgot about that." When something slips through the cracks, he apologizes promptly and sincerely if it's something that affects someone other than him and he is always trying to do better.
Steve understands. Hell, after as many concussions as he's had, details get away from him too sometimes. There's several color-coded blocks on the calendar for Steve, as well. Sometimes, Eddie just forgets things despite his best efforts.
But their anniversary? The date that Steve has been carefully planning for almost a month to celebrate their first (of hopefully, many) year together as a couple? Really?
Eddie is going to be horrified.
He is going to feel so bad, and so guilty, and he is absolutely going to go all out to make it up to Steve. Steve knows this. He knows Eddie loves him, and that Eddie was looking forward to tonight as much as he was, and that this is just an instance of Eddie's brain betraying him, and not him actively trying to hurt Steve, or be dismissive of him. Eddie is going to feel awful when he realizes that he stood Steve up on their one-year anniversary to fight imaginary dragons with the boys. Hell, the boys are probably going to feel awful when they realize they gave Eddie something else to focus on in the lead-up to his one-year anniversary.
Well. Dustin, Lucas, and Will are going to feel awful. Mike will probably think it's hilarious.
The point is, Steve knows Eddie didn't do this on purpose, and it's not that Eddie doesn't value his time with Steve enough to remember the date, and so he's merely irritated. Maybe a little exasperated. Not truly angry.
All he has to do is radio over to Wheeler's place and remind Eddie what the date is. His boyfriend will literally drop everything, will probably not even bother to pack up his precious miniatures and dice before he's tearing out of the driveway and breaking every traffic law imaginable to get to Steve's house. Steve doesn't actually want Eddie to get a ticket or anything, though. Besides.
He's feeling a little petty.
There's steaks waiting to be tossed on the grill, twice-baked potatoes in the oven, and a fucking homemade chiffon cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream chilling in the fridge. Eddie's gift is sitting on the counter, in an elegant little gift bag tied with black ribbon.
"Hey Rob, you wanna come over for dinner?" he says into his walkie, deciding to let Fate decide if his boyfriend is listening and catches a clue.
"Do I get a piece of that cake you made?" Robin replies immediately, amusement already dancing in her voice because she's his (platonic) soulmate and she can read his mind.
"You can take the leftovers home," he says.
And then his (romantic) soulmate, who can usually read his mind, comes over the channel as well. "Have fun, babe!" Eddie says brightly. "This is probably going to run later than I thought. I'll probably just pick you up for breakfast tomorrow, okay?"
Steve rolls his eyes fondly. "Okay."
"Love you!" Eddie says, and signs off.
Robin brings a bottle of wine she stole from her parents' pantry and they demolish the dinner and half the cake. Steve does get another package of steaks out to thaw in the fridge for tomorrow, though, and blows out the fancy candles he'd lit before they burn too low to be used again. Fuck if he's making another chiffon cake, though, persnickety little thing. He calls Enzo's and orders a chocolate marble cheesecake to be picked up tomorrow.
"So you gonna milk this for a nice present or what?" Robin asks as Steve is packing the remains of the cake for her to take home, as promised.
"Nah. He's fucking perfect like 90% of the time...I'm not gonna get mad at him for the other ten." Robin smiles at him, a little gooey-eyed. Steve returns it with a smirk. "But I'm not letting him off the hook entirely."
He has just finished putting the dishes away when he hears the rumble of Eddie's van in the driveway. He glances down at his watch, laughing to himself a little when he notes that while late, it is far, far too early for a gaming session to be done. He scoops his little gift bag off the counter and saunters to the front door just in time for a frantic knocking to sound. He schools his features and opens the door.
"Steve! Stevie, baby, I am so, so sorry. I swear to God, I had tonight written down in like five different places, but Dustin wanted to try a new character class and we haven't done this campaign yet, and I got so excited...I'm so sorry I forgot, but I'm here and I SWEAR I will make it up to you!" Eddie pauses for breath, wild-eyed and panting.
Steve holds the silence for a moment, and then shakes his head, leaning forward to drop a kiss on Eddie's cheek. "You're such a nerd," he says, affection dripping from his words. He sighs. "I hope you know, now I'm expecting flowers tomorrow. And I get to pick the movies for, like, two weeks with no complaints."
Eddie almost wilts in relief. "Absolutely none," he promises, reaching out to grip Steve's hand. "I will make tomorrow night AMAZING. I promise."
Steve smiles at him, his chest aching with the love he feels for this man. But he's still feeling just a little bit petty. He holds the bag out to Eddie, tilting his head coyly. "You can still open this tonight, though."
"Babe! I thought we said no gifts." He takes the bag in his hands, plucking at the ribbon.
Steve's smile turns just a little sharper. He worked fucking hard on that cake. "It's kind of for both of us, really. It's what I was gonna wear up to bed tonight."
Eddie peeks in the box, his brow furrowing. "Stevie...there's nothing but strawberry lip gloss and a bottle of lube in here." He looks up, and freezes as his brain catches up with what his mouth just said.
Steve leans forward and kisses him, hard, long, and absolutely filthy. "Suffer," he whispers against his boyfriend's lips.
Then he shuts the door in his face.
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steph-speaks · 14 days
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Tethered - P. 2
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Author's Note: I want you guys to know that I have been staring at this gif for ten million years and my best friend has been referring to Austin/Feyd as "Mr. Baldy" and it brings me great joy. 'Kay have a good night. 🤧
Warnings: 18+ only Not Dune-accurate in the slightest, kissing, nicknames that somehow turn into pet names (Teacher, sweet boy) little bit of soft!Feyd, some dom/sub dynamics but it's not who you think. ;) Descriptions of fantasizing, biting, masterbation.
"Hello, Teacher."
Your gaze softens as he takes the blade away from your throat, depositing it back into its sheath without blinking. He backs off of you slowly, giving you time to sit up.
"Hello, sweet boy." You echo your old endearment. "Though, I hear you're not so sweet anymore."
The corner of his lip turns up. "That depends on who you ask."
You hum amusedly, well aware of his sexual exploits, and you slip from the great bed to pad over to a carafe, pouring water into two glasses. "You've grown up."
Your movements are slow and deliberate, and you take note of his watchful eye as you hand him a glass. He waits to press it to his lips until you take a generous sip from your own, proving the water hasn't been poisoned.
"And become increasingly cautious." You add teasingly.
"And you less so, it seems." He parries. "You all but walked into an enemie's den, even after surviving an assassination attempt. I thought you were smarter than that."
"I thought we were allies," You ignore his insult as you sit on a velvet chaise in the center of the room, tucking your legs under yourself. He takes the opposite one, arm draped casually across the back. You recognize that from this positioning, he's trying to convey openness and familiarity. "And you forget, you're in my den."
His unwavering gaze betrays him. He doesn't trust you—and why should he? He hasn't seen you since he was a child, and you, a teenager.
But he does seem curious as to why you're here, and he hasn't killed you yet.
"Even allies are enemies," He says, signet ring clinking against his glass absently. "All waiting to strike."
You feel your head covering slipping off, so you reach up to untangle it from your hair and veil, discarding the chiffon on the chaise. You wonder if baring yourself to him—even if it's in such a small way—is enough to entice him to lower his guard. Your suspicions are confirmed when you observe his eyes traveling over your bare neck and what little he can see of your decolletage that isn't hidden away by your clothing. You pretend not to notice, fixing your hairstyle with deft fingers.
"Is that why you proposed?" You ask, honestly curious. "I can't see the next baron of Giedi turning down an opportunity to father children; it would be foolish of you."
He says nothing as you ponder on those thoughts, looking down at the glass you have clasped in your lap. "It seems a perfect opportunity to tie yourself to the throne, though..."
You glance back up at him and see a hard line set in his jaw.
"And then," You continue. "Once you've secured yourself, another assassination attempt." A mock gasp rips from your throat. "The Baron's new bride, dead in her sleep. What an awful tragedy."
He tilts his head at your indifferent tone. "You don't seem offended by the prospect."
You look down at the bands adorning your fingers and he follows your gaze. Your taste had always been simple, never one for flashy baubles or intricate gowns woven with jewels. Knowing you've stayed much the same over the years intrigues him because most women of station took advantage of such things—they enjoyed them guiltlessly.
But not you, it seemed.
He wonders what you might look like, swaddled in tiny diamonds and pearls, dripping with decadence as he fucks into your willing body, ruining you in front of an audience like rituals of old.
"Death isn't something I fear," You admit, catching his eye once more and ripping him away from his daydream. "I welcome the day I'm freed from this golden cage."
"Sweet reward," He replies, mulling over your confession. "It would be a waste to kill you. Doesn't your father consult you as a Navigator?"
You scoff, bitter longing coating your words. "No. Not since I fell ill. I haven't left the palace grounds in years, let alone sailed through the stars as the Guild does."
He silently changes his seating arrangement, choosing instead to sit beside you, his knee brushing your own. He takes into account the crows feet that are barely beginning to show at the corner of your eyes, knowing this must mean you've also declined mainstream beauty procedures the aristocracy and Great Houses have access to.
"You haven't changed," He rasps. "Not a single bit since I last saw you."
Your smile is soft, and he realizes in that moment that he'd missed it so very dearly.
"You should marry Irulan."
He clucks his tongue at your misdirection. "Why?"
"You can give each other children."
"What makes you think I want the little brats?"
That makes you pause.
"I suppose that's what we're all taught to want," Your voice grows quieter. "I find it to be pointless. The Bene Gesserit control much of this world—and the others—for what? Why treat your children as pawns in a grand game? Where does it end?"
"We're all pawns," He points out. "It never ends."
He downs the rest of his water, the glass clinking on the center table between the two chaise. "But I am not so blind as to see they are frightened."
Your expression turns to one of confusion, and he wants to thumb away the furrow that forms between your brows. "Why?"
"Whispers," He says smugly. "Of the one the Fremen call Muad'Dib. They believe he was prophesied to lead them to paradise. Only—"
He raises a finger. "He's a generation early."
"I don’t—" You break off, the revelation hitting you like a ton of bricks. "Oh. He's broken their cycle."
"Yes," Feyd grins, his black teeth shining in the low light. "And I know his real name. Paul Atreides."
He laughs maniacally as your mouth widens in shock.
"Paul Atreides is the one who will end the Bene Geserit meddling." Quick as a whip, his index finger taps your nose teasingly.
"You taught me more than just astronomy, Teacher," He giggles. "I saw you in your offices when I was a boy, debating and studying your strategies. Always wanting more and more—"
He takes your hands, pulling you up to spin you around. You feel like a puppet as he twirls you, ringing a breathless gasp from your lips. He's still grinning when he pulls you to his chest. A dangerous, predatory grin that warns you—he'll eat you whole if you let him.
"You crave knowledge," He continues, dark eyes alight with admiration. "Let me give it to you. Accept my proposal, and I'll free you from your golden cage."
Tempting. Oh, so very tempting.
"You'll not be exchanging it for another?" You ask, hands pressed at his waist through his thin black tunic. You can practically feel the strength lying underneath his muscles, thrumming in time with his heartbeat.
"Never," He shakes his head with conviction, eyes flickering over apprehension. "Never."
Your eyes flicker down to his lips and he takes advantage of your distracted state, hand cupping the back of your neck to press his mouth to yours. It's hungry, powerful as his grip tangles in your hair and tightens, making you gasp. The bite he aims at your jaw is punishing, but he soothes it away with a warm tongue that leaves a wet trail, making you shiver as it cools.
Your fingers tighten in his tunic, grounding you as he continues his ministrations, coming back to your mouth to suck on your tongue.
"I have wanted you for as long as I have known you," He growls against your lips, the feeling of your body finally wrapped in his arms is euphoric and he loves how responsive you are with your startled little sighs and the leaning of your weight as you try to get as close as possible. "Spent countless nights dreaming of you, fisting my own cock to the thought of how you would feel around me."
Your breath hitches at his filthy words, heat pooling in your abdomen.
"Sweet words," You stammer as he tugs the shoulder of your dress down none too gently, attacking your neck with his teeth. "I don't believe you."
His hands feel so large as they travel over your covered breasts, your waist as he nuzzles his head over the fabric, kneeling in front of you. The sight of the warrior Harkonnen at your feet is dizzying so you strategically place your hands on his shoulders.
"I would worship you," His head tilts up, a look of reverence on his pale face. "Say yes, Teacher."
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips even though he'd left them spit-slick and swollen.
"Only if you promise to be good, sweet boy, and wait."
His jaw ticks as his hands fist your dress. He wants you now. Has he not waited long enough?
"We'll make the wedding a private affair." You coo softly, fingers tracing his high cheekbone. He leans into it immediately and you feel a delicious twinge between your legs at his vulnerability. You begin to wonder if the cause of his willingness to please you stems from some traumatic event in his past.
'Oh, my sweet Feyd.' You think as he bows his head to rest on your legs that he has a death grip around. 'I don't know how, but I'll protect you best I can.'
***
His ship leaves the atmosphere the next morning, after your father announced to his court you would be marrying in a month’s time. Only the Great Houses would be present.
It's the best you could do on such short notice, in lieu of making it seem like your father was desperate to be rid of his fruitless adopted daughter. Feyd's frustration is quelled as you send him off with a lingering kiss and a parcel—not to be opened until he arrives back on Giedi Prime.
He rips into it as soon as he can break away from his uncle's hearty congratulations, touching downy fabric that slips through his fingers.
The dress you had worn all day, encompassed with your natural scent and light perfume. He holds it to his face and groans, his cock hardening in his trousers at your ingenuity. He bites at it as he lays down, rutting his hips against his bed and pretending he's fucking you. He's careful not to rip the dress; he'll want you to wear it once more, when you're married and spread open willingly.
One meeting and you've reduced him to a wild, primal beast. What will marriage be like?
When the friction of his trousers gets him to the edge of orgasm, he digs his teeth into his left palm and imagines it's you instead. Your thigh, maybe. Your bare neck. Maybe the swell of your ass, marked by the imprint of his incisors.
Yes. His little wife would fit in just fine.
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capricorn-season · 11 months
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Homophobia in drag
When I was a young boy, I loved spending the night at my grandmother’s house. There, I could stay up as late as I wanted, and in the morning, there would always be Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast. But the best part was raiding the closet in her basement, which was full of the gowns she had worn in the 1960s and 1970s – frilly pink and purple confections made of lace, chiffon and silk. I would put them on and watch The Golden Girls, sophisticatedly sipping Coke from a wine glass.
When I was nine, my dad bought a video camera, a giant monstrosity that my siblings and I struggled to balance on our shoulders while we filmed home videos. Alone, I’d prop the camera on the coffee table and record myself modelling various outfits, explaining to the camera why this plaid shirt went with these cargo shorts, or why this teal Starter jacket complemented these acid-washed jeans so perfectly. I captured on camera the dance I had painstakingly choreographed to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s ‘Good Vibrations’.
As a kid, I followed my two older sisters around like a shadow, mimicking their mannerisms – the way they tucked loose strands of hair behind their ears when they were concentrating on their maths homework; the way they jutted their hips whenever they were talking to cute boys. Like them, I was a naturally athletic kid. My favourite sport was lacrosse, but I much preferred to play with the girls instead of the boys. The boys were quick to push and shove, and they loved to whack each other with their aluminium sticks. Girls relied more on their speed, their reflexes and the skills they’d honed to keep the ball securely cradled in the shallow mesh of their wooden sticks.
I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian community – most people would call it a cult. From kindergarten to the sixth grade, I attended the community’s tiny school. Because enrollment was so low, there was no in-crowd, no separate cliques of jocks and geeks. In retrospect, I’m sure my classmates and especially my teachers noticed my gender-nonconformity – all of my home videos prove that it was glaring – but it went largely ignored. All that mattered was that we were good Christians, that we loved Jesus and evangelised God’s Word to as many people as possible. When I learned about homosexuals in Bible class, or about AIDS (which we were told God had created to punish homosexuals for their sins), I didn’t think for a moment that I was one of them. Sure, my first real crush, when I was 11, had been on a boy – Elijah Wood, an actor about my age whose performance in the 1994 B-movie, North, had captured my heart. But at the time, before sexual maturity, I mistook the longing I felt for Elijah with the more sanitised desire to simply keep his company and be his best friend. I indiscriminately absorbed all of the lessons I learned about homosexuals, as if they were and would always be irrelevant to my life.
The summer after my sixth-grade year, my family left the community and we moved to a neighbouring town. I began seventh grade in a large public school, where there was definitely an in-crowd. My new classmates wasted little time informing me how unacceptable it was for a boy like me to behave the way I did – the way I enunciated my s-words, the way I brushed my auburn hair, which I had highlighted the previous summer with Sun-In. They called me a faggot, delivered me notes that said everyone knew my ‘dirty little secret’. They asked me frequently, ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’. Well, of course I was a boy, I would respond, trembling.
Meanwhile, I was beginning to sexually mature; I was soon developing crushes that inspired more than just a desire to keep a boy’s company. With horror, I realised that I might actually be what the kids were calling me – which, I knew in my bones, guaranteed me a tragically short life and a one-way ticket to hell. That, after all, was what the old form of homophobia entailed. Self-loathing.
To survive the onslaught, I defeminised myself. I lowered my voice, started wearing baggy jeans and sweatshirts, cut the highlights out of my hair, and replaced my Mariah Carey CDs with Nirvana. Soon, the fear and the anxiety became too much to bear, and the only refuge I found was in alcohol and drugs.
In high school, with each passing year, my drug use got worse. After graduation, I lasted one semester in college before dropping out. Two months later, at the age of 19, I had my first of several stays in a local psychiatric ward. I was delusional, addicted to drugs and suicidal.
It was during my second stay in the psychiatric ward that I was introduced to a 12-step programme, which was how I would eventually get sober in my early twenties. It was slow-going in the beginning of my sobriety to accept my homosexuality. I began to reconnect with the young boy I had once been, the boy whose interests expanded beyond what was typical for males. I experimented with bronzer and mascara, and got French manicures and pedicures.
Engaging in these behaviours felt liberating for a while, but eventually the novelty wore off. In fact, they started to feel performative. I realised I didn’t need those things to be my authentic self. My ideas, my voice, the way I treat other people – these are the things that make me the person I truly am.
In 2011, when I was 28, I fell in love with a man. The following year, I joined the fight for marriage equality. After we won that campaign, I knew I wanted to become a gay activist. I wanted to help create a world in which feminine boys and butch girls could exist peacefully in society. A world in which gender-nonconforming people were accepted as natural variations of their own sex. Minorities, sure, but real and valid nonetheless.
The trans question
In 2017, at the age of 33, I enrolled at Columbia University, New York to complete my undergraduate degree. There, I was shocked to discover how gay activism had evolved since marriage equality became the law of the land. The focus was now entirely on personal pronouns and on being ‘queer’. My classmates labelled me ‘cis’, short for cisgender. I didn’t even know what it meant. All I knew was that they called me ‘cis’ in the same cadence that the seventh graders had called me ‘fag’.
Soon, I learned about nonbinary identities, and that some people – many people – were literally arguing that sex, not gender, was a social construct. I met people who evangelised a denomination of transgenderism that I had never heard of, one that included people who had never been gender dysphoric and who had no desire to medically transition. I met straight people whose ‘trans / nonbinary’ identities seemed to be defined by their haircuts, outfits and inchoate politics. I met straight women with Grindr accounts, and listened to them complain about the ‘transphobic’ gay men who didn’t want to have sex with women.
All around me, it seemed, straight people were spontaneously identifying into my community and then policing our behaviours and customs. I began to think that this broadening of the ‘trans’ and ‘queer’ umbrella was giving a hell of a lot of people a free pass to express their homophobia.
At Columbia, I took classes on LGBT history, but much of that history was delivered through the lens of queer theory. Queer theorists appropriate French philosopher Michel Foucault’s ideas about the power of language in constructing reality. They argue that homosexuality didn’t exist prior to the late 19th century, when the word ‘homosexual’ first appeared in medical discourse. Queer theorists proselytise a liberation that supposedly results from challenging the concepts of empirical reality and ‘normativity’. But their converts instead often end up adrift in a sea of nihilism. Queer theory, which has become the predominant method of discussing and analysing gender and sexuality in universities, seemed to me to be more ideological than truthful.
In my classes on gender and sexuality in the Muslim world, however, I discovered something else, too. I learned about current medical practices in Iran, where gay sex is illegal and punishable by death, and where medical transition is subsidised by the state to ‘cure’ gays and lesbians who, the theocratic elite insists, are ‘normal’ people ‘trapped in the wrong bodies’. I privately drew parallels between the anti-gay laws and practices of Iran and what I saw developing in the West, but I convinced myself I was just being paranoid.
Then, I learned about what was happening to gender-nonconforming kids – that they were being prescribed off-label drugs to halt their natural development, so that they’d have time to decide if they were really transgender. If so, they would then be more successful at passing as the opposite sex in adulthood. Even worse, I learned that these practices were being touted by LGBT-rights organisations as ‘life-saving medical care’.
It felt like I was living in an episode of The Twilight Zone. How long were these kids supposed to remain on the blockers? And what happens in a few years, if they decide they’re not ‘truly trans’ after all, and all of their peers have surpassed them? Are they seriously supposed to commence puberty at 16 or 17 years of age? These questions rattled my brain for months, until I learned the actual statistics: nearly all children who are prescribed puberty blockers go on to receive cross-sex hormones. Blockers don’t give a kid time to think. They solidify him in a trans identity and sentence him to a lifetime of very expensive, experimental medicalisation.
I wondered how different these so-called trans kids were from the little boy I had been. Obviously, I grew up to be a gay man and not a transwoman. But how could gender clinicians tell the difference between a young boy expressing his homosexuality through gender nonconformity, and someone ‘born in the wrong body’? I decided to dig deeper into the real history of medical transition.
Medicalising homosexuality
What I learned validated all of my worst fears. I learned that for decades after their invention, synthetic ‘sex hormones’ were used by doctors and scientists who sought to ‘cure’ homosexuality, and by law enforcement to chemically castrate men convicted of committing homosexual acts.
I learned about actress and singer Christine Jorgensen, one of the first people in the US to become widely known for having ‘sex-reassignment’ surgery in the early 1950s. Jorgensen may now be celebrated by the modern ‘LGBTQIA+’ community as a trans icon, but he seemed more concerned with escaping his homosexuality, which he said was ‘deeply alien to my religious attitudes’. As Jorgensen put it, ‘I identified myself as female and consequently my interests in men were normal’.
I learned that of the first adolescents to be treated for gender dysphoria (or what was then called ‘gender identity disorder’) with puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones in the 1990s and early 2000s, the vast majority were homosexual. And I learned that these studies inform current ‘gender-affirming care’ practices.
Soon, I met detransitioned gay men who had sought an escape from internalised and external homophobia in a transgender identity. They continue to suffer severe post-surgical complications, years after their vaginoplasties.
I began to fear we had reached a point of no return a couple of years ago, during a conversation I had with a supposedly ‘progressive’ friend. I told her that, if I had been a young boy now, I likely would have been prescribed puberty blockers and gone on to medically transition. ‘And you don’t think you would’ve been happy as a transwoman?’, she asked me. Her question left me speechless. I couldn’t find the words to state the obvious: that I am a gay man, not a transwoman; that statistics tell me my medical transition may not have been successful; and that I would suffer severe medical complications. In any case, if I had transitioned, I wouldn’t be living an authentic life. After all, isn’t that what this is supposed to be about? Living authentically?
Sylvester, an androgynous disco icon of the 1970s and 1980s, was once asked what gay liberation meant to him. He answered, ‘I could be the queen that I really was without having a sex change or being on hormones’. Perhaps I belong in an earlier era, when newly liberated gays and lesbians rebelled against the medical and psychiatric experiments they had long been subjected to. Perhaps my early aspiration of expanding what it means to be a boy or a girl was nothing but a pipe dream. In Europe, there is hope that these medical experiments will cease, and that gay and lesbian adolescents will be spared from a lifetime of medicalisation. But in the US, nearly eight years after same-sex marriage became the law of the land, it is full-steam ahead with these homophobic practices.
For voicing my concerns about gender-affirming care for minors, I have been called a transphobic bigot. If that’s what speaking out against the medicalisation of homosexuality makes me, then so be it.
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inbloomwriting · 8 months
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a kiss that I kept II Jamie Tartt
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Plot: Jamie Tartt was 9 years old when he met the love of his life. He considers himself lucky to have met her at such a young age. He considers himself a damn fool for fucking it up later on though. Pairing: Jaime Tartt x female reader Warnings: Swearing, mentions of food and alcohol, mentions of Jamie's dad. Notes: Friends to idiots to lovers. Inspired by "Simple Song" by the Shins Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please
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When I was just nine years old I swear that I dreamed Your face on a football field And a kiss that I kept Under my vest Apart from everything But the heart in my chest
There’s something cathartic about being back home in Manchester. Not as a footballer, just as Jamie. When he doesn’t have to be phenomenal, when he doesn’t have to perform and win. When he doesn’t have to try so damn hard to give his dad a reason to be proud of him.
Without those expectations and without the pressure, it feels good to be home. It’s a part of his childhood that is untouched by his father’s malice. It’s pure and joyful and precious.
He’s not Jamie Tartt, golden child and footballer extraordinaire. He’s cousin Jamie. He’s Jamie from down the road. He’s Georgie’s boy. 
It’s been a while since he’s been back, been even longer since he’s seen any of his extended family but being back now, it feels like hardly any time has passed. Millie has always been his favorite cousin so when the envelope showed up in his mailbox, all fancy paper and swirly font, there was no hesitation in him. Nothing could keep him from attending her wedding.
She’s a beautiful bride, all flowy dress and flowers in her hair. It’s almost hard to believe she’s the same kid that used to run around the neighborhood with Jamie, getting into trouble wherever they could find it. But somewhere between chiffon and carnations that little girl still exists. He wonders if the little boy he used to be is still alive somewhere inside of him. He hopes he’s proud of who he grew up to be. Sometimes he doubts it. 
His eyes wander across the room, the reception is in full swing, people are talking, laughing, celebrating. Love is radiating from every smile. Though Jamie doesn’t really care all too much about that if he’s being completely honest, he only cares about one particular smile. 
And when he catches sight of her, leaning against the bar with a glass of champagne in hand, wearing a gorgeous powder pink dress and daisies in her hair, he’s certain his heart misses a beat. 
It would be an understatement to call (Y/N) his best childhood friend. Friend was never a big enough word to describe what she meant to Jamie — what she still means to him. 
Jamie Tartt was 9 years old when he met the love of his life. He considers himself lucky to have met her at such a young age. He considers himself a damn fool for fucking it up later on though. 
“Are you planning on talking to me anytime soon or do you just want to stare at me all day, Tartt?” 
She says it with the same sense of mischief she’s always held. Like a silent promise of adventure perpetually hidden in her words. 
“I was going to — eventually.” 
“Well, eventually is not good enough for me. I missed you, Jamie.” 
It’s only when she pulls him into a hug that he realizes just how much that sentiment is reciprocated. The familiar scent of lavender and the feel of her body against his, it all brings up so many memories of times long gone. This, Jamie thinks, is as close to time travel as humans will ever get.
He is suddenly 9 years old, playing soccer on the field just down the road from his house. His football is old and slightly inflated and some of the hexagons are flaking off, just holding on by a single tread. His goal is no real goal and all but two plastic bottles functioning as make-believe goalposts.
 The air smells like sunscreen and summer and dust and life is easy for a moment. He gets to do what he loves without having to prove anything to anyone. Football is just a game here, something to pass the time. It’s fun.
He does kicks and jumps and trick shots and it doesn’t matter if he messes up. He can fail without having to fear any repercussions. There is no one there to judge him for it. Failure is a byproduct of trying not a sign of weakness. 
Just as he is about to line up another shot at the makeshift goal, he sees her across the football field. At 9 years old, Jamie doesn’t know a lot of things but he’s quite certain she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. For a moment he wonders if she’s a dream, an illusion. Then she steps closer, comes walking towards him with that bright smile of hers and the glimmer of excitement shining in her eyes. 
“You’re really good,” she says. He’s heard that a few times before, it never mattered then because he wasn’t good enough, not to his father at least. It matters when this stranger says it though, because she’s pretty and because she has no reason to lie to him. 
“Thanks. I’m Jamie.”
“You’re bleeding.” 
His eyes follow to where she points at his right knee and sure enough, it’s scraped up, a drop of blood running down his leg.
“Does it hurt?” 
Jamie shrugs as if to let her know that it’s not a big deal. It does sting quite a bit now that she pointed it out to him. He’s not gonna let her know that though, girls don’t like soft boys who whine about scraped knees.
“I have a plaster if you want one. So you don’t get any dirt in the wound.” 
She doesn’t even wait for an answer, just rummages through her purse that’s shaped like a little poodle, and pulls out a plaster. Jamie holds out his hand though she doesn’t pay it any attention, just kneels down and softly, so fucking softly, put the plaster over his wound. It’s the first time he smells her lavender shampoo, the first time she smiles at him, and the first time she sends his heart racing. 
“I’m (Y/N), by the way.” 
And his life has not been the same since.
“ I missed you too.” 
It’s the truth. He missed her terribly. But sometimes it’s hard to reconcile who he is with who he used to be. Who he is now with the person she used to love.
“Could’ve fooled me, you don’t even answer my insta DMs, you ass.” 
Even when she curses him out, she regards him with infinite affection. 
The girl that put a plaster on his bleeding knee is now a whole woman, but the kindness is still the exact same. The softness she holds for him is still there.
“To be fair I hardly check those. They scare me, honestly.” 
“At least your mum updates me on your life. She was always my favorite Tartt anyway.” 
He loves how much she loves his mum and how much mum loves her. There is something so inexplicably comforting in knowing the people you love most share a bond. 
“Think you’re her favorite too.” 
“Oh yeah, I know I am.” 
Her laughter rings through the air like the sweetest song he’s ever heard. It’s so awfully cheesy, his own thoughts almost make him barf. But she just has that effect on him. 
“You look beautiful today, (Y/N).” 
“Today?” she asks in mock offense and though he knows it’s really just a joke, he feels the need to explain himself.
“Don’t get me wrong. You’re always proper fit but that dress? You look like a fucking angel.” 
The way she bites her lip slightly and bashfully averts her eyes for a second, is a success in his book. 
She really does look gorgeous, a whole vision of perfection. The pink dress, the flowers — the necklace. 
A shiny rose gold charm sparkles in the light, resting gently against her skin. Heart-shaped like his feelings for her. He knows the pendant opens up and he knows exactly what he’ll find if he were to open it. 
His lips lift in an involuntary smirk.
“What’s that look for, Jam?” 
“You still got the necklace.”
She places a gentle hand against her chest, against the heart-shaped charm.
“Obviously. I will never ever ever get rid of it. I love it. You stole this for me!”
He was 14 and stupid and head-over-heels in love. He still remembers the sticky heat of the summer clinging to his skin, the taste of watermelon on his tongue, and the thought of her on his mind. 
They spent all day riding their bikes around town with nowhere to be and everywhere to go. It was a good day, a phenomenal day. She shared her ice cream cup with him and held his hand on the way back to their bikes. It was a phenomenal day and Jamie was not ready to let it end just yet. Not when he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her eyes lit up as she looked at that necklace in the shop window. 
In retrospect, it was an extraordinarily dumb idea, one of his worst to date, but it made her smile. The way she smiled at him when he gave her the necklace that he stole for her, that made it all worth it. The yelling from mum and the being grounded and the having to pay back the money by working at the store for 3 whole months that summer. 
Her smile made it all worth it.
“Mum was so mad at me that day.”
“Well, you did commit theft, so —” 
“Worth it though. Made you smile.” 
“Oh, Jam you— “ 
The nickname gives him shaky knees, the interruption by the DJ gives him a fucking headache.
“May all the unmarried ladies please report to the dance floor, it’s time for the bouquet toss.” 
“That’s my queue, I guess. Save me a dance, Jamie Tartt.” 
He will save her every damn dance in his life. They are all hers if she wants them.
She stands in the middle of the dancefloor, surrounded by a bunch of other women, a flicker of friendly competitiveness shining in her eyes. If she’s joining in on the bouquet toss, that means she’s not married, does that mean she’s single? 
Of course, he could’ve asked mum, she knows for sure, but that would just open a whole different can of worms. You don’t ask your own mum if the girl you’ve been in love with since you were 9 years old, is single. You just don’t, no matter how badly you want to know.
The DJ starts playing Girls just wanna have fun, (Y/N) hated that song. “It’s awfully overplayed”, she said one time they were driving in his car, before changing the station. 
She must still hate it judging by the grimace that falls over her face for a mere second before she catches herself and puts another polite smile back on her lips. 
Millie stands before the group of women, back towards her friends, and bouquet raised in the air before counting down.
One 
Two
Three
The flowers fly through the air and land in the hands of a girl whose name Jamie can’t recall but she’s definitely one of the bridesmaids. Chelsea? Cristy? Something like that. She looks elated, a guy leaning against the bar looks mortified. 
(Y/N) seems thoroughly unbothered by it all as she strolls back across the dance floor toward Jamie. 
“Do you want me to congratulate you or give you my condolences?” 
She just laughs and shakes her head “It’s not like I have any suitors waiting for me to offer them my hand in marriage anyway.” 
So she is single. Not that it matters or anything. It’s good to know though.
His eyes sweep across her face, then her hair, where one of the daisies is barely holding on and just about to fall off. Without giving it another thought, as if moving on autopilot, Jamie gingerly plucks the flower from her hair and places it behind her ear. There’s something about her that makes him want to be soft, that allows him to be soft. 
“Almost lost one.” 
“Thank you, Jamie.” 
The tenderness in her words almost sends him to his knees. When you’re used to words being sharp and bitter it’s hard to accept when they are silky and delicate. 
“You have the saddest eyes, Jam. What’s bothering you?” 
There is a big long metaphorical list of all the things that rest so heavy on his heart. The pressure of having to be the best version of himself at all times. The feeling of failure always creeping up on him. The fear of messing up. The idea of not being good enough. 
The reminder of what could’ve been and of all that isn’t.
He has a whole big list of things that make him sad — he doesn’t say any of that though. Just shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance. 
“Don’t know what you mean, I’m chuffed. Doing fan-fucking-tastic.” 
She can read him like a book, always could. Jamie doesn’t know why he even tries to fool her, it’s not going to work either way.
“I know that’s a lie,” (Y/N) scoffs then regards him with a look he can’t place. It’s a mix between pity and something else, something warm and comforting. “I’m not going to force you to talk to me about it. I’m aware we aren’t as close as we used to be but I just want you to know that I am always in your corner, Jamie. Always.” 
He has no doubt she means what she says but Jamie isn’t sure she really knows what she’s talking about. She knew him as a little kid, an awkward teenager, a misguided 20-year-old. She doesn’t know this new version of him. Bitter and a little lost — or maybe a lot.
Jamie isn’t sure this new him deserves her loyalty.
"There's something that does make me sad, actually."
"What's that?"
"The fact that I’ve not had a single slice of cake yet. That’s why I’m here, innit?”
“And I thought you were here to celebrate your cousin getting married.” 
“Common misconception, really. I mean I am — but mostly it’s about the cake. Technically I’m on a diet but it's a wedding, that doesn’t count. We all know that.” 
They both know he’s just talking out of his ass. Of course, he’s here for Millie. For the wedding and the family get together and all of it. And even a little for (Y/N). Because he really did miss her … so fucking badly.
“Oh well, let’s go get us some cake then. Can’t have you starving, not Jamie Tartt — the island’s top scorer.” 
Jamie has done a lot of things in his life that he isn’t particularly proud of. He tries to see them all as learning opportunities, cautionary tales for a future him. Doesn’t mean he likes to think about them. Especially not his short but quite memorable stint on the dating show Lust conquers all. All the worst parts of him put on display for everyone to see and discuss and judge, every night at 8pm. 
“You watched that then?”
“Uh, obviously?! What’s a best friend’s job if not to laugh about you while you make a fool of yourself on a dating reality tv show?” 
It warms him from the inside out, to hear that she still considers him her best friend. He’s not sure he’s been very good at it in the last few years. Has barely talked to her. But then again, who makes the rules? Maybe some people are bound together so tightly from the very beginning that neither time nor distance can break them apart. 
“I’ll have you know that I was number one on famous birthdays the day after I got eliminated from the show. So, who’s laughing now?” 
“Were you? How long did that last?” 
“Like a day, maybe 2. Then it went back to John Krasinsky, fucking wanker.” 
“Aw babe, well you’ll always be my favorite person born on October 20th. “ she says as they both come to stand by the table decked out in cakes and other desserts. “ I do like the office though, hmm…” 
"Oh, sod off. You’re breaking my fucking heart.”
He likes the way she hugs his arm in mock apology. She’s not sorry, in fact, she’s still laughing. It doesn’t matter if she’s laughing with or about him though. As long as there is a smile on her face, that’s good enough for him.
“Sorry. Can I make it up to you?” 
Jamie nudges her shoulder with his, the way they always did when they were kids. That little boy that was so in love with her, he’s slowly but surely clawing his way to the surface again. Breaking free from Jamie’s ribcage where he has been kept hidden for such a long time now.
“Well, what about that cake then?” 
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The neon lights dip her in shades of blues and pinks and purples as she twirls on the dancefloor, weaving in and out of the crowd. Jamie is sure he’s seen this very moment in a dream of his before. 
“Oh, you look so handsome, my baby. Are you having a good time?” 
His mother’s voice cuts through his hazy daydreams as she plops down on the chair next to him. No matter how old he gets, Jamie doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of his mother’s affection. Her unshaken faith in him and her unwavering belief that he is a good man, after all.
“You’re my mum, you have to say that.”
“Absolutely not! Remember when you had that dangly earring? I told you right out you looked like a muppet.” 
“Yeah you did,” he nods and takes a sip of his beer “Crushed me, honestly. Loved that earring. Thought I looked well cool.” 
“Well, you know who didn’t hate it? (Y/N).” 
That gets his attention. Eyebrows raised he takes his eyes off of the girl in question and turns fully towards his mother.
“How would she know? She didn’t see it.” 
“Yes, she did. I showed her a picture when we had girls night.” 
It's a nice image, his mum and (Y/N) having girls night. Sure, having them team up on him is terrifying, but he can't help but relish in the fact that his loves love each other so dearly. 
"Girls night, huh? You ladies talk about me a lot then?"
"Are you joking?" 
The way his mum raises her eyebrow is so familiar. It's the same damn expression he sees in himself all the time.
"That girl has been in love with you since you were kids. Of course, we talk about you a lot. You're all we talk about, Jamie. "
As a kid, Jamie always wondered what it felt like to put your finger straight into an electrical outlet. He never did it, obviously. But there was some strong curiosity there.
This is what it must feel like. Hearing his mother say that (Y/N) is in love with him, that's what it must feel like
Electric shocks straight to the heart.
“What?” 
His mum just shakes her head, there’s that smile pulling at her lips. That typical mother's smile that tells you that they know you so much better than you know yourself.
“Come on now, Jamie. You know this is how she feels, everyone does. She adores you. Same way you adore her. That is how you feel, isn’t it?” 
Of course, it is. She’s everything. She feels like an ocean being warmed by the sun. Warm and inviting and comforting. Beautiful. Tender. Soft.
“Don’t matter really, does it? We haven’t talked in so long. Doubt she even knows me well enough anymore.” 
“She watches every match, goes to most of them if she can. She even bought that video game you’re on. Girl is almost as proud of you as I am. Look love, “ Mum rests a gentle hand on his arm. “I don’t know half the things that are bothering you right now but I do know that you’re struggling. I just want you to know that you are not a bad person, Jamie. The little boy you used to be deserved to be loved and so does the man you are now. You made bad choices but you still deserve love. We all make bad decisions sometimes. I know I made a lot of them when I was younger.” 
“Hah, like having me.”
He passes it off as a joke but there’s a hint of truth swinging along. She was really young when she had him and while he knows she doesn’t resent him for it, he wonders if maybe her life would’ve turned out better had he not come along. Mum loves him unconditionally and she always makes sure he knows it so it’s a silly thing to think about really. It’s a fleeting thought and it really only shows itself when he’s already deep in his thoughts but when it does, it sends him spiraling. 
The slap to the arm is not friendly or in good humor, that one is meant to sting.
“Don’t you ever say that again. You are my life, Jamie. I love you. Having you was the best decision I’ve ever made. You hear me?” 
It’s dumb really, he knows Mum loves him. It’s always been them against the world (or well, them against dad, really). But sometimes his head gets so loud and fills itself with stupid thoughts.
“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I love you, mama.” 
“Love you too, my baby boy. And I am so proud of everything you ever did, okay? Except maybe the earring.” 
A chuckle falls from Jamie’s lips. “The earring was a bad idea, I got it.”
“Good. Now go dance with your girl, yeah? You two are driving me crazy.” 
His girl. His girl wraps her arms around his neck when he walks up to her on the dancefloor. His girl looks up at him with the most radiant smile. His girl who feels like the sun and smells like lavender and wraps his heart in silk and sweet memories.
“Finally, thought I was going to have to drag you onto the dancefloor. You still owe me a dance.” 
“Sorry. Not much of a slow dancer, yeah? I do know some great boy band choreographies though, and the cha-cha slide.” 
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. Coach made us learn a full N'sync routine for Doctor Sharon's going away party. She didn't show up but I was fucking ace. I’m sure Keeley has a video of it somewhere.” 
She grants him a smile though it doesn't reach her eyes.
"How is Keeley? How are you guys?"
There's an edge to her words and if he didn't know better he'd call it jealousy. But that doesn't make sense … right?
There's no him and Keeley, at least not in the way she's asking about. There never will be. Keeley is one of his favorite people but her friendship means so much more than any fickle try on upholding a relationship doomed to fail. Jamie thinks there's something brave and mature about that realization.
"She's good. We're good. Friends I mean. Good friends."
"No more dating?"
"Nah she's dating one of my best friends. Hated it at first but they're kinda perfect for each other. It's a bit disgusting, really."
Those words manage to pull the smile all the way up to reach her eyes. It's magnificent. Spectacular. A laugh tumbles from her lips, a sound so sweet if he were to taste it, he's sure it would put the most delicious honey to shame.
"You know," Jamie speaks and pulls her closer as they absentmindedly sway along to the music " I never thanked you."
"For what?"
"For the phone call that one night."
It was just after Manchester had kicked him out. No one wanted to sign him. He had burned bridges with everyone who ever stood by him and gave him a chance and Jamie had never felt more lost and more alone.
He just needed someone. A piece of home. A reminder of the 9-year-old boy who loved football for the fun of it all. He needed her. 
He hadn't expected her to pick up that night, he really didn’t deserve it. But she did. Of course, she did. She always did.
"You don't have to thank me for that, Jamie. You are you and I am me and I will always pick up the phone for you."
It's such a simple thought. The most basic of all concepts. You are you and I am me and there will always be a space for us in my life and yours.
"I just - I felt very alone and lost and I hated the person I was then. It was like I was some boat or something, stuck on a cliff. And then when I talked to you and you had my back anyway it was like all my fears that I told you about suddenly disappeared, you know? Like you sent me a wave, a flood and gave my boat a lift over the rocks. I know it sounds fucking silly but Ted has me reading all these books with the big words. Making me feel all smart and philosophical."
She's so gentle when she combs her fingers through his hair, tugging some strands back behind his ear. He will never grow tired of soft touches and even softer looks.
"Jamie, even if I didn't like the person you were then, I loved you anyway. I don't have to like you to love you. Loving someone means accepting that they make mistakes but giving them room to become the person you know they can be. You wanted to change for the better and honestly, I think you turned out pretty spectacular."
Jamie isn’t quite sure if he will ever grow used to receiving love in the form of comforting words and soft touches but he truly relishes in it, always. 
"Do you wanna get out of here? Party is about to wind down anyway. Don't think anyone's gonna miss us."
The night feels heavy with possibility. 
"Sure, Jam. Where do you wanna go?"
"Doesn't matter. Nowhere. Anywhere. As long as I'm with you."
The glimmer in her eyes tells him she has an idea.
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The bench by the side of the field looks the exact same it did when he was a kid. Chipping red paint and rotting wood. Initials in permanent marker forever immortalizing past versions of whoever wrote them down. Time forever frozen.
Jamie is 9 years old again and he is also 11 and 13 and 16 and 25. It’s all the same. It’s all so different.
The field is no field anymore, it’s now a proper little football pitch with a goal on each side. 
“What happened here then? That wasn’t there when we were little.” 
(Y/N) strolls across the field, twirling in her dress illuminated by the moon and the streetlamps. She looks like something out of a movie. He’s sure if he was a smarter man, more poetic, he’d be writing songs about her, poems, books.
 In that book Ted made him read, there’s this one line that Jamie suddenly remembers.
“She was dazzling-- alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance”
He thought those were just big words for saying some girl was well fit. He thinks he might get it now.
“Yeah well, some of us put together some money and convinced the neighborhood council to finally turn it into a proper pitch.” 
“Some of you?"
“Mostly your mum, Simon, and I”
She meets his eyes across the field and his heart still does the same silly shimmy it did when he first saw her face. 
“Why?” 
“So another little 9-year-old kid gets to play with actual goals and doesn’t have to use plastic bottles.”
They did it for the kids, the community. But they mostly did it for him, for the child in his heart that never grew up. That is clinging to his insides and that only gets to live in his memories and in the hearts of the people he loves. The people that love him.
(Y/N) leans against one of the goalposts, a smile playing on her lips as Jamie strolls up to stand in front of her, hands buried in the pockets of his pants. His jacket is long forgotten on some chair back at the wedding venue.
“You know”, she says and lets her gaze drift upwards towards the sky. There is too much light to see the stars but Jamie thinks there’s still some kind of comfort knowing they are up there even when you can’t see them. The authors of the books Ted gives him, they’d have some flowery pretentious allegory to tell about all of this. He is no author, he's just a fool in love.
“This is where I had my very first kiss. Right here.” 
Jamie wonders if she knows of the little electric shocks she sends straight to his heart when she lowers her head and looks straight at him while speaking those words.
It’s not news to him. Of course, it’s not. 
He was there. 
“Oh, was it?”
“Yup.” 
“Hope the lad was alright.” 
“He was perfect — for a twelve-year-old. I was also 12 though so I had nothing to compare, really.” 
“What was he like? Lucky kid.” 
“He had this really badly bleached blond hair. Tried to do it at home with a cheap box dye. Didn’t listen when I told him it was a bad idea.” 
“I bet he looked fucking cool.” 
“Had a bit of an ego, that one. Still does. Bit misplaced for someone who looked like Draco Malfoy.” 
“You had a big fat crush on Draco Malfoy.” 
“Yeah,” he doesn’t know when it happens. One moment they’re joking around, strolling down memory lane and the next her hand is in his hair, his hand on her waist, noses almost touching. “I did.” 
“Do you wanna know a secret?” 
“Uh-huh.” 
“That was my first kiss too.” 
There’s a flicker of surprise shining in her eyes.
“Huh? You said your first kiss was with Emma behind the playground.” 
“Well I was lying, wasn’t I? Wanted you to think I’m cool and experienced.” 
“We were 12 you dum dum. And I always thought you were cool.” 
He was not cool at 12. No one is cool at 12. It still makes him weirdly proud to hear her say it. 12-year-old Jamie would be positively buzzing at that revelation.
“I um — Jamie, why did we never talk about it again? I know we were 12 and whatever but it meant something to me. Did it mean anything to you?” 
Some memories, Jamie thinks, are meant to be shared. You want to tell everyone about them over and over again and it feels like you might burst if you don’t share them with others. 
And then there are memories that are meant just for you. Beautiful places to escape to. So you keep them hidden in your chest, apart from everything else but your heart when they beat in sync. And they become part of you. And they keep you alive. That’s where he keeps this kiss. The first one. The only one that ever mattered.
“It means everything to me. But I — I wanted to keep that kiss to myself. That was mine and yours and I didn’t want anyone or anything to ruin that or turn it into something bitter and sad. “
“If I were to kiss you again, would you also want to keep that a secret?” 
He shakes his head, his nose gently nudging her’s with the movement.
“Nah, I’d wanna scream it from the fucking rooftops.” 
When she kisses him he is 9 years old again, seeing his future staring right back at him through the face of a little girl. He is 12 years old kissing her in the field, a kiss he’d kept with his heart ever since. He is 14 crying on the floor of her room the night he got back from the Amsterdam trip with his dad. He is 16 and a prick to everyone but her. 
He is 25 and more in love than he’s ever been.
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“50 fucking pence? Are you joking?”
“Nope. Dead serious.” 
“That’s fucking mental.” 
Her laughter echoes through the night as they walk down the familiar streets paved with countless memories. He#s holding her hand and he’s never felt more delighted about anything so simple. 
“They still taste fucking great though.” 
“They do, don’t they?” 
Leave it to (Y/N) to continuously surprise him. As they started their walk back towards her house, she pulled two Cadbury Freddos from her sparkly purse. Jamie can almost feel the sun on his skin from all the walks they did to the corner shop during summer holidays to get some Freddos and a smarties pop-up ice.
“Don’t tell Roy I ate chocolate though, he’s gonna kick me ass.” 
“Your secret’s safe with me.” 
Her childhood home is coming into view just down the road and with it the end of this night. The door is a deep red color, he remembers (Y/N) helping her dad paint it when she was maybe 10 or 11 and her parents never seemed to have changed it since. 
“Soooo what’s happening now?” 
It feels a little silly to ask but Jamie has spent so much time keeping his questions inside of his head and not voicing them to her and he wonders just how much time he wasted because of that. Time he could’ve spent with (Y/N).
“I — I don’t know, Jamie. I want this to be. I want us to be, always did. Probably always will. But I don’t want you to choose me because being home pushed you into some kind of nostalgia-induced stupor or something. I want you to be sure about us. So, how about you sleep on it and tomorrow morning you pick me up for breakfast and we’ll talk? “
If he’s being entirely honest, he doesn’t want to talk. All he wants is to kiss her and then kiss her some more. To make up for every second that he wasted not telling her how he felt. But she is being rational and sensible as always and he has to respect that. Out of the two of them, she was always the reasonable one while Jamie did first and then thought about it later.
“Okay yeah. I’ll see you in the morning then.” 
“Goodnight, Jam.” 
“Night, (Y/N). You look beautiful by the way, not sure I said it.” 
“Thanks, you look very handsome too.” 
There’s an I love you on the tip of his tongue and he so desperately wants to say it but when she places a kiss on his cheek and opens the red door, all his thoughts just slip from his mind.
“Bye, Jamie.” 
“Bye.” 
He stays stuck for a moment or two before his legs slowly carry him down the road. The night is inky black and the street lamps' horrid orange-hued light reflects against the asphalt. 
So many times he’s walked down this exact road wondering what could be. Wondering how to show her how much he loved her. Wondering if someday, somehow they would end up together. 
9-year-old Jamie knew she was his destiny from the moment their eyes met across the football field. What would he think seeing him now, walking away from all he ever wanted? 
What’s that quote from that romcom the team watched together the other day?
“When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
The shiny black shoes he’s wearing are not meant for running. He figures that out as he turns on the spot and rushes back down the street toward the red door. There is no need for him to sleep on anything. He has never been more sure about anything in his life. Ever.
His heart is racing as he reaches the house, as he knocks on the door, and as he rings the doorbell — for good measure. 
His heart stops when she opens the door, her dress gone and exchanged for a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt.
“Jamie? You forgot something?” 
“I don’t need to sleep.”
“What?” 
“I don’t need to sleep on it. I know what I want. I want us, I want you. Always did. Always will. You’re the only person I want to talk to when I feel shit and you’re the first person I want to tell when something good’s happened. I want to ride my bike with you the way we did when we were kids and eat freddos with you even if they’re 50 fucking pence now, which is insane. I want to go to weddings with you and dress up fancy and I want to sit on the couch and watch movies with you we’ve both seen a million times. I want you to make fun of my stupid earring and have you help me dye my hair and I want to kiss you and tell you how beautiful you are every single fucking day. I want everything and anything as long as it involves you. And I don’t need to sleep on it. I am sure.” 
“Jamie?” 
“Yeah?!”
“Kiss me!” 
He doesn’t need to be told twice. 
It feels right, to hold her and to kiss her. Like all his life has been leading up to this moment. To her soft lips on his and her hands in his hair and his hands on her waist.
And he thinks she might just feel the same. She doesn’t need to say it to let him know. She tells him with his tongue, with the gentle touch of her fingers against his skin, with her breath in his lungs. 
He is 9 years old and also 12 and also 14 and 16 and 20 and 25. He is all those versions of himself and each of them was and is in love with (Y/N).
427 notes · View notes
puddingyun · 2 months
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angel wings . ݁₊ ⊹ s.mg
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rockstar!mingi x reader
you and mingi help each other get ready for a dinner party . ݁₊ ⊹
: 1.1k words, petnames (baby, darling, sweet thing, lil' mama), kisses, affection, fluff :
requests open ♡
Cross-legged in front of your vanity, chiffon babydoll dress spread out over your legs, you should've been away from the hustle and bustle that filled the home. But even with a record spinning on the table by your bed, you could hear anxious footsteps rushing to and fro downstairs. In anybody else's home you'd assume the footsteps belonged to maids or cooks, pacing about and making sure the house was ready for the evening's dinner party, but in this home you knew that the maids and cooks were likely at ease. The one anxious about everything was Mingi.
Mingi was rich and famous with a beautiful home to his name, yes, but at heart he was still a momma's boy, wanting to take care of everybody and everything around him just right. The room he'd set up for you in his home was proof enough of that: silk sheets, flowery wallpaper, the very best record player, a closet full of clothes he'd bought just for you, and a fresh bouquet of flowers delivered for you to sniff and adore each time you came over. He was attentive to detail even though his life was a whirlwind, and so when dinner parties were arranged in his home he was always troubling himself to make things just right for everybody and working himself up over things that nobody else noticed.
You were pressing blush against your cheeks when the footsteps outside your room changed their pace, hurrying up the stairs and right to your door. You smiled at yourself in the mirror, already knowing who was here to see you.
"Can I come in, darlin'?" Mingi's voice called through the door. 
"Yeah, baby," you called back, setting your blush down and turning a little to look at Mingi as he came in. Sure enough, he was flustered, locks of hair askew and cheeks pink. You smiled and beckoned for him to come closer.
"You look gorgeous, sweet thing," he whispered, eyes admiring your face and hairdo and finally your dress. He reached out and straightened the skirt of your dress slightly. 
"You look stressed, baby," you returned, smiling when he put his head down to let out a nervous laugh.
"Guess I've been runnin' back and forth too much, huh?" he asked. You hummed softly and reached out to stroke his cheek with your thumb.
"Sounds about right," you chuckled. "Sit honey, let me fix you up."
He took your hand as you slid off of your seat to make space for him, your dress fluttering around your knees as you stood. Mingi's head remained tilted upward to look at you as you searched for a tin of hair gel, his nervous expression slowly melting into a peaceful one in the safety of your room. 
"Here we go," you murmured as you opened up the tin you were looking for. With your fingertips beneath his chin, you gently moved his head to be in just the right position before you began to comb the gel through the hair on the sides of his head. It took a lot of care to smooth his hair down just how he liked to wear it, but you'd watched him get ready for events often enough that you managed to replicate it, your lip between your teeth as you concentrated on getting it just right. 
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, trying not to speak too loudly as if it'd move his head. You hummed softly in appreciation of the compliment, and as though asking for more of your attention his hands found your thighs and slowly crept up beneath your dress until he was holding your hips. "I don't know how I got lucky enough to call you mine, baby."
You smiled, trying not to let on how your heart was skipping beats in your chest, all aflutter thanks to his words and deep voice.
"You're awful good at sweet talking, Mr. Song," you replied, carefully curling a little lock of his hair to hang against his forehead. 
"I could say the same about you, lil' mama," he murmured, giving your hips a squeeze that made your breath catch in your throat. He smiled at your reaction, fingertips dragging against your skin as he took his hands out from beneath your dress. "C'mon pretty thing, let me finish your makeup for you."
"It's okay, Min, I know you like being downstairs when things are gettin' set up,” you tried to reassure him. It was to no avail, however, as he stood from his spot and guided you to sit back down again.
"Hush, baby. Let me take care of you," he said, pressing a kiss between your brows. He reached down and arranged your skirt for you once again, which made you giggle. He really had the habit of making you feel like a princess, something you adored about being with him. He'd been quick to make it clear to both you and everybody else that you were his best girl, and he planned to treat you as such. From tiny gestures like remembering how much sugar you liked in your coffee to moments like now, when he held his breath and applied your eyeliner in neat, swooping wings even though you could've easily done it yourself, Mingi told you with each action that he planned on taking care of you for as long as you'd allow it.
With your eyes still closed, you reached out blindly to rest your palms upon his knees.
"I love you baby," you whispered, doing your very best not to let your eyelids flutter. With his free hand, he cupped your cheek and gently rubbed his thumb along your cheekbone in a silent reply. 
When your eye makeup had been completed, Mingi picked out your lipstick himself - a reddish-mauve shade he loved to see you in - and held your jaw in his warm hand as he applied it with careful swipes. His eyes remained narrowed in concentration the entire time, and only once his work was finished did he relax enough to smile. 
He leaned in and kissed you firmly and slowly, trying to put all of his feelings into just one kiss. When you parted, his lips were slightly stained with your lipstick and you burst into soft giggles at the sight of him. 
"I love you too, darlin'," he murmured back to you. You reached out to wipe his lips off with your thumb, only for the doorbell to suddenly sound throughout the house. "Shit, c'mon baby, let's get downstairs."
With that he was helping you up once again and straightening out your dress for you before striding down to greet the guests, with your lipstick still on his lips.
170 notes · View notes
shotoh · 1 year
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❝ CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE ❞
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nnn is over! how did these boys fare last month?
characters: bakugou katsuki, kaminari denki, midoriya izuku, todoroki shouto, shinsou hitoshi, kirishima eijirou
genre: smut
warnings: fem!reader, minors dni, everyone is 22+, bakugou (teasing), kaminari (quirk play, sub!kaminari), midoriya (masturbation), todoroki (somnophilia, cunnilingus), shinsou (catches you maturbating, quirk play), kirishima (breeding, mentions of cunnilingus), pet names (angel, love, babe, kitten, princess)
author’s note: enjoy this treat while i hole myself up in blue lock brainrot-
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+ BAKUGOU KATSUKI
when the boys were discussing the challenge in the group chat, of course they had to rope bakugou to play along with them. and to no one’s surprise, he thought the whole ordeal was completely dumb and more trouble than it was worth. yet they somehow got him to partake through relentless provocation, poking at his nerves until his pride no longer allowed him to remain silent and his thumbs vehemently typed a message back, stating in all caps—BRING IT ON YOU MORONS.
what he failed to consider was how little it actually takes to get him riled up. especially when it comes to you.
on the very first day of the challenge, he freezes in his tracks, arriving home from work to find you standing at the doorway. one of his dynamight t-shirts is draped over your pretty figure, a sweet smile adorning your lips. a simple yet effective recipe to get him on edge.
bakugou has to swallow the thick lump in his throat, fists clenched at his sides, attempting to muster some willpower to resist you. the challenge looming over his head somehow makes his instincts want to act up even more, slowly feeling something stir in his pants.
it’s only the first day, dammit, calm down!
are some of the few thoughts running rampant in his deprived mind. and all from just you in his shirt? it’s fine, if he can resist you now, then he’ll surely make it through the whole month without a hitch. right?
you tilt your head naively, unaware of what has him hesitating to greet you back. holding your arms out, you try ushering him into a “welcome home” embrace. the fabric of the shirt raises ever-so-slightly, but it’s just enough to see the chiffon fabric of your black panties above your supple thighs. that’s when his nonexistent resolve breaks and he gives into you, suddenly dashing from the doorway and carrying you in his arms.
his lips quickly overwhelm you, voice reduced to a whimper in the presence of his tongue seeking yours. “those dumbasses made me agree to some challenge,” he mutters between kisses against your skin, “knew it was fuckin’ stupid to begin with. be a fool to give this up for a whole ass month.”
you can’t seem to follow every word, engulfed in the hot sensation that travels between your thighs. your simple response is to pull him deeper, fingers wrinkling the fabric of bakugou’s shirt as he hoists your body up by the large palms groping your bottoms, transporting you both to the sanctuary of your bedroom.
later that night, bakugou messages the group chat about his quick defeat as your warm body nestles next to him.
the chat erupts in a fit of uproarious texts, a mixture of confusion and hysteria throughout. however, bakugou swallows his loss, knowing that the rest of them will have to suffer for the next twenty-nine days without being able to blow their loads.
FAILED - NOVEMBER 1ST
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+ KAMINARI DENKI
being a man in touch with trends, kaminari is the one who issued the challenge to everyone in the first place. which was a surprise, given that he sounded like the last person to have the self-control to stop himself from touching you for a month.
this isn’t very far from the truth, but hey, you have to give him some credit at least. he really did try his best, but unfortunately that resolve lasts only until the end of the first week before he finds himself frantic to be in between your legs again.
his initial strategy for success was simple. he goes about avoiding you in any way he can—leaving early for work and coming home much later after a day holed up at his agency, keeping himself immersed to ward off the aching desire to have your walls hugging his cock. though it saddens you that you have to limit your interactions with him, all for the sake of his standing in some challenge, you still support him. you also figure this could help him exercise some restraint for the future.
however, his thirty-day journey stops short one night while tucked beside you in bed.
when he settles his body under the covers, you rouse slightly from your sleep. “denki?” you murmur languidly and kaminari already feels a twinge in his gut at the sweet, sleepy sound of his name from your lips.
“y-yeah, babe, i’m here,” he assures, his shaky tone eluding your ears as you absentmindedly reach out for him. denki’s breath hitches in response to your arms wrapping around his midsection.
“mm, miss you…” from behind, you pull yourself snug against him. kaminari almost goes numb at the contact. he was already walking on a tightrope throughout the entire week, even a simple glance at you could’ve been enough to make him unravel. now with your soft, pliant body squeezing into him, he was about to be too far gone. your sweet fragrance was making him delirious, his mind going blank visualizing the outline of your tits on his back. god, he can’t take it anymore. he needs you to know exactly what you’re doing to him.
shifting you both around, he has free range to touch you in any way he wants, and the first thing he needs is to feel those pretty tits in his hands. he sneaks under your shirt and overhears your breathy whimpers at the sensation.
“d-denki..!” you gasp, feeling fully awake when his fingertips find your nipples and give them a playful sting of electricity. you arch your back into his hold, pressing your ass against his clothed erection that has him hissing between his teeth.
“fuck, sorry, babe. i couldn’t take it anymore.” his whines are high-pitched and needy as he grinds into you, granting himself some of that sweet friction he missed so much. his hands travel south in pursuit of your panties. he groans at the slick sticking to your folds. “need to be in you. c’mon, please please give it to me, i’ll be good...”
the pleas falling from his lips are so pretty and desperate. it’d be a shame to let him suffer by himself. to help him out, you sit up with the intention of getting on top of him. “okay, but don’t forget that you were the one who suggested this,” you warn with half-lidded eyes looking down at the deep blush painting his face, tugging at the waistband of his sleep shorts.
“yes, ma’am…”
well, at least he can say he lasted longer than bakugou.
FAILED - NOVEMBER 7TH
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+ MIDORIYA IZUKU
despite being somewhat confident in his ability to resist you, midoriya was already set to fail the moment he agreed to participate.
this month his hero agency is working on a collaboration with a clothing designer and retailer for an upcoming deku christmas collection, set to debut at the beginning of december. too caught up in his pro hero work and constantly keeping himself in check around you, the collab completely flies over his head. he forgets that a package full of the draft apparel for the collection was supposed to be delivered at his residence today.
he gets notice of the delivery from your text later that day while at his agency.
guess what came? you question in your message, following with an image of a large opened box with clothes sprawled all around. it must have been some time since you last texted him because as he continues scrolling through the chat, he finds streams of pictures you sent of yourself modeling in all the clothes, wrapped up in scarves, sweaters, and other winter apparel in his signature colors. he’s glad he’s in the privacy of his office, otherwise his sidekicks might notice him smiling like a lovesick fool at his phone, seeing his cute girlfriend all dolled up.
when he reaches the end of your message thread though, the smile on his lips slowly disappears. his eyes grow beady at the brightly-lit screen. the last picture you sent is of you laying across the soft sheets of your bed, camera pointing down at your figure with a knitted sweater pulled up above your chest, revealing an enticing set of green lingerie hugging your curves.
midoriya swallows thickly at the sight, eyes roaming over every detail he can see that makes the weight in his pants heavy and stiff. fuck, no one ever said anything about a deku lingerie set. how is he going to go on patrol again like this—hot and bothered while his girlfriend was at home, sitting all pretty with her feet giddily kicking in the air, sinfully aware of what she was doing to him.
there was no way he could ignore the dull ache between his legs anymore. him dialing your number over facetime is the final nail in the coffin. as the phone rings, he situates himself behind his desk, palming his bulge over his costume. when the call goes through, your face comes into view. you feign an innocent expression in front of him.
“hey, ‘zuku, what’s up?” you greet, voice a tad chirpier than usual, “did you like the little slideshow i gave you?” you revel in how flush his expression is, a tint of red swathing over the skin under his freckles.
“yeah, angel i loved it so much… c-can you show me the last set again, please?” he asks quietly, the question morphing into a desperate plea as he adds more pressure against his erection.
“hm, you mean this one?” on cue, you pan your phone so the camera can capture every inch of your body still clad in the fancy seasonal lingerie. from your end, you hear a quiet string of curses and the scratchy sound of a zipper.
“izuku, are you touching yourself to me?”
he shamelessly fists his cock under the desk. “yes, you’re gonna make me lose that bet, angel…”
“is a stupid challenge really more important than me though?” you pout, squeezing your tits together. izuku furiously shakes his head, his pace along his cock quickening desperately. you hum, “come home from patrol and prove it to me then. you might just get your christmas present early.”
needless to say, the crime rate in that area was reduced to zero by the end of the day.
FAILED - NOVEMBER 13TH
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+ TODOROKI SHOUTO
todoroki is another participant who initially sees the bet as more bothersome than beneficial. he couldn’t imagine a whole month without touching you. why should he have to control his natural urges around you when taking care of your needs, along with his own, was second nature for him? and all for what—bragging rights? it just doesn’t make any sense.
to convince him, the boys use the logic that edging himself will make the experience all the more mind-blowing at the end of the month. despite the new developments, his routine remains largely unchanged. he doesn’t see the need to actively ignore you, possessing the self-control to leave you with just a kiss on the forehead before bed and ending it at that. must be thanks to all the meditation he worked on while training to be a pro.
he will admit that he narrowly dodged a bullet during the first couple of nights. albeit just barely. unaware of the bet he placed amongst his group of friends, you tried initiating intimacy with him. you sat comfortable between his legs on the couch, a movie showing in front of you. it seemed tonight was going to be a normal occurrence—just a night dedicated to you both catching up on your favorite films—that is until he felt an extra weight against his crotch.  
a low grunt almost escapes the depths of his throat when you lift your body to scoot your pretty-self snug on his lap, shifting around with intention where shouto can already sense the point of no return. feeling the first throb of his cock, he has to hold you down by your waist to keep you steady. you face him with a mischievous glint in your eye, waiting for the mood to escalate further. todoroki barely had the heart to tell you he couldn’t go through with things tonight, explaining the bet, and watching your features adjust to the disappointing realization of no sex with him for a whole month.
for his sake, you still kept your spirits high to cheer him on. todoroki was grateful, kissing the tip of your nose as he muses sweet nothings in your ear. “i promise it will be worth it.”
it hurts him to leave you all flustered and worked up, but through the patience of a saint, he manages to get to the third week. most of the time he found extra relief from blasting villains with staggering amounts of ice and flames. things were going well for him, and once he was notified of the others’ losses, he seemed like a strong candidate to survive all thirty days.
that sentiment is smothered when he arrives home one night, crossing into the living room to find your sleeping body sprawled on the couch. his first instinct is to scoop you into your arms and take you to bed, but before he could cradle you against him, your lips part.
“shouto…” a tantalizing moan calls for him, the sound immediately coaxing his cock to attention, and making all the cells in his body go numb. eyes lidded, your voice continues to sweetly muse in your slumber, “need you, miss you so much…”
fuck, the innate desire to take care of you after realizing how much he’s been neglecting your needs overwhelms his reasoning. the bet is far behind him as he’s kneeling in front of the wetness coating your pretty cunt, your shorts and panties half-hazardly pulled down your legs.
the first taste of you in what seems like forever is delicious on his tongue, intoxicating his senses as your thighs squeeze his head, at odds with your collapsing slumber. with his mouth mercilessly fluttering around your sensitive bud, you soon wake up to an earth-shattering orgasm, rubbing your eyes to the two-toned man knelt in the middle of your spread legs.
“i’m sorry, love. i just want to make sure you’re taken care of, and you looked so gorgeous in your sleep, i couldn’t resist anymore.” he grabs your hand, leading it to the tight bulge on his crotch, his balls excruciatingly heavy and seeking relief.
“you’re going to take care of me too, right?”
FAILED - NOVEMBER 21ST
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+ SHINSOU HITOSHI
ever the competitive one, shinsou couldn’t pass up the opportunity to one-up all these horn dogs. though that isn’t to say he’s immune to your charms. there are plenty of moments where his resolve runs dangerously thin. every time you walk around the apartment in the skimpiest shorts or let out a particularly long whine while stretching, shinsou has half the mind to come and bend you over the nearest flat surface. but he collects himself, catching his breaths before handling his problems with a long cold shower.
what keeps his streak going is the fact that your schedules don’t align. being an underground pro meant he was stationed to patrol during the weeknights. by the time he was allowed to sleep, the sun would be peeking above the horizon, and you’d be waking up to start your day. thanks to this mundane routine, shinsou is looking to be in the running to complete the challenge.
on a particularly calm night, he’s overlooking the bright cityscape atop a building. his eyes are scanning the areas below, searching for any signs of criminal activity before his attention averts to the vibration in his pocket. he gives the caller id a glance and picks it up without a thought when he sees your name across the screen.
“kitten?” he answers in a hushed tone befitting of his surroundings.
“‘t-toshi, where are you?” your words quiver, seemingly on edge, which has the hero fixing his posture.
“i’m on patrol right now. why? did something happen? are you in danger?” his senses are heightened at the prospect of your safety being compromised, standing on high alert.
“n-no, it’s not that… i–” the short string of silence has shinsou biting his lip, “i just need you to come home.”
at that, shinsou drops everything in a heartbeat, alerting his sidekicks about his absence and letting them clean things up for the night. he swings across mazes of buildings to make his way to your apartment complex, landing at your front door. the entrance is pushed aside, the abrupt slam of the door echoing amidst his steps hastening toward your room.
“kitten are you–?! oh.”
well if this isn’t a sight to behold. when he crosses the threshold of your room, he’s shocked to be welcomed by your naked form spread lewdly on your bed. that feeling of shock quickly morphs into lust, lavender eyes darkening at your hand between your legs, watching your fingers part your folds.
“‘toshi, just need you here with me, can’t come without you.” your fingers work in tandem with your delicious whimpers, trying to massage that spot inside that made you writhe, but to no avail. it pales in comparison to shinsou’s thick digits which always knew where to touch and prod to reduce you to a babbling mess.
the man approaches the bed at his leisure, taking in your debauched state. the bed starts to dip at his extra weight. your skin scorches at how close he is. it’s been far too long.
“naughty, naughty. and to think you were doing so well for me this month, ” shinsou clicks his tongue. he scoots onto his stomach, fingers digging into your thighs to get a better view of your sobbing cunt. all those moments of restraint and freezing showers catch up to him, and his cock starts to ache in his pants. “what do you have to say for yourself, kitten?”
“i’m sor–” the words are hindered by the thick fog quickly blanketing your mind. when your eyes take on a listless hue, shinsou knows his quirk has taken effect.
“it’s too late for an apology now, i need to distribute your punishment.” he cups your chin in his hand, tilting you in his direction. “and only after i make you come on your own fingers will i let you ride my cock.”
FAILED - NOVEMBER 29TH
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+ KIRISHIMA EIJIROU
this whole month has been a true test of kirishima’s wits. for days upon days, it felt like a higher being was testing him, throwing every single obstacle they could think of to get him to crack and succumb to the sweet temptation that is you and your salacious ways. whether intentional or not, you never made it easy for him. kirishima couldn’t count the number of times his layer of self-control almost shattered right next to you, like when you would bend down and show off your gorgeous ass, or doll yourself up in the prettiest, body-hugging dresses for a night out with your friends.  
the thought of ripping whatever flimsy fabric you were wearing and folding you in half right then and there nearly overtook him. he just had to grit his teeth and feign indifference, when in reality his cock was growing heavier, throbbing with every passing day. he almost wanted to cry.
he simply swallowed his desires down and waited out the thirty days. the boys already thought he’d be one of the first to lose anyways so he was extra poised to prove them wrong. as his friends fell one by one to their urges, he was slowly gaining the conviction he needed to endure the next hellish weeks. after reaching the home stretch, he was practically counting down the hours—minutes even—until he was free from the shackles of the bet and could finally have you all to himself.
on the last night of the month, he’s already under the covers with you, who was sound asleep next to him. however, the redhead is wide awake, turned on his side to stare at the gleaming numbers on the digital clock resting on the nightstand. when the clock finally strikes twelve, every cell in his body rejoices. he shoots up from bed, jolting you from your sleep.
“babe, look! i made it! i survived no nut november!” he yells and whoops at his triumph as you’re adjusting to being violently rattled awake.
“that’s great, eiji, congrats–” you don’t even get your praises across before he’s on top of you, lips fervently coaxing yours apart. his hands palm at every inch of your soft body, pushing and pulling clothing away while you whimper below him. his large, toned body towers over you, licking his lips at his prey. “that means i don’t have to hold back anymore.” his guttural tone foreshadows the long night ahead for you both.
you don’t have any idea how many times you’ve lost yourself, too fucked out by the time kirishima was inserting his cock in you and pistoning your insides. prior to that, he was adamant to get you to come at least thrice on his tongue and fingers, ensuring you were prepared for his thick girth after a whole month empty and probably weeping for his cock. now your legs are being pried apart, calloused fingers bruising your flesh as he concentrates on breeding his babydoll.
“fuck, i missed this so much, you were made for me baby, just perfect,” he grunts, too pent up to even think of slowing down despite spilling load after load in your little cunt. you think you couldn’t get any fuller than this, but kirishima proves you wrong, pushing his seed back into you with every hard thrust. “don’t get tired on me now, princess. still got plenty more for you.”
being the sole winner of no nut november he asks the boys to pool together to buy him a new sturdy bed frame as his prize after yours broke the night before.
SUCCESS! - DECEMBER 1ST
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bunnypansy · 4 months
Text
The Perfect Fit
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Rated R for EXPLICIT CONTENT!
You're new to the Devildom and you'd love some positive attention from Lucifer- you suppose now is your best chance to get it, but you might be in over your head.
Featuring: Lucifer, and you! Beware! This film contains: cis!male!reader, lightly dubious consent, erotic asphyxiation, worship kink (reader acknowledges Lucifer as god in a few parts), Lucifer has a poorly hidden praise kink, facefucking, semi-public sex, light degradation (Lucifer calls reader a slut/whore a couple times), use of "good boy", light orgasm denial, mirror sex, begging, hair pulling, no condoms, Lucifer is overall a meanie, erhm it gets kinda messy even though I didn't mean to whoops
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Lucifer doesn't use the lord's name anymore- but God, you were testing his patience.
This trip was fully necessary, you'd been dragged to the Devildom in an instant, left with no time to pack and you couldn't wear your uniform all the time. Lucifer usually would've employed another one of his brothers for this task, as a shopping trip with a human was a bit beneath him, but Asmodeus was busy, and the rest were generally unruly. 
He wasn't sure why you had to show him everything you tried on, but he was sure that it was making him feel things he'd rather not. The Devildom was hot, yes, but fucking hell; could you wear anything else?
The tight hug of tiny shorts around your thighs, the expanse of your skin visible beneath an all-too-small crop top, the dangerous swish of a skirt, the urge to lift it higher- no. No. About 20 minutes ago, he asked you to "dress more respectably", and now he was starting to regret it. 
The end begins when you peek out of the dressing room, to make a small request of Lucifer; a zipper is giving you trouble. Lucifer has half a mind to tell you to "put it back then", but for some idiotic reason, he follows you into the small stall. The door shuts behind him with a sense of finality.
"It's here, on the back." You turn your back to him, a funny thing to do when in such close proximity to a demon. He follows your hands and finds a small zipper at the waistline, tucked slightly beneath your fingers, an invisible one- the kind that always gets stuck. "Can you just pull it closed for me?"
Lucifer assumes this will be an easy task, giving you a little nod in response. He pinched the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, then pulled the zipper up- or tried to, anyway. The zipper stays firmly in place.
"You've really gotten yourself stuck, hm?" You watch Lucifer through the mirror in front of you, his lips pressing into a firm line. 
"Mm, yeah I guess…" It would've been nice to impress him with your more refined clothing choices, you'd like his approval, but this zipper seemed to be ruining things for you. 
Lucifer's grip shifted and your breath hitched, a hand moving to your hip and squeezing tightly. "Hold still."
You suppress a shudder as his breath ghosts across your skin, only responding to his command with a quick nod. Lucifer's fingers bear down, squishing the flesh of your hips until they find the points of bone beneath.
The tightness of the shorts is felt far before you recognize the sound of the zipper fastening shut. The black fabric squeezes around your waist and thighs with unforgiving firmness, the fat around your hips puffing out around the hems. You instinctually yearn to rip them off, but Lucifer's hands don't leave your hips.
Here, standing in front of the mirror in the dressing room, Lucifer finally got a good look at your outfit. A white chiffon blouse, the fabric beautiful against your skin, the black bow draping over your chest matching perfectly with the shorts you'd tucked the blouse into.
"This is better." A finger slips under the waistband of your shorts, pinned against your skin. A disapproving hum rises in his throat. "A bit tight." 
Under statement of the century, the shorts might as well be strangling you. Your throat is dry now, you lick your lips and try to force out words. "Yeah, I think they're a little too small."
Lucifer disagrees. The fabric pulls tight around your body, the high waist riding up high enough that he gets a peek at your ass and gives him a near-perfect imprint of your bulge. Hands slowly stroke your sides, up and down, from your ribcage to your hips; you and Lucifer are holding eye contact through the mirror.
Slowly, painfully, you watch while Lucifer's hand brushes its way down the front of your body. His hand lands on the soft swell in your pants, and you draw in a sharp breath. Surely, he won't do it- right? Lucifer, the refined, prideful man, would never grope a lowly human such as yourself.
"How does it feel?" Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when Lucifer’s voice rumbles in your ear.
"How does-" You begin to turn, to look back to Lucifer and beg the question that burns you, but he squeezes your growing hard-on and you fall still with a strained gasp.
He reiterates the question, trying to burrow through the thickening fog of your brain. 
“How do the shorts feel?” Lucifer’s long fingers wiggle beneath the hemline of your shorts and briefs, smoothing over the skin of your tummy. It’s hard to think while he’s drawing circles on your skin, the soft leather of his gloves fueling the heat between your legs. 
“They, uh,” you swallow hard, “they feel good.” A strangled whimper spills from your throat when one of Lucifer’s hands encircles the base of your cock, his touch so faint it’s tantalizing.
“How good?” His is velvet-smooth in your ear, breath hot against your skin.
This was a terrible idea, the dressing rooms aren’t noise absorbent and Lucifer is a man of high status, it’s best if you both put this idea out of your minds. Logically, you both know better than to go on.
“Lucifer, we shouldn’t be doing this-” Your hand slaps itself over your mouth on instinct, muffling the dangerously loud whine that ripped from your throat; the demon had squeezed your shaft so tightly that it ached.
You can’t help but squirm when Lucifer lets out a disappointed sigh next to your ear, his hands sliding from your shorts. “That’s not what I asked.”
Your head spins as Lucifer shoves you up against the dressing room mirror, his hand on the back of your head and forcing your cheek into the cold glass. The popping of stitches is so loud that it feels like a gun has gone off in your ears, you flinch all the same when Lucifer unceremoniously tears off your shorts. 
“Now, let’s try again,” Lucifer discarded his glove in a heartbeat, and the sensitive nerves of your precum-slicked dick are exposed to the demon’s calloused skin. “Tell me how good it feels.”
Now, it’s not a question, Lucifer has given you a demand, spurred on by the quick and rough way he strokes your cock. Your body craves his touch, arching and bucking into Lucifer’s hand almost wildly with a chorus of pitiful whimpers. “Good- oh, f- good! It feels so-”
Lucifer abruptly stuffs his leather glove into your mouth with a scoff of disgust- you realize it tastes of the precum you leaked all over his hand.
“You’re too fucking noisy,” His stroking hand slowed to a near halt, squeezing so tightly around the tip of your cock that you wail into the glove between your teeth, pre dripping down your shaft and onto the dingey carpet in thick globs. “Are you trying to get caught? Do you know what will happen to you if Lord Diavolo hears of this?”
“A demon of such high ranking, like myself, having intimate relations with the human exchange? A much weaker,” the rough skin of Lucifer’s thumb brushes over your slit and you groan at the sting, tears gathering on your lash line, “more vulnerable creature.”
“A scandal like this would take a terrible toll on my standing.” He takes care to trace over the veins of your length, seemingly lost in thought and paying little mind towards your pathetic cries. “We’d have to get rid of you, of course.”
Blood stills in your veins; how painfully vague of him. Your attempts to argue are quickly dismissed, Lucifer only stuffs the glove further into your mouth with a condescending coo. 
“Hush, hush, no talking.” He pats your thigh comfortingly, like trying to quiet an anxious pet. “Perhaps my brothers could find some use for you before you’re discarded…”
Lucifer hums in thought, trailing his hand over your balls, then back towards your ass. Precum-slicked fingers draw tight circles over your rim, pausing to just barely press inside you and watch you squirm back against him. “Or maybe, we’d get to keep you.”
The suggestion has you beyond delighted, grinding back onto Lucifer’s hand with a moan and a trembling grin as he finally forces two fingers into your tight ass. “You’d look good in a cage, don’t you think?”
You’re in no position to disagree, bracing yourself against the mirror as you rock into the thrusts of Lucifer’s hand urgently. You need a little more, just a little more and you can cum. Your moans grow higher and higher in pitch- you’re not being subtle in the slightest. Your cock is twitching and throbbing vigorously, the rough tips of Lucifer’s fingers scraping against your insides only worsening the heat in your tummy. 
Your moans are beginning to sound more like sobs, turning utterly incoherent as you finally, finally- there’s a slick pop as Lucifer pulls his fingers out, leaving you dazed and needy. At last, you let the glove fall from between your teeth, turning back to plead with Lucifer but scarcely getting a whimper out before he grabs you by the cheeks. 
“You’re such a mess,” he laughs, actually laughs into your hot, tear-stained face. and drags you to the ground, leaving scuffs on your knees. “What makes you think you’ve earned the right to cum? What have you done for me?”
Lucifer’s hand tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your face into the tent in his pants. “If you do well, I’ll consider letting you cum, how’s that?”
You can feel the warmth of his erection on your cheek, your own cock spasming in response. Like a bitch in heat, you can’t help but nuzzle against his bulge, eager to get it out of his pants and inside you. Your clumsy hands make quick work of the buttons and zipper on his slacks, freeing his cock in a matter of seconds- you don’t even need instructions before you take the head of his dick in your mouth, sucking away the pre that had gathered at Lucifer’s tip. The taste is tangy, salty, and beckons you to take Lucifer’s cock further into your mouth. 
The promise of an orgasm makes you work hard; bobbing along Lucifer’s length, tracing your tongue over the veins on his length, squelching obscenely as you suck away at him. A hand tangles in your hair, pushing the stray tufts away from your face and tilting your head to stare up at Lucifer. You’re helpless to do anything but watch as he slides his hand to the back of your head, slowly pushing you to sleeve the rest of his cock into your throat. For a moment, you struggle against Lucifer’s grip, throat constricting around his dick as you attempt not to choke.
“Don’t struggle,” Lucifer warns, pressing your nose against the short hairs at his pelvis more firmly when you don’t listen. “Don’t.”
Finally, you go lax against him, tongue lolling out to lick at Lucifer’s sac while you go on attempting to slurp at his dick. Hesitantly, as if waiting for you to fight him once more, Lucifer pumps his hips against your face with a satisfied sigh. “Good boy, good boy; you’re doing perfect.”
You can feel the ridges and veins of his cock sliding over your tongue and scraping the inside of your throat. It aches but you don't move, you're too drunk on his praise to even consider it. 
He starts with a slow in-and-out pump, reassurance that you're not going to choke on his dick, before his grip shifts yet again. The hand once positioned in your hair slides down to your neck, Lucifer's wide palm covering the column of your throat with ease, his fingers digging into the soft flesh on either side–he's getting a firm grip. You panic on the first sharp thrust into your mouth, hands smacking at Lucifer's thighs frantically while you gag and retch around his length, but he hardly seems to notice.
The demon is utterly lost in his own pleasure, his head tilted back in hitched sighs as he fucks your throat with the same mindless ferocity as a toy. Wet gargles fill the small dressing room as you desperately attempt to get a single breath, fingers curled in the fabric of Lucifer's pants. Air, you need air, you can't get a proper breath in with Lucifer's dick filling your throat. The corners of your vision are starting to go dark, your head fuzzy, your lungs are beginning to burn. 
Only when you're sure that Lucifer is going to let you suffocate does he pull you off his cock, thick webs of saliva stuck to his tip and your lips. You gasp and cough wetly, the lightheadedness fading with each new inhale.
"Up on your feet." The command comes and you nearly sob, nothing sounds more impossible to you than standing.
With deer legs, you stumble into something resembling a standing position, still huffing and whimpering weakly. 
"Hands against the mirror, now." Lucifer motions with a hand for you to turn around and stand against the mirror and like an obedient bitch, you do so.
Mostly, you're leaning on the mirror, chest pressed up against the glass and hips tilted back for Lucifer, you're too exhausted to do much else.
"No, not like that." Lucifer sighs in annoyance, grasping you by the hips and pulling you back until you're bent over at the waist, only your palms flat against the mirror.
The moments of silence between his words left you trembling with anticipation, sweaty palms leaving sticky prints on the mirror. A fingertip traces a trail of fire down your spine, before smoothing flat against the small of your back, steadying you as the tip of Lucifer's cock squishes up against your rim. You expect him to push forward, to finally fuck you like you need- but he waits, the head of his dick pressed to your entrance, with no sign of moving. Your impatience grows, cock leaking precum over your thighs, slickening your skin as you rub them together.
"Lucifer…?" With a small rock back, you whine of his name, trying to coax him into fucking you.
He only pulls his hips back, drawing a pitiful noise from your throat. "Beg. Beg for me to fuck you."
Your words catch in your throat, shame keeping you quiet. When Lucifer's hand strikes your thigh, you have to bite your lip to muffle a yelp.
"I could leave you here; a dripping, needy, slut." His words are a cruel hiss, forcing tears to well in your eyes. "Just beg, tell me how badly you want me inside of you, or you get nothing." 
Still, your jaw is firmly closed, far too ashamed to say anything- until Lucifer begins to pull away. 
"No! No, no, please," the threat becomes real and you panic, bracing one arm against the mirror and using your free hand to spread yourself open for him. "Please Lucifer, I want you so bad, I need you…"
Every word is a whisper, still afraid of getting caught, but too worked up to possibly go without Lucifer's cock now. A self-satisfied smile spreads across Lucifer's face as he retakes his place behind you.
"So you can beg, what an obedient whore." The tip of Lucifer's dick taps against your hole, before he slowly slides past your rim with a low groan. "Fuck… are you this tight for everyone, or am I special?"
"Jus- just you…" You barely manage to murmur back, but Lucifer is beyond pleased with your answer, finally driving cock to the hilt with a low groan- you are a perfect fit for his cock.
Now he sets his pace, something steady and forceful that fucks the thoughts from your head on every inward stroke, the walls of the dressing room one hard thrust away from trembling beneath your weight. With every pull back, the head of Lucifer's dick drags over your prostate, your legs twitching and quivering in sensitivity- it's taking everything in you to stay quiet, but that's not what Lucifer wants.
"Talk- come on, talk for me, pretty boy, tell me how good you feel." With that gasping command your mouth falls open and a flood of praise rolls out.
"You feel so good, thank you, fuck, thank you- harder, please-" Any thought of silence is lost in the haze of lust, pleading for Lucifer to go harder, to go faster, for more, more, more. 
Lucifer throws his head back with an unrestrained groan, slamming his hips against yours with unprecedented speed and force, tearing moans from your chest with ease. 
"Oh God-" Lucifer grips your hair tightly to cut off your cry, his tone turning furious.
"Don't you-" he loses his words in a slew of curses for a moment. "-don't you ever call for anyone else, fuck, I am your god, understand?"
The moment he asks, you nod- but that's not enough. The hold on your hair tightens, and Lucifer pulls your head back, forcing you to face your reflection in the glass; covered in your own spit and tears, the thin white fabric of your blouse turned sheer from sweat.
"Say it." Lucifer's voice drops to a dangerous hiss, his free hand moving to stroke the length of your dick in time with his thrusts.
You let out a wail the moment he touches you, a fresh stream of tears welling up and rolling down your cheeks.
"You! You're m-my God!" It's slurred and sobbed, but at this moment, you mean your words completely. 
Abruptly, Lucifer pulls you back against his chest by the scalp, then locks his arm around your neck, constricting your airways. 
"Who?" Lucifer presses on, prompting another answer from you.
Even though your voice is strained through his tight grip, you call out for him, an obedient worshipper. "Lucifer!"
He lets out a shuddering sigh of pleasure. "Again."
"Lucifer!" You answer, and his pace falters for a moment. 
"Again, louder." He commands once more, and you follow.
"Lucifer!" His hips pump into you even faster, and your cock is beginning to throb erratically, you're so close. 
"Louder!" Lucifer's voice pounds through your skull, you think this must be madness.
"Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer!" At last, your orgasm hits you all at once with an ear-splitting scream, every muscle in your body drawing taut within Lucifer's hold.
You arch against him, legs kicking at his shins as Lucifer holds you up by nothing but his arm around your throat, your cum splattering against the fitting room mirror. With all your tightening and convulsing, Lucifer's orgasm isn't far behind, his thrusts have turned irregular and unsteady- but you're struggling for breath, clawing his prim black dress shirt in desperation.
At last, you feel hot cum flood your insides in tandem with Lucifer's shuddering groan, and a heartbeat later, he lets you go. You crumple beneath your weight, letting his cock slip free from your ass as you fall forward against the mirror. You can't help but see yourself- rather, the mess you've become. Heaving and panting, your face glistening with saliva, tears, and snot, strands of your cum caught in your hair and smeared over your skin from where you hit the mirror.
"Well, then." Lucifer is already tucking his dick back into his pants, retrieving his discarded gloves from the floor. "Get up, we've been here long enough."
Tongue heavy in your mouth, you can barely even form the words to protest. "I… I can't…"
A firm hand grasps your upper arm and yanks you up to your feet. Feeling Lucifer's cum ooze from your ass, you can't help but shiver- a few drops hit your calves and soak into your boxers, still looped around your ankles.
Lucifer huffs out a disappointed mutter when you sag against him, then guides you to wrap your arms around his neck. Luckily, Lucifer helps you redress yourself, pulling your boxers back up, then stuffing you back into your uniform dress pants- however, you're left in the sweat-stained blouse. 
Lips press against your ear, a whispered threat. "You're going to walk by yourself. If you stumble or don't keep up, I will whip you bloody- understand?"
There's nothing you can do but nod. You've given yourself to Lucifer completely, mind, body, and soul- and a worshipper does not deny the requests of his god.
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That will be all for today's showing folks, as always, thank you for viewing!
This was made based on a prompt I submitted to @akunya in uhhh... checks watch oh god February. I didn't mean to take this long. I started writing half of this several months ago, then I opened it this morning and suddenly blasted through the rest in like 5 hours. Possessed by the spirit of horny I guess...
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julienbakerpls · 5 months
Note
pls baby when is silk chiffon pt 2 coming😭😭😭
Silk Chiffon Part 2
Julien Baker x Reader 18+ ONLY
This is RPF if you don't like it don't ✨read✨ it
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You watched the boys from side stage, noticing every little thing about the way Julien played, walked, and sang with her best friends. Shivers running up and down your spine every time you'd catch her eye. You were already so hot and bothered by the time salt in the wound rolled around, that when you noticed Julien's vest had come unbuttoned you genuinely thought you were going to combust.
She walked off stage and instantly had her arms wrapped so tightly around you, reaching up to kiss you deeply. You could feel the sweat on her exposed chest as she pressed you closer to her body.
"Jay," You whined into her mouth that was busy trying to taste every inch of yours. Julien finally pulled away from you going to say something to the boys before roughly grabbing your arm and leading you back into the direction of her dressing room. You eagerly followed behind her, knowing your face was filled with color and everyone could most likely tell how flustered you were.
Julien pulled you into the room turning and locking the door behind you, she pressed you into the wall. Her soft lips attacking your neck, her knee pushing between your thighs. You pressed yourself down on it knowing that's what she wanted, you moaned loudly when you made contact. You felt her smile against your flushed skin.
"You're so cute, princess," Julien said into your neck, placing a sweet kiss there. You felt her pull your hips more firmly down into her thigh. Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp as the angle of her thigh became just right. Julien took the opportunity to lick her way into your mouth, the kiss was sloppy and wet and both of you were moaning at the sensation.
"Please," You moan into her open mouth, practically drooling at the confident smirk tugging on her lips.
"Oh you poor thing, am I being mean?" Julien said, pulling away from you completely. You watched her let the vest she was wearing fall to the floor, your eyes following her as she lounged on the couch. You pouted at her, still trying to catch your breath from the wall. Julien smiled teasingly, patting her lap. You walked over to her, placing yourself on her lap. Her hands instantly finding purchase on your hips, pulling them flush against hers.
"Jay," You gasped rolling your hips against hers.
"Yes Princess?" Julien smiled up at you.
"Please, I-" You cut yourself off with a moan, Julien having thrusted her hips just right into yours.
"I need you, please Jay," You said, placing her hands more firmly on your hips. She squeezed them roughly before pulling your lips back to hers. She kissed you slowly and sensually, teasing your lower lip with her tongue. You whined into her mouth, she took that opportunity to deepen the kiss. You moaned at the feeling of her tongue against yours fighting for dominance. Her hand moving from your hip up along your side, squeezing your tits before moving up to wrap her hand around your neck. She pressed her hand against the sides of it, squeezing loosely.
Your hips jerked down to meet hers, you were practically crying due to lack of friction. Julien kissed you harder, the kiss growing sloppy and wet. Spit dripping down your chin.
Julien pulled away from you, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. She pulled you back into another heated kiss, running her hands along your newly exposed skin.
"Mmmmm this bra is so pretty, but it's really pissing me off.." She spoke against your lips, you moaned against her lips, nodding your head in agreement. Julien smiled against your lips, pressing sweet kisses there instead of the heated kiss from before. She reached behind you, skillfully unclipping your bra with one hand. She pulled away completely to hear your response, it was the same every time but she never grew tired of it. You moaned loudly, arching your back pressing your exposed tits into her face. She buried her face into your chest, sucking bruises onto it. You gasped, raking your hands through her hair, tugging on the ends.
Once she had successfully left hickeys all over your chest, marking you as hers, She moved her hands underneath your skirt. Running her hands up and down your thighs, smirking up at you.
"Can I do anything for you?" Julien asked, her voice rougher than usual.
"Please, Jay," You moaned trying to kiss her again. Julien turned her head away from you.
"Use your words, Princess." She said, pressing sweet kiss to your cheek.
"Please Jay! I need you, I want it all," You whined out, knowing the needier you sounded the more turned on she'd get.
"Fuck, you're so sexy," She said before attacking your lips, her tongue roughly licking into your mouth. Julien flipped you onto your back, wasting no time biting and sucking her way down your body. You moaned watching her pull your legs over her shoulders, she licked a flat stripe up your center. She held eye contact with your the whole time knowing how it wrecked you. She sucked your clit into her mouth, massaging it with her tongue. You bucked your hips up, back arching up. Julien tightly held your hips down, taking her time and eating you out like it was her last meal. Every time she'd pull away slightly you could see the drool and your wetness on her face, it was always the most erotic thing to you. Julien licked your clit teasingly, maintaining eye contact as she spit on your clit. She rubbed her spit into your already soaked opening, you moaned out, throwing your head back against the couch. She pressed two fingers into you, massaging your inner walls with her callused fingers.
"Jay, Baby fuck," You moaned out, pressing her beautiful face into your clit harder. You started to fuck yourself on her fingers as she sucked in your clit.
"You're taking it like such a good girl," Julien said, pressing her face harder into you. You moaned loudly, gasping out her name with each thrust of her fingers. You felt your body start to tense, heat pooling in your stomach.
"Are you going to cum for me, princess, Come on, cum for me like the good girl I know you are." Julien said, pulling you up to meet her in a heady kiss. You could taste yourself on her lips, and you both couldn't help but moan at it.
Your body ached with the tension, your legs starting to shake with the building pressure. Juliens other hand reached up squeezing your neck, as she bit hard on your lower lip.
Like she knew it would, you started to cum, your body going limp in her arms. Shaking and clenching down on her fingers. Julien fucked you through it, letting you ride out your orgasm. You moaned when Julien sucked her fingers clean, taking her time and making a show out of it. She pulled you up and into her lap, letting you rest your face in her neck. You breathed in the smell of her cologne, instantly feeling at ease.
"You can rest for about an hour, but when we go back to the hotel i'm going to fuck you with my strap so hard, for teasing me with this little skirt all night." Julien whispered into your hair, kissing you sweetly.
- Sorry this took so long, I got distracted by a situationship with a masc lesbian
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Text
You Call It Madness But I Call It Love
Chapter 4: It's My Party and I'll Eat Cake If I Want To
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Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV
Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter four of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)
Word Count: 4.1K
Warnings: References to sex, Cursing (a few times), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC,
Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect.  If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!
Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics
Masterlist for Series
Masterlist
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Philadelphia 1935
"Stop fidgeting." Your mother snaps under her breath as you pull at the high collar of the monstrosity covering your body. Not one inch of skin is visible, the high collar, long sleeves, and knee-length skirt hid every shred of your body from view. It made you feel like you were drowning in chiffon all the while being choked to death.
"But mother it's itchy-"
"I don't care." She snarls, lip curling back. "It makes you look presentable and you need to focus on greeting your guests."
You sigh and look back over the groups of people that flood through the front doors of your home and into the living room. Waiters in sharp uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of appetizers, glasses of wine and champagne, and slices of birthday cake. Most of the guests were friends of your parents, and had begun flocking to the wet bar in the corner that your mother set up. Your brother and his new wife were standing in the corner of your large sitting room surrounded by groups of their friends.
Your sister-in-law smiles as she catches your eye. She was one of the nicest people you knew, perfectly matched with your older brother, who looked at her like she was his entire world. They had only courted for a month before they both realized it was love and against your parent's insistences for them to wait, had been married. But they were so blissfully happy together that it made your heart ache for the same.
You wondered if there would ever be a day that Ben looked at you that way.
"Good evening Mrs. y/l/n." Howard appears in the doorway, reaching out to kiss your mother's hand. He's wearing the same sand-colored suit as he was earlier in the park.
"Mr. Stine. Lovely to see you this evening." She curtsies graciously and glares at you to do the same. "We are happy you could make it tonight."
"I was honored to receive an invitation." His eyes drift to you. "Ms. y/l/n." He takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. His hand is clammy and you try not to make a face.
Ben still hadn't shown up. Which meant that he was either out drinking and he forgot, fighting with his father again, or he was waiting to make his grand entrance.
You really hoped that he hadn't forgotten. When he dropped you off at your home a few hours prior to the party, he said something about going to get a drink and changing. What you'd wanted to say was, didn't you have enough earlier, but you didn't.
The few hours before the party had been harrowing, filled with your mother snapping at you whenever you complained about her pulling the corset too tight, jerking your hair, or rubbing the lotions and ointments into your skin too roughly.
"Would you like to dance?" Howard asks you with a smile.
"Um-" You begin to say.
"Of course she would!" Your mother says all but shoving you forward into Howard's arms.
He leads you away to the sitting room. Your mother had the staff clear out all the furniture to make room for a string band in the corner and a dance-floor. There were already a few couples swaying back and forth to the soft tones that flitted through the air on wings.
Howard pulls you against him awkwardly, one of his hands tightening on your waist, the other clasping your left hand  in his sweaty right. Everything about dancing with him feels wrong. The way your bodies move together, the smell of his cologne is unfamiliar, the feeling of his hand on your waist, and the way his feet sporadically knock into yours, that are pinched tight in a pair of heels that make you taller than Howard. The dance you share is filled with silences that you can't avoid.
Silence.
"You look really nice." Howard tries.
"Thank you."
Silence.
"So, um- you like to paint." Howard says with a strained smile.
"I do."
Silence.
"Did you see President Roosevelt's plans for the Social Security Administration? I think that it will definitely help with taxation and the living situations in America!" Howard smiles.
"Um. No I didn't."
Silence.
It shouldn't be this hard to talk to other people. You think to yourself. When you and Ben talked, there were never any uncomfortable silences, if anything sometimes the silence was nice. The one between Howard and you felt like it was big enough for an oil tanker to pass through.
You heard a commotion at the front door and raise your eyes to look over Howard's head, and feel your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. Ben is standing there, his arm looped tightly with Missy Callahan.
Missy was your best friend in grade school, but you quickly realized that it wasn't your friendship she was interested in, it was Ben. And as soon as Ben realized that she was interested in him, he all but jumped at the chance. Ben and her spent time together on and off over the past few years since the three of you were thirteen. And as much as you wished that they wouldn't spend any time together, you couldn’t come up with a way to voice your displeasure to Ben without telling him that you loved him.
You tried not to compare the way she looked to you. Her beautiful blonde hair fell in effortless waves down her back, her figure was slim, her eyes an enchanting blue that captured anyone under her gaze, and her steps so graceful she seemed to float across the ground rather than walk. Her voice was musical and lofty, accentuated by her timeless features, perfect cupid bow mouth, and wide eyes that always seemed full of stars and innocence. Tonight she was wearing a sleek red dress that cupped her body in a way that made everyone else in the room look like they were wearing potato sacks.
Of course you knew she was more than innocent. You'd caught her on several occasions saying terrible things about you, but the feeling was mutual. Her snide comments about how you looked and what you wore used to hurt more than they did now. But when Ben was around, she was perfectly kind to you, overly sweet that it made you want to choke her out of frustration.
You watch the two of them come through the front door, and notice Ben's eyes survey the room. You fight the urge to duck and run to hide the horrible dress. You know that he's looking for you and deep down you hope also he doesn't see you with Howard. But at the same time you know that what you’re about to do is much worse.
"Howard." You force yourself smile at him, dropping your eyes to the man dancing with you.
"Yeah?"
"Will you twirl me?" You lean towards him as if he's everything you wanted. Deep down you feel like a terrible person for using him like this, but you didn't want to be lonely. And when Ben was with Missy, that's exactly how you felt, lonely.
"Of course." Howard's smile breaks your heart. He twirls you away, and as he does, you catch Ben's eyes momentarily. You see something flit through them that you notice is the same emotion he had earlier when your mother wrapped that coat over your shoulders earlier, but it's gone as soon as it appears.
When you land back against Howard's chest, you ignore how wrong he fits against you, and instead you giggle.
"So Howard, what do you like to do in your free time?" You ask him, ignoring the feeling of Ben's gaze on you.
"Well, I've been researching the steel industry and trying to predict how it will bounce back-" Howard begins to slip quickly into a monologue about the United States steel production and the possible growth in the coming years.
Oh boy. He continues to speak while you sway to the music and you immediately begin to regret everything you've done in the past few minutes. At least he can multi-task.
You hoped that Ben and Missy weren't still standing there watching you, if they were Missy was probably laughing at you.
Finally, Howard stops talking and leads you over to the living room where people have begun to clump up and talk with one another. A waiter walks over with a tray full of birthday cake and just as you reach for a slice Missy materializes on your right like the devil on your shoulder.
"Y/n!" She smiles wide, saying your name with fake cheer. "I had no idea you would be here!"
"It's my birthday party." You say, voice slipping into a monotone.
"Oh well Benjamin didn't say anything about why we were coming here. Just said party and well, here I am." You hate the way she says his name, like she's emphasizing the fact she has him and you don't. "What an interesting dress!" Her eyes skate down the abomination your mother picked out.
"Thanks." You reply through gritted teeth.
She leans forward to whisper in your ear. "Do you really think birthday cake is a good idea?"
Your cheeks blaze bright red and just as you open your mouth to tell her exactly where you’d like to shove the birthday cake, Ben appears beside her.
"Hey."
"Hi." You don't bother to make your voice cheery.
When I sent you a birthday invitation I didn't say you could bring a plus one, and especially not this bitch. You try to say with your eyes.
"Did you have a nice dance Howie?" Ben turns his eyes on Howard, who stiffens at the use of the nickname.
"Yes we did." You answer for him and take Howard’s hand.
Something flashes in Ben's eyes when you use the word "we."
"Oh Benjamin, I love this song! Let's dance." Missy says, grabbing Ben's wrist and pulling him away.
You stand there and watch them dance for a moment, noticing how closely they're pressed together, how Ben's grip on her waist tightens as they sway back and forth, how Missy's head rests against the smooth fabric of his black jacket. An irrational amount of jealousy crashes over you as you watch them dance together, but you can't look away. It's like a trainwreck.
Well, couldn't look away until Missy catches your eye and shoots you a smirk that makes you consider all the places in Philadelphia you can hide a body. The list is detailed and quite long, considering you'd been working on it for as long as you'd known Ben.
"Y/n?" Howard says.
"Hmm?" You turn to look at him. "Sorry I was-" Thinking about all the ways to kill Missy. "Lost in thought."
"I asked if you wanted a piece of cake." Howard smiles and you hate that you feel absolutely nothing when he does. There's no butterflies, no tightening in the center of your chest, no warmth tracing through your body like fingertips flaring against your skin. You hated that's what happened when Ben smiled at you.
You think about what Missy said about the birthday cake, looking once more at her statuesque figure that bends gracefully away from Ben as he dips her, and shove the thought away. "Sure."
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You sit on the end of your bed, but you don't reach for your sketchpad, you were too angry for that.
Ben had barely said two words to you beside the hello that you shared when he came to your birthday party with the most odious girl alive, of course that didn't mean that you lost them in the crowds of people. And that also meant that you'd seen him and her making out in one of the dark corners of the living room.
Anger, frustration, and jealousy swirl together and congeal into a ball in the pit of your stomach. You were angry at Ben for bringing her, jealous of Missy that she was the one who got to be with Ben, and frustrated at yourself for your inability to tell Ben the truth.
Why can't tell him? You sigh. And then what? I tell him and he immediately cuts me out of his life? Your eyes trace the room around you and fall back on your bed. Your bedroom always seemed too big without him, the bed cold, and the  room dark. It made the whole in your heart open up when he wasn't there.
You hated how much you needed him and how much you depended on Ben showing up in your life. You wondered if he needed you too.
The memory of him and Missy in the corner, with his hands on her hips and his lips fused to hers, darts across your mind and makes you pluck a pillow from the head of your bed and scream into it.
It doesn't help.
"Hard day?" Someone asks.
"What are you doing here Ben?" You sigh, not needing to look up to know that its him.
He's standing with his feet on your window seat as he comes in from the ledge.
"Thought I'd stop by. We didn't get to talk much at the party." He shrugs.
You try not to look at how his lips are a little pinker than usual and how his hair is sticking up in the back like someone has run their fingers through it.
Damn Missy.
"Well I noticed you were plenty occupied. I guess it's hard to talk with your tongue shoved down Missy's throat." You huff, practically kicking off your shoes. It's a miracle that they don't hit him when he climbs down from the widow seat.
The image of him and Missy Callahan in the corner of your living room kissing flashes over your mind again and makes your temper flare red hot against your skin. The jealousy that electrifies in your veins you know is unwarranted. Ben wasn't yours. You didn't have a claim to him just because you were friends. Just friends. Great friends. And you knew that he didn't feel that way about you.
But how can he not see me as more? How can he spend so much time with me and only see me as a friend? You wanted to scream. All those times falling asleep talking with one another, all the times we woke up in the early morning pressed against one another. How can Ben not want to be more?
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you sound jealous Doll." Ben smirks.
"Of what? Missy Callahan? Please-" You blow a raspberry, even though it's unladylike and you know that if your mother was there she would slap you for doing so. "I don't know what you see in that vapid self-centered debutante. I doubt the two of you can find anything to talk about-"
"Well we don't do much talking. And you and Howard looked plenty cozy together." Ben's smirk turns more into a taunt and this time it makes you want to slap your best friend, but you hold yourself back. "But you sure sound jealous."
"I'm not jealous!" You snap, tugging at the collar of your dress in frustration, both at Ben and at the material in your hands. "Damn it!" You curse, not at Ben, but continue tug at the collar of the dress. Despite wanting to take it off, you hadn't been able to do it by yourself and your mother was busy ordering the waiters downstairs clean up, and it was getting harder to breathe and not to mention terribly hot.
"You doing okay there sweetheart?" Ben's smirk shifts to a worried expression.
"No I can't breathe." You choke out.
Ben immediately steps forward before you can stop him and unzips the back of your dress. It pools at your feet, making your breath catch, leaving you in the tight white corset that was causing you to asphyxiate. Although it went to your knees you still felt almost naked. Ben had only seen you in nightgowns, but it didn't mean that he hadn't felt your curves pressed against him in the morning when you woke up together.
The corset your mother insisted was necessary to shave down your hips, flatten your butt, and squeeze your breasts so tight against your chest that each time you took in a breath you weren't able to expel it.
Ben doesn't look away from your face, but it looks as if it's causing an amazing amount of effort for him to do so. "Do you want me to loosen it?" He rumbles. His jaw clenches with his words, and a darkness blooms in his eyes that sends a thrill down your spine.
"Yes." Your voice comes out more like a squeak than anything else.
Ben turns you in his arms slowly as if gauging your reaction, before you feel his fingertips trail down your spine as he begins to loosen the ties on the back. The tingle that follows his fingertips makes your chest as tight as the garment that squeezes you. You try not to think about how many times you imagined this exact scenario, with you and Ben in your bedroom together. Ben turns your body around so that you're looking up at him again, your faces so close that his lips are leveled directly where your hair sprouts from your forehead.
His hands remain on your waist, thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the material where it rests on your hips, tracing the crest of your pelvis with each stroke, his eyes lock with yours. They are deep and dark and filled with promises that makes you shiver and you're sure he feels. Your own hands have come up between you to rest against his solid chest, admiring the muscle beneath his dark suit. You can't help but notice how he leans forward into your touch as you do and feel the rapid beat of his heart against the palms of your hands. It mirrors your own that feels as though it will break free and flutter away.
"Ben I-" You begin to say.
A loud knocking at your door makes you shove him backwards away from you so hard that Ben stumbles, tripping over the edge of your bed and onto the ground with a loud thud that you try to cover with a cough.
"Who is it?" You ask, voice frantic.
"It's your father."
Your wide eyes lock with Ben's, who doesn't look nearly afraid enough. "Get under the bed-" You whisper-yell.
"I love it when you order me around." Ben smirks as your cheeks flush and his eyes trace your figure one more time in a way that makes you burn.
"Ben!" You hiss.
He crawls under the bed and you grab your bathrobe, wrapping it around yourself before saying "Come in."
Your father enters, a glass of scotch clasped in his hand. His black suit is impeccable, perfectly tailored to him, as it should be, he was, after all, one of the most powerful men in Philadelphia.
His gaze sweeps the room for a moment as if looking for someone, tracing over your bed once, and you think you see the end of his lip quirk for a minute, but then it fades.
"Hi." You smile at him, your cheeks still flushed, heart beat pounding against your ribcage.
Don't look under the bed. Don't look under the bed. Don't look under the bed.
"I apologize for the intrusion, I just wanted to say goodnight." He crosses the room to hug you with one arm. You can smell the tobacco from his nightly smoke on his jacket. You and your father had always been a bit closer than you and your mother. Especially when you were younger and you'd sit in the parlor at his feet watching him smoke his pipe before bed. Over the past few years you hadn't been able to spend as much time together, and it made you sad to think that you were growing apart from him.
"Did you have a good birthday?"  He pushes back some of the hair that's fallen into your face with a warm smile.
"Yes I did. Ben got me some new brushes and I got to try them out today when we went to the park."
"That was nice of him." Your father smiles for a minute before he takes a sip from his scotch. "I saw you dancing with Howard Stine."
"Yeah. He's…" Boring. "Nice."
"Hmm." Your father nods. "He's from a good family. Your mother certainly thinks that he's suitable-" He pauses. "But I'm not sure he's right for you."
"It was just a dance. I don't think that makes anything official." You laugh.
Please let my future not end with Howard Stine.
Your father shrugs his shoulders and takes another sip of his scotch. "Your mother and I started with just a dance." The look in his eyes changes for a moment and you wonder if he's reliving the memory of them together. It was moments like this when you saw how much your father loved your mother. It was difficult for you to understand given everything that she'd said to you over the years, but it brought you joy that your father was happy. He shakes his head as if pushing it away. "You always seem happier after you've spent time with Benjamin."
Your cheeks flush bright red, knowing that Ben can hear the conversation. "We're just friends."
"Perhaps." His lips twitch. "So you did have fun at the park? Any new paintings?"
"A few."
"May I see?"
Usually you liked when your father looked at your work, but the thought that Ben was hiding under your bed and could be discovered at any minute, set you on edge.
"Sure." You walk around the bed to get your watercolor pad on your bedside table, before holding it out over the bed for your father. And just as he takes it, Ben's large hand fastens around your ankle. You clear your throat, kicking your foot to get him to let go, but he doesn't release it  and you can hear his muffled laugh.
"These are quite something." He flips through the pages, finally stopping on the one of Ben from this morning. "I can't believe he sat still long enough for you to paint him."
"Ben is difficult. ALL the time." You grit out, kicking with your foot again, but he doesn't let go. "And annoying." You grumble low enough for only Ben to hear.
"Yes. I believe that."  Your father hands you back the pad of paper. "But he certainly makes you happy, and that's all I want for you."
"Dad-"
He smiles, but shakes his head at you. "Goodnight darling." Your father turns to walk towards the door before he stops. "Your mother will be coming upstairs in a few minutes, perhaps Ben should not be here when she does." And then he leaves.
Your entire body flushes bright red with embarrassment. HOW DID HE KNOW THAT BEN WAS HERE?
Ben crawls out from under your bed holding back laughter.
"It's not funny!" You snap.
"Kinda funny." He smiles. "Do you think he's going to tell your mom?"
"No. I mean I hope not. I think if he does, she'd nail the window shut and cut the tree down." You stand there for a second. "But you should go if she's coming."
"I could hide in the closet this time, see if she can find me?" Ben jokes.
"It's not hide and go seek or Marco Polo!"
Ben laughs at you, before his expression turns serious. "Are you sure you want me to go?" You know that he's asking you that because he knows that no matter what your mother wants to speak to you about will not end well.
"I'm fine Ben. Go. It'll be okay." You smile despite your rising nerves.
"Okay."
He stands there for another beat, eyes dropping to your robe, and for a second you believe that he's thinking about how you looked a minute ago. Your cheeks flush at the memory, feeling his hands trace your spine to loosen the corset, and then how they felt on your waist. What would have happened if my father didn't come in?
"I'll see you tomorrow. I still have five days of freedom before boarding school number seven and I'd like to spend at least one at a baseball game." He finally says.
"Sounds boring."
"I can always take Missy." He replies smugly.
"And by boring I mean it sounds like everything I've ever wanted." You force a smile.
"That's what I thought."
But before he leaves, he pulls you into a hug.
"Goodnight y/n. Happy Birthday."
"Goodnight Ben." You say into his shoulder.
And then he vanishes out your window without another word, leaving you with the memory of what almost happened, and the rising dread that your mother was going to come in at any minute.
*********************
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lazuruspit · 2 years
Text
The Plight of Yearning — (m)
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+ PAIRING: Eren Jaeger / Fem!Reader
+ SUMMARY: True love is giving your lover the bigger half of your favourite chiffon cake; it’s nudging them to the inside of a sidewalk next to a busy road; and it’s Mikasa and Jean, eyes hued with affection as they daydream their upcoming wedding. And maybe—just maybe—true love also comes in the form of Eren Jaeger and his best friend, the two idiots tasked with planning said wedding over the course of seven months.
+ GENRES: modern!au, friends/idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, smut. 
+ CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, one (1) fleeting mention of vomit, three smut scenes including dry humping, photo taking, phone sex, mutual masturbation, breast play, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, and implied (unperformed) exhibitionism.
+ WORD COUNT: 21k
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Following Mikasa’s announcement, not a second is left bereft of hollers.
Everybody bursts into peals of laughter and reeling giggles, causing the bottles of alcohol scattered around the table to begin shaking.
Pieck’s the first to officially react. She pounces onto Mikasa’s thigh, a giddy grin splitting her cheeks that are stuffed with Korean barbecue. She settles her hand within the crook of Mikasa’s elbow, her grey eyes blown wide and beguiled, sparkling with mirth.
“Holy fuck!” Pieck bawls, either wholly indifferent or heedlessly unaware of the searing look a mother sends her way.
Mikasa sheepishly coils in on herself. She lets her free hand drop, the impression on her face reading of cleft embarrassment and infatuation (if the deep blush that saturates her cheek is anything to go by).
She lets her hand get passed around the table, her smile swelling at the carol of awes between her friends as you all take turns swooning at the wedding stack that ornaments her ring finger. The jewellery catches glints from the restaurant lights, twinkling when Mikasa turns her hand, the glimmers likened to rose-tinted sunglasses in the summertime as it washes over your peripheral.
“When was this!?” Sasha wails, gawking at the amethyst that blinks in contrast to the fairness of Mikasa’s skin.
“Was it last weekend?” Hitch presses, wide-eyed, “Fuck, Mikasa, he proposed on your birthday, didn’t he?”
The aforementioned girl shyly ducks her head in what sounds like a nod. Mikasa nuzzles the bottom half of her face behind the foam of her cardigan, clouding the preening grin that lolls over her lips. Then, she extends her hand to Historia, who regards the ring with mantled eyebrows. She flips Mikasa’s hand over, running her eyes across the aureate band and the modest bridge in the middle, bolstering the engagement stone that flickers under her gaze.
It lacks undue emphasis, she notices, but Historia knows that Mikasa values simplicity over ostentatious spending, opting to live frugally. 
Historia knows there are lines to be read between. She knows that the ring is not only amethysts over a thin ribbon of gold, but something much more earnest to the couple.
It clicks in Historia’s mind when she glances up, a sweet smile betraying the warmth that swathes her heart. “Your birthstone. And the month you two met.”
Mikasa nods, chin cushioned by her palm, eyes glazed over with a dreamy sheen. “He proposed at the place we had our first date, too. That little Italian hole-in-the-wall.”
“That fucking asshole…” Sasha mutters, “who knew he was such a romantic?”
Annie rolls her eyes, reaching over the table to knuckle at Sasha’s skull. The latter winces and plaintively whines, swatting Annie’s hand away.
Pieck simply kisses her teeth, unmoved by the pair. “Are you kidding?” She asks, “Jean is, like, the poster boy of romance.”
“I wish Marlowe was more romantic,” Hitch sighs.
“Hah?” Historia gapes, “Is it just me who remembers the time he wrote a song for you?”
Hitch narrows her eyes. “I said more romantic.”
On the other side of the table, your eyes dart between your friends, watching as they taper off into different conversations. You drain your drink, listening in on the sparring spiel between Hitch and Sasha—who debate between themselves to see which of their boyfriends are less romantic—when a slight nudge to the edge of your calf startles you out of your thoughts.
Mikasa is already looking at you when you turn to look at her. Her face is chiefly gleeful, still riding the aftershocks of glee in the wake of her engagement announcement. But, before you can stop yourself, you’re subconsciously slanting forward, just enough so that you’re able to perceive a tinge of wariness dancing in the dilution of her eyes.
A glance around the table reaffirms to you that everyone is occupied, so, pinning your focus on Mikasa, you shuffle closer, your words already adopting a concerned tone.
“What’s wrong?” You whisper, poring over her pinched countenance.
Mikasa fidgets with the rim of her glass, folding her lips. You feel a spike of suspense rouse in your belly, but as Mikasa parts her lips, only to seal her mouth shut not a moment later, suspense ripens into fear.
“Mika?” You venture, tugging on her sleeve.
She shushes you with a fanning hand, polishing off her drink before pivoting to face you, mouth shielded from the rest of the table by the stretch of her palm.
“I have something to ask you,” she whispers, “don’t feel pressured into pleasing me, or anything, I want it to be genuine, you know?”
You nod like you understand—which you don’t.
Mikasa wedges her bottom lip between her teeth, in turn raking away some of her lipgloss. She plucks at a loose thread on her cardigan, and you vaguely recognise it as the one you got her on New Year’s, but currently, anticipation overshadows your buoyancy, and you wait with bated breath.
“I want you to be my maid of honour,” she starts, “I remember in high school we promised each other we’d be them at each other’s weddings, and now… y’know. I’m getting married.”
She turns to look at you, shallowly exhaling. “Jean’s asking Eren. To be his best man, I mean. It’s just– it’s a big responsibility. So… sleep on it.”
A blush deepens the colour of Mikasa’s face as she sweetly smiles, awaiting your reply, and her flash of teeth instantly saps you of all previous fear. 
Your response comes suddenly; a punch to the apex of her shoulder. Mikasa scowls and kneads the point of impact, but you both know that with her disciplined muscles, she barely felt a tingle.
“The hell was that for?” She pouts.
“Mika, of course I’ll be your maid of honour, are you kidding?”
Mikasa giggles and shrugs, dragging her vowels. “I dunno. Weddings aren’t really something we’ve done before. There’s all that planning, and the speech writing, and fuck, I just thought it’d be too much with your new job ‘n stuff.”
Mikasa outstretches her hand, wordlessly requesting a refill. Sasha chaotically pours soju to the rim of her shot glass. Some carbonation trickles down Mikasa’s fingers. She licks it off.
“Mika, I’d fight Porco to be your maid of honour–” you cause her to unceremoniously chortle in laughter, “no, I’m dead serious. I’d fight Porco to initiate myself as your maid of honour. Like, physically.”
“I’d fight Porco for a cookie from Subway,” Sasha gabbles.
Mikasa’s eyes shift to you. “Thank you,” she whispers, “I love you a lot. More than Jean, maybe.”
“Promise that if the seven-year itch ends up being real, you’ll leave him for me?”
Mikasa dramatically groans, throwing her head back. “Don’t jinx it.”
“I could never,” you smile, “Jean loves you too much.”
Mikasa simmers at that, a lovesick look casting over her features.
“Yeah,” she twists the ring on her finger, “I know he does.”
Cuteness embodied is Eren Jaeger’s 6’0” stature hunched over in his seat on the subway; knees steepled, shoulders twined in on themselves. 
His flaying earbuds dangle from the collar of his obnoxiously ostentatious Stüssy hoodie, the wires swaying with each rumble of the metro. He’s sandwiched between two old ladies who blather over the wispy brown tousles of his hair. Eren uncomfortably slants forward, not daring to lean back and thus forestall the ladies’ conversation, so, he toughs it out, and redirects his focus to the Kendrick Lamar song that cavorts in his right ear.
But said focus almost causes him to miss his stop, which prompts a not-so-suave sequence of messily corralling all of his belongings together, and scrambling out the doors.
This sling of Eren’s camera bag slips down his arm when hastening through the streets of San Francisco, the fringes of his vision turning blurry as he threads past passersby and weaves between crowds.
The address you’re all supposed to meet up at is ingrained into Eren’s mind. He reminds himself that it’s located on Grimes boulevard, not Graves, and thinks back to the voice message you’d left him this morning—stressing the fact that if Eren were late, you’d kick him off the wedding planning team yourself.
So, following the whirlwind tumult that is his Friday morning, Eren’s proud that he made it to the right place on time.
He swings the door open and steps inside, the world of Vivienne King’s Wedding Planning swathing him in a fuse of lo-fi music and vanilla musk purifiers. Eren catalogues the space, eyes loitering over the flush-mount fixtures before they sweep across the accent wall, down to the rows of shelves that hold framed photos of past customers.
Eren turns, and his gaze lands on Jean, who has his hold assured on Mikasa. She curls in on herself but slightly banks into Jean’s warm chest; her shoulder bolstered by his front, his hand skated into the rear pocket of her jeans. They’re standing in front of a woman with cropped hair, discussing the budget.
Eren hums to himself, deciding to hang back. He looks around the establishment, but is soon mourning in its lack of your presence. Eren grieves by shutting his eyes, picturing your smile behind the film rolls that are his eyelids–
“You’re late.”
Eren zips his head to the side so fast that he’s genuinely surprised—and thankful—he doesn’t get hit with a stint of whiplash. He’s briefly enfeebled, suddenly confronted by you within the mellow events firm.
He stares at you and isn’t really sure if he’s making a conscious effort of hiding it. But what Eren does know is that he finds himself pausing on the twinkle of your eyes; the loose strands of hair that frame your cheeks; the barely-there caper of your lips, and the endearing pucker between your brows.
Eren believes his oxygen is seized. And with his breathing impaired, he isn’t sure what to do.
So, Eren does the first thing that comes to mind; he bends over with his hands on his hips, eyes crossed and face pinched like that one SpongeBob meme before he squawks out in your imitation. “You're so late,” he annoyedly crows.
But as he’s bent over, Eren is gravely reminded of the bulky camera bag slung over his shoulder. The strap slopes down his arm, subsequently pulling his backpack with it, all until Eren’s webbed in an awkward gossamer of strings, straps, and buckles.
He tries to free himself, the show having just as much grace as a bull in a china shop, and when Eren finally breaks free, he perks up, his hair a ruffled mess on his head. A megawatt grin splits his cheeks as he marvels at you, and it’s stupid and witless and undeniably cheesy but it is so unapologetically Eren.
It flatters a giggle out of you. You move to walk past him, flicking his forehead on the way. “You’re embarrassing.”
“You’re embarrassinger,” Eren snarks back.
“Losersayswhat?”
He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
“Told ya,” you wink.
“What–? Hey! No! That is so not fair!” Eren whines, lapsing into a petulant spell as a pout mounts his lips, further emphasising the furrow between his brows. Then, he turns serious. Rather quickly. Eren soberises and sends you a grave look, muttering, “Spell icup. No, don’t look at me like that, just spell it. I swear I’m not taking the piss–!”
“Eren.”
The boy in question pivots, greeted with glances from Mikasa, Jean, and the lady with cropped hair.
“We’re brainstorming wedding day activities,” Mikasa says.
“Do you have a wedding photographer?” The cropped-hair woman asks, who Eren is now guessing literally is Vivienne King in the flesh.
Eren cuts in with a tight smile—tight because he’s awkward, not rude—and raises a hand in greeting. “That’s me. The photographer.”
Vivienne nods, eyes shifting towards the couple. “A friend of yours?”
“More like a royal pain-in-the-ass, but yeah,” Jean jokes. Vivienne blinks. Mikasa pinches the bridge of her nose, cringing in embarrassment. Eren simpers.
Vivienne tilts her head, extending her gaze towards you. “You’re the performer?”
“Oh, no,” you shake your head, “I’m just here for… moral support.”
“She’s my maid of honour,” Mikasa tacks on.
“So you’ve got performers in mind?” Vivienne asks, “If not that’s fine, I can lock you in with live bands I work with. They’ve got reviews from past customers, too.”
“That’s fine,” Jean says, “but I think we’ll hire a performer on our own.”
Vivienne shrugs. “So it’s more sentimental, I get that. Honeymoon destination?”
“Val-d’Isere,” Mikasa grins as she lists into Jean’s warm hold, her head ensconced on his toned shoulder.
“The French Alps?” Vivienne marvels, “Beautiful. Good choice. And what theme are you looking for? Bohemian? Royal?”
In response to her question, both parties of the couple jump to answer. The earliest vowels of classic roll off Jean’s tongue before he’s cut off by Mikasa’s request for vintage.
Vivienne looks between the two, a knowing smirk on her face. “That’s alright, we have time to figure it all out. Everyone’s first wedding’s the most stressful.”
At that, both Jean’s and Mikasa’s eyes widen.
“I’m kidding,” Vivienne rolls her eyes, “let’s get to work.”
The preliminary meeting goes by smoothly—excluding the game of footsies you play with Eren beneath the table. Vivienne distributes tasks for the planning, assigning you and Eren the more creative ones while she hands off the legality and liking to Mikasa and Jean. 
Eren’s feverish and forthcoming, already snapping latent photos of the engaged couple as they sign documents and read over themes. You stay reserved, crumpling cups from the water cooler as Eren nears you with his bubbly disposition, camera strap looped around his neck.
He sites himself next to you, cheek braced by his palm.
“Ready to spend the next seven months with me?” Eren asks, soft lips moulding into a grin.
You reach out and poke his plushy cheek, toying with a curl of his hair as you pull away. “I literally see you every day, ‘Ren.”
“Well yeah, but this is different,” he shrugs, fishing hard-candy out of his pocket.
“Alright… I’ll bite. How so?” You goad, sifting a grape-flavoured lolly from the palm of his hand. You let the tips of your fingers dawdle on the facet of his skin—soft and toasty—his hand involuntarily twitching as you pull away.
“‘Cause,” Eren jerks his head in the direction of Jean and Mikasa, boyish charm playing on his tongue as he smiles, “love is in the air, don’t ya think?”
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MONTH 1: THE GUEST LIST.
“Do we still talk to Louise?”
“Nah,” Eren hums, pressing his thumbs into the sole of your socked foot, “we all stopped.”
You grimace. “But... Mika still likes her, right?”
“Don’t think so. Not after that fight she had with Connie on Halloween.” 
“Yeah, but like… should I write her down? We’re gonna run this past Jean ‘n Mika anyway.”
“Should we add Floch?”
You twist your face, digging the tips of your toes into Eren’s chest. “He’d end up chugging half the champagne before the night’s over.”
“Champagne?” Eren parrots, “We haven���t even picked out vendors yet. Don’t get too crazy, baby.”
“Why?” You grin, chafing your cheek against his sofa, “Too much of a lightweight?”
Eren rolls his eyes and slips his hand beneath the material of your pyjama pants, massaging your calf. “I am not a lightweight.”
“Uh-huh,” your eyelids wilt into slits, “it’s just funny, ‘cause I remember that one time–”
“Stoppp.”
“–you got wasted off three beers and got matching tramp-stamps with Armin.”
Now, Eren grovels. His lips curl into a sulking frown while he takes gentle hold of your ankle, lifts your leg, and lodges it atop his shoulder. He whisks the pad of his thumb along the edge of your wiggling toes. “You’re mean, y’know that?”
“The tattoo is hideous, Eren.”
He grins. “I know. And at least I own it, unlike Armin.”
“You’re stupid.”
“You love me.”
“Fuck off.”
Eren pouts, and that, tempered with the ruffles of his bedhead, the sweatshirt that practically swaddles him whole, and the red glow that flushes the tips of his ears, it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not snuggle into his side.
So, you poise yourself over his lean figure, carting your weight to your dominant arm as you extend a free hand to the bowl of popcorn that’s situated on the coffee table. But Eren works quicker—suavely curling his arm around your waist and pulling you to his chest, wreathing his legs around your back.
Your chin pokes his chest. His palm soothes the skin of your spine. He looks down at you, and the moment stretches a little longer, the air rife with familiar warmth.
Then, Eren’s lips frizzle into a smile. “You’re smelly.”
You swat his chest, seating yourself on the sofa. “Jokes on you, I used your 3-in-1.”
Eren frowns, an offended colour painting his features as he slowly creeps forward, bullying you onto your back. His arms cage you in. 
“I don’t use 3-in-1 anymore,” he mumbles, “not since you read me to filth ‘cause of it.”
You giggle and kick your feet up, sliding your calves along Eren’s legs.
“You laughin’ at me?” 
“Eren,” you bite, the warning tone crossing your tongue palpable.
Like the brat that he is, Eren merely grins, cutting his fingers into the chub of your hips. He glides them low and wiggles his fingers, wrenching a chortle from you as he chucks your sweatshirt over your belly, presses his lips to your stomach, and blows a raspberry into your flesh.
“Eren–” you gasp, your attempts at escaping fruitless as he doesn’t retreat, “‘Ren, I’m serious–”
Eren giggles at your expense—his shoulders shaking, nose cutely scrunching.
“You ass… I’m gonna pee myself–!”
“Eren.”
The aforementioned boy thwarts his movements. His fingers are still splayed on your stomach, burning embers into your skin. His face is still burrowed in your neck, but as Armin’s voice rings out, scotching the lull of dawn, Eren sits up, a dopey smile unfurling over his lips.
“Hi,” he smiles.
Armin yawns, scratching his chest. “What’s going on? Y’woke Annie up.”
You push onto your elbows, peeking over the sofa. “Hey, ‘Min.”
The blonde’s eyes marginally widen, lips parting in surprise as he watches Eren draw his arm around your neck, pulling you closer.
“I thought you would’ve left hours ago,” he grumbles.
Your shoulders rise and fall in indifference. Armin’s eyes flutter towards Eren, and the boy is grateful he’s able to recognise the nuances that flicker over his roommate’s face. Eren keeps you anchored to his chest, his fingers carding through your hair.
“Tell Annie we’re sorry for waking her,” you mumble, chewing on your lips.
“Don’t do that,” Eren scolds, pulling your lip from your teeth with the pad of his thumb. He teases your cheek with his index, pushing your bottom lip down until it pops back into place. A fine wash of your saliva licks his thumb as he pulls back. “You barely take enough vitamin C as it is.”
“What can I say?” You smirk, “I like living on the edge.”
Eren giggles; and then you giggle; and then peals of laughter toll out within the living room, your chin rested against Eren’s toned shoulder, his cheek ensconced atop your head.
Armin stares—jaded, listless, and a little annoyed—he shallowly exhales, waiting for your laughter to pass. He jams his hands in his pyjama pockets and shifts on his feet, feeling all types of unseemly in his own apartment.
Your amusement eventually peters off into sparse giggles, and as Armin clears his throat, you and Eren shift your attention towards him as if he’d just waltzed in.
“Oh, hey,” you murmur.
Armin places a hand on his hip. “Aren’t you meant to be writing up the guest list?”
“We’re taking a break,” Eren says.
Armin rakes his eyes over the living room. He sees the scattered McDonald’s wrappers on the coffee table; he recognises a shirt of Eren’s wrapped around your figure—bleached, threadbare, redolent of his college days—; and he notices the white wine Eren had flattered you with.
“Well. Annie and I have a twelve-hour shift tomorrow, so if you guys would so kindly–”
“What’s going on, ‘Min?” Annie ambles into the living room, dozy and drowsy. The sleeves of her hoodie curl over her fingers as she rubs her eyes, heeling into her boyfriend’s chest.
“Nothing, honey.”
Annie nods before glancing up, eyes scarcely widening as she spots you. “And you’re still here?”
“Yup,” you say, hyper-aware of Eren’s palm gliding down your back, “we lost track of time.”
“We’ll be quiet. We’re sorry,” Eren starts grating his hair against your cheek, “aren’t we?”
You vigorously nod, kneeing him away. “Super sorry.”
Armin and Annie exchange a look. It’s clandestine; covert; and arcane. One of those looks that only a couple could interpret, leaving everyone else excluded from their private knowledge.
“Alright… goodnight, guys,” Armin mutters, patting his girlfriend out of the living room, his hand resting on the fade of her waist.
You and Eren reply with a synchronised goodnight, tacked on by Eren’s ornate don’t let the bedbugs bite! as grovelling looks paint both your faces.
“They’re hopeless,” you hear one gripe. For someone that talks so much crap, Armin’s whispers are anything but quiet.
“Were they having sex?” You hear next, followed by a blunt chortle, “I’m serious, ‘Min, were they fucking?”
The couple’s not-so-latent spiel concludes with the click of a lock upon them withdrawing into Armin’s bedroom. They leave the air thick: rife with tension, bereft of dialogue.
From the blurry brinks of your vision, you see Eren face you. He spins on a swivel. His eyes glide towards you first, followed by his head, and the full suppleness of his lissom chest.
You poach Eren’s actions by imitating them, turning to him with blank eyes as you enigmatically return his stare.
Where words are meant to be bartered, there are none. Just silence, and your innate urge to pry him into a noogie.
 Then—in true fashion—Eren snorts; it’s hilarious and vulgar and decidedly accidental, the crass sound muffled behind his palm not a second later.
“You’re silly,” you bleat, chucking a Turkish throw pillow towards him, “I’m literally never trusting you with my wedding planning.”
Eren adopts a scandalised look. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the person you’ll be marrying.”
You roll your eyes, covering your face with your forearm. “Pipe down, Romeo.”
“Does that make you my Juliet?”
You toss Eren the guest list and chuck him a pen. “In your dreams.”
“Y’know...” Eren lowly whistles, shaking his head, “ma always told me to follow my dreams.”
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MONTH 2: CHOOSING VENUES.
“Out of all the states to host a rustic wedding, California has got to be the worst.”
You sharply elbow Eren’s side. “You’re supposed to support the bride-and-groom-to-be, not second-guess their decisions.”
“I get the hesitance,” Vivienne says—much to your embarrassment, you didn’t know she was listening—“San Francisco’s always go-go-go, isn’t it? Luckily, I’ve got all the best stops around North California.”
Eren straightens and you stick your tongue out at him, scurrying away before you’re able to see his riposte.
“We’re looking for a place an hour from San Fran, at most,” Jean says, his pinky locked with Mikasa’s. The pair remain unperturbed by you and Eren chasing each other around the parking lot.
Vivienne nods. “Today’s gonna be a long day. The farthest venue is in Sacramento, and the closest is Muir Woods, just a thirty-minute drive.”
“Can I drive?” Eren asks, muttering against the shell of your ear. He already caught up to you, snaking his arms around your waist, pulling you towards him. His chest drums against your spine as he giggles.
“You’ll drive safe?”
“Obviously,” he whines, dipping his hands into the pocket of your leggings, fishing for your keys, “who do you take me for, Connie?”
“Connie drives better.”
Eren hums non-committally, tugging you towards your car. “You can talk once you learn to parallel park.”
You’re about to swat his bicep, but Eren moves quicker, gallantly curling his fingers around your wrist. He leans over, pulls your seatbelt across your chest, and slides it in the buckle.
“Safety first,” he smiles, booping your nose, and with the distance between you—or lack thereof—you’re able to make out all the subtlety to Eren’s face.
It’s subtlety nobody should notice, but ones you’ve noticed countless times. Like the beauty mark at the oxbow of his mouth.
“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, brazenly dragging his tongue over his teeth.
You examine Eren’s face. Green swirls with freckles of gold in his irises, lashes long and lush, framing the eyes that gaze down at you. His lips roll together, eyebrows dark and thick and embellishing his strong stare. His skin—a deep tan—glistens in the high sun, golden and beguiling. You flicker your eyes back up, and fall into Eren’s eyes.
“You’re really pretty.”
Eren’s lips part as his oxygen suddenly foils. He holds his breath, blush creeping down the score of his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he forces down a swallow. His eyes are shifty, veering in every direction. His face is twisted, the tips of his ears burning red, but Eren offsets his shock by schooling his face to neutral.
“You’ve got a real knack for that,” he rasps.
You blink up at him. “For?”
“Catching me off-guard.”
You nervously giggle, averting your gaze. “Just get in the car.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eren winks—to which he fails—the right side of his face awkwardly twitching.
The drive to Muir Woods is exactly what you expected it to be: full with gas station stops and games of I spy.
Eren and Jean communicate over speakerphone, serenading both you and Mikasa with repetitive roadtrip songs. Soon, skyscrapers and trams convert into hollyleaf cherry bushes and oak trees. The group stops by the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and the Tennessee Valley Trailhead, also pausing by the Sausalito coast to snap some pictures.
For a photographer, Eren sucks at taking photos on phones, but that does nothing to deter him (“You look beautiful no matter what, no picture does you justice,”). So you resort to Jean, halfway on his back on the rocky shoreline of Sausalito, documenting his fiancée who’s fixated on tracing their initials into the sand.
After some time, Mikasa and Jean go to order ice cream for everyone while Eren insists on scouring for seashells eclipsed within the resplendent sand. He guides you as you stroll the beach, palming the small of your back to help keep you steady. He lends you his heart-shaped sunglasses and holds your sneakers in a free hand, later cupping your face and squishing your cheeks as he kindly works sunscreen into your skin.
Now, you’re both banking against a wooden fence on the coast. It seethes with peeling wood, but Eren pillows you from it by leaning his back against it and pulling you to his chest, throwing an arm around your shoulder. The sun bakes the sand, burning the asphalt sidewalk.
Eren’s broad shoulders and lithe arms enwrap you easily, his chin digging into your scalp as you watch skaters and bikers whizz past. You raise your hand over your head in a soundless render of your ice cream, and Eren, as tall as he is, leans over to steal a lick, lowering his own ice cream cone to your mouth next, offering you a taste.
“Good?” He wonders.
“The best,” you purr, wriggling in his arms, “can you order for me next time?”
“Yeah?” Eren leans over once more, hair curtaining the dazzling sun from your eyesight. Poised like this, your world consists of just Eren. “Even if I always order guava cake at that restaurant on seventeenth?”
You scrunch your face, brushing your nose against his own. “You order that every time. Five years, consecutively.”
Eren distractedly hums and swipes his thumb along your bottom lip, rubbing away a streak of melted ice cream that drizzles down your chin.
“Doesn’t it get boring?”
“Nah,” Eren opens his windbreaker and envelops you in it, fastening the zipper, “routine is good.”
“Ah.”
“You’re like my routine.”
“Oh?”
He sways you to-and-fro, the hot pink and royal blue exterior of his jacket snapping in the wind. “Yeah, you’re my rock.”
Somewhere in the distance, Vivienne shouts for you all.
“Your rock?” You parrot, wryly beaming, “Not scared of erosion?”
“What?”
“That was meant to be a joke. It sounded funnier in my head.”
Mikasa’s voice rings out next, mingling with the chime of coastal breeze.
Eren smirks, unzipping his windbreaker. “I can laugh now if it’ll make you feel better?”
“Save it for Jean’s knock-knock jokes,” you titter, leading Eren towards the car, “I hear he’s on quite the roll today.”
Eren splays a hand over his bucket hat as he hangs his head back, comically groaning in exasperation.
The remainder of the drive is still substantially amusing. Your feet rest on the dashboard, neck cushioned by a travel pillow, your anklet—engraved with Eren’s Genshin Impact UID—twinkling in the light of day.
You recite the venue article Vivienne sent into the wedding planning groupchat that’s aptly named “wedding planning”.
“So,” you start, casting Eren a coy look, “according to brides.com, The Pelican Inn is, and I quote, Bay Area’s little England. It fits 100 people, includes a conservatory, a pub, a snug room—whatever that is—and seven ensuite bedrooms.”
Eren clicks his tongue. “Seven isn’t enough.”
“Yeah, but it’s pretty. Look,” you counter, flipping your phone in his direction.
“I’m driving, baby.” 
You nod, sagging into the passenger seat. You dip your hand outside the window and spread your fingers, working your palm against the wind current.
“Describe it,” he tacks on, “how it looks.”
“Remember Twilight?”
Eren bursts into giggles; face coloured with mirth, voice enriched with candied amusement. “I was thinking, like, a more Louisa Alcott description, but yes, baby, I remember. I remember you forcing me to watch it last Valentine’s Day.”
“It’s not like either of us had dates,” you roll your eyes, “but the inn looks like that scene where Edward crawls up trees.”
“Where he calls Bella his spider-monkey?”
“Oh my– yes, I can’t believe you remember that.”
Eren squints and bites his lip, huskily speaking in an overripe voice. “Bella, where have you been, loca?”
“That was Jasper,” you spout.
“Jacob,” he corrects, “Jasper was Alice’s boyfriend.”
“How come you know so much Twilight lore?” You curiously quirk your brow, “There something I should know?”
Eren sends you a cursory look. “Next venue.”
You snicker and redirect your attention to your phone. “Bear Flag Farm’s surrounded by lavender fields. There’s a cottage and an adjoining terrace.”
“Isn’t there also a vine yard?”
“It’s vineyard, ‘Ren, but yeah, it’s got a vineyard lawn.”
The tips of Eren’s ears smoulder a sheepish shade of red, but he focuses on driving. “That’s the one near Nestldown?”
“Yup.”
“What else?”
“Long Meadow Ranch. Part restaurant; part winery; part farm. It’s got a sensory garden and a pergola.”
Eren pulls into a dirt road, dutifully following the trail of cars belonging to Vivienne and Jean and Mikasa ahead of him. Soil and twigs crunch under the wheels, the sound of pebbles grating together echoing out as he drives further into the forest reserve.
“Then there’s Timber Cove, the farthest from San Francisco. It’s got oceanfront weddings for 100 people and forty-five guestrooms. An event lawn, firepits, and lots of pastimes for guests to partake in.”
Eren cuts the engine in the centre of a towering grove of redwood trees, slipping out of the car.
He’s on your side before you can blink, pulling open the door and shepherding you out with a hand on your shoulder. He removes his bucket hat and tugs it onto your head, brushing away your bangs that drape over your eyes.
“C’mon,” he sings. Eren’s hold on you glides southbound, catching your fingers, clutching you forward.
The Pelican Inn, you find, is beautiful. The terrain seethes with the heady scent of dewy bark and frothy soil. It’s pungent and zesty, swirling around your head. The dirt sinks as you all amble around, examining the venue and regarding the archways flanked by honeysuckle.
Along with the perennial smell of moss and magnolia, Muir woods is also, unfortunately, lousy with bugs. It’s a gorgeous place—beyond gorgeous—with a lush lawn and glassed-in spaces torched by globed lighting fixtures. There’s the conservatory and the beach outlook, but alas, as Mikasa and Jean stroll the premises, they shyly deem it unworthy for their wedding.
“My dress would get dirty,” Mikasa mutters.
“And there’s too many mosquitos,” Jean adds, fanning them away from Mikasa’s skin.
Mikasa faces Vivienne, guilt sagging her features. Discomfort tugs at her heart—it’s not easy for her to turn something down—so she worries at the collar of her blouse, which prompts Jean to swiftly insert himself between the two, rubbing at the small of Mikasa’s back.
“I don’t think this one’s for us,” Jean laments.
Vivienne shrugs; she doesn’t seem to be irked but she does brandish her shoulders, as if bracing herself for a day that’ll stretch longer than expected. She leads you all to the carpark made of gravel and dirt, loading herself into her car before sending the groupchat the next venue’s location.
The Bear Flag Farm looks to be directly out of a fairytale. It’s gilded and whimsical, drowning in sunlight, garnished with gentle zephyrs. It’s trailed with decor but doesn’t feel ostentatious; it’s accentuated with regal elegance in bright-coloured gardens and walnut trees.
The sycamore-ringed amphitheatre is lined by string lights, and the tree-dotted hillside nurtures lists of lavender fields. The estate is stunning and picturesque, complete with a quaint cottage accessed by French doors verging onto a neighbouring terrace. Mikasa brushes her hand over a throng of swaying orchids as she approaches the ferris wheel, eyeing its white paint and glassed-in booths.
You’ve got your nose buried in a batch of tulips when someone clears their throat. It’s Eren, assimilated within the flower field, hands jammed inside his windbreaker.
He cutely cocks his head to the side. “Wanna see something cool?”
“Where?”
Eren extends a hand. “Don’t trust me?”
You roll your eyes at his crypticness but take his hand nonetheless. It’s large, callous, dry—because he always forgets to moisturise—but warm. “I’ll bite,” you squeeze his hand, “where to?”
Eren answers with a sly look, opting to lead you down the hill. You chance a glance towards Mikasa and Jean who, thankfully, are occupied with Vivienne, yielding you and Eren time to slip away and sneak into the vineyard.
The grapevines shield you from the sun, tickling your arms as you shoulder past them, delving into the orchard. Eren drops your hand, redirecting his hold to a vine that’s stippled with swelling grapes.
“Eren!” You hiss, “We can’t take these.”
Eren writes off your hesitance, an undercurrent of indifference fanning through him as he twists the dewy fruit off their stems, rolling them over the ridge of his palm. “What they don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.”
You gape as he tilts his head back, sunlight cascading down the column of his neck. The grapes slide into Eren’s mouth as he works his jaw around them, locking you in his gaze. 
You eye him warily. “Are wine grapes edible?”
Eren smacks his lips and plucks some more. “Sour.”
He makes some enigmatic gesture with his hands, which you belatedly realise is his wordless request for you to open your mouth.
You do so bashfully, just barely parting your lips for him. Eren slips an engorged grape between your teeth, his fingers reaming your lips as he tentatively withdraws his hand.
Eyes still glued on Eren, you sink your teeth into the fruit and section it into two, causing the grape juices to burst and ooze down your throat.
The tanginess is glaring. It’s cool and fresh, spilling over your lips and sluicing down your chin.
But, Eren’s faster—keenly quick-witted as he darts out a hand, extending his forefinger just below the plush of your lip, soaking up the grape sap. He mimics a polishing motion; his thumb pressed into the arch of your jaw, his index finger wiping away the juice on your chin.
And it’s now that you realise how gentle Eren’s hold with you is. 
You'd seen him yank the grapes off their stems; you’ve seen him wring and pound brioche dough on your baking nights; you’ve seen his jaded fingers curled over textbooks as he scribbles down notes for his health studies.
But Eren holds you like glass. When passing behind you with his hand on the small of your back; while sliding gelatin-based parfaits onto your tongue; as he locks necklaces for you and zips up your dresses, the tips of his fingers loitering over the suppleness of your skin.
It takes you a moment to notice Eren’s palm is still cupping your jaw. It’s only when it’s ripped away do you grieve in its deprivation. That is, until you realise why the warmth was taken too soon—there’s a rustle within the grapevines.
Whoever it is, they rive the lull between you and Eren, and out pops Jean—reddened with sunburn—the sleeves of his (Mikasa’s) button-up rolled to his elbows.
He sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes. “Stop making out, we gotta get to the last venue. You guys can share spit later.”
You and Eren flounder in defence, but your rebuttal falls on deaf ears as Jean disappears back into the orchard.
You turn to Eren and expect his face to be the picture of anger, but instead, his cheeks bulge, his eyes water, and his face permeates with a furious pink.
You startle, stammering back a bit. “You’re blushing!”
Eren startles next, head whipping in your direction with debilitating speed.
“You're blushing!” He retorts, pointing to the telltale warble of your lips.
“I’m blushing because you’re blushing,” you whine, burying your face in your hands, “what’s your issue?”
Eren squirms. “Nothing. What’s yours?”
You peek through your fingers. “Nothing.”
“Alright, good,” Eren clears his throat, “but you’d tell me if something’s wrong?”
“Of course I would.”
Eren nods with surety. You pivot on your heel, rushing towards the exit of the vineyard.
Eren hangs back a while, only until he remembers that he’s got to get moving. So, he ambles in your direction, watching your retreating figure meet the carpark. You squeeze into Mikasa’s arms as she hugs you close.
It’s no secret Eren’s head-over-heels in love with you.
Well, it’s no secret to him. The same can’t be said for you.
Eren believes he’s inconspicuous. He believes he's hiding his love for you under the guise that he’s just touchy-feely and expressive.
Sometimes, Eren’s certain you’re fucking with him. You reciprocate his gestures. You play with his hair and call him like a lovelorn teenager on the weekends you’re apart, unabashedly elongating your stolen stares with him from across the room. Sometimes, Eren thinks you love him just as much as he loves you.
... But the drive to the final venue is silent, and the air has shifted.
It’s the farthest one, stretching to the coast of Sonoma. The tension inside the car is tangible, and Eren’s Spotify mix does nothing to offset the strain.
Timber Cove Inn is the best venue out of all three... Eren thinks. He doesn’t know. He’s too busy stealing glimpses in your direction, sneaking them in before glancing away.
The air of Sonoma looks nice on you, Eren concludes. Wind-blown hair, sand-tattered feet, sun-kissed skin.
Eren stares at you as you idle around the banquet hall. His heart-shaped sunglasses are still perched on your head upon polishing off a cup of oolong tea, grinning with Vivienne as you gush about something he can’t perceive.
Eren’s heart cinches, and he feels love bursting at its seams. He has to make a conscious effort of looking away.
These next five months are going to prove a lot more difficult than he had originally prepared.
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MONTH 3: SELECTING CATERERS.
Mikasa and Jean are busy choosing performers with Vivienne. By process of elimination, that leaves Eren with you. Eren, who sways on the soles of his sneakers, humming an off-key chorus under his breath.
You’re both waiting in the lobby of a restaurant that’s known for catering. It’s mellow and mellifluous, and in your sweater vest and baggy jeans, you stick out like a sore thumb. You cast a glance to Eren for respite, who happens to be mesmerised by the chandelier suspended above you both. 
He speaks without looking at you. “Something on my face?”
You’re going to retort, but before you can, a waiter is walking up and greeting you with a grin.
“You’re the engaged couple? That’s here for our catering samples–?”
“We’re actually their wedding planners,” you hurry, “we’re… we’re not the engaged couple.”
A look of recognition brightens his face. “Right! I remember the email mentioning you. I’m Isaac, I’ll be your host tonight. Kinda.”
Isaac winks at you and offers a hand, his skin soft against yours, fingers worming around your palm. When he pulls back, his smile marginally dissipates, and he outstretches his hand to Eren next.
As Eren reaches for it, he slants his wrist up in an angle that grants him most control in the handshake. He puffs his chest out and stands taller, and you roll your eyes as Eren’s grip tightens, the two men sharing a handshake that’s only likened to guys.
The restaurant is hued in soft oranges and blacks, shadows casting over the fountain in the centre. Light chatter emanates from every corner of the restaurant as Isaac leads you to a booth.
A live band in the corner plays blue-toned jazz as you slide into your seat, plucking at your dove-folded serviette.
Eren cheekily leans over the table, whispering under his breath. “We look like a couple, huh?”
You flash him a bright grin. “Couple’a’besties.”
Eren punches out a high-pitched whine just as Isaac returns to the table, two wooden boards balanced on each of his arms.
“Caprese crostinis,” he smirks, “with bocconcini and balsamic glaze,” he sets down the charcuterie boards, “and sweet potato slides complete with ramson cream and cress. I’ll go get the rest.”
Once Isaac slinks out of earshot, Eren tucks his serviette into the collar of his shirt, but soon rips it out, sheepishly copying your motions of refinedly laying it on his lap.
He rests his cheek against his palm. “I have no idea what any of these ingredients he just said are.”
You giggle, sipping on some seltzer. “Just pick whatever’s yummiest.”
You reach for the crostinis first, but your movement is forestalled by Eren, who snatches the one you were reaching for.
You twist your face, ready to pout up at him, but as you flicker your eyes up you see the crostini hovering in front of your face, held up by Eren’s fingers. You lean forward, snagging the food between your teeth. Eren holds his palm under your chin in case anything falls. He pushes forward the more you eat, all until you’ve consumed the last morsel, and Eren’s fingers meet your mouth, his thumb brushing away all crumbs from your bottom lip.
“Rate it,” he says.
“Seven, maybe.”
Eren raises a sceptic brow and stuffs his face with his own crostini. His cheeks bulge as he makes a show of chewing loudly, lips fashioned into a satisfied smile. “Nine.”
“Why not ten?”
Eren stares at you like it’s obvious. “You didn’t feed me.”
You roll your eyes but yield nonetheless, handing him a crostini that he eats out of the palm of your hand.
That’s how the better half of the evening progresses; you and Eren slanted over the table, tasting bits and pieces of sampled appetisers.
There’s seared scallops that Eren pulls out with a tiny fork, blowing aeroplane noises as he raises it to your lips. There’s snap pea sushi and summer rolls, both in which you swirl around Eren’s face each time he tries biting them off their skewers. Couscous poppers are served to you, too. Kindly, on a silver spoon that curls at its handle. 
You’re both hyper-aware of the patronising glares customers cast you, but honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. They all wane into the background, fading into your blurry peripheral as Eren stuffs your face with falafel balls and tuna tartare.
As time went on, you and Eren narrowed down the choices of hors-d’oeuvres. Agreeing on marinated shrimp was easy enough, followed by the assortment of ricecakes. There was a tossup between gougères and miniature tacos, in which the two of you settled for the former. And between quinoa chips or chicken and waffles, you both decided on the latter.
Now, Eren’s leaning back in his seat, gazing at his cleared plate of portobello mushrooms with hungry eyes. You settled on that for the main course, gauging it as tasty enough to be served to sixty guests.
“Why aren’t they giving us sweets?” Eren sighs, licking sauce off his fingers.
“Because,” you hum, “there’s already that big-ass wedding cake.”
“No,” Eren groans, “I mean why aren’t they serving us any sweets?”
“You didn’t order any.”
“‘Cause their brownies are fucking expensive, it’s ridiculous.”
You raise an eyebrow, wary, because you know the gears are grinding in Eren’s head.
To play testament to that, he ducks forward, coiling his hands in a curling motion to beckon you forward. Once close, Eren begins to whisper.
“What dessert do you want?”
“I’m not paying fifty bucks for something I can get at Baskin Robbins.”
“No, choose something fancier,” he urges, “peach cobbler?”
“Okay…”
Eren takes a moment to look at you—really look at you—green eyes glimmering.
“Now, do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
Eren smiles, fang tooth catching the reflections of the restaurant's lighting. Then, he slides his ring off his index finger, slips out of the booth, and lowers to a knee.
“Eren–”
He keeps his eyes on you, grin splitting his cheeks. “Marry me?”
You dart your eyes around the restaurant, shrinking under the stares of patrons. When you turn back to Eren, you’re only able to make out the tail-end of the words flying from his mouth.
“... free dessert.”
It takes you a while to understand, but once you do, you’re perking up, sobbing out a dramatic yes! and throwing your arms around Eren’s neck, unable to distinguish the sudden cacophony of claps from the blood rushing to your ears.
Eren scarcely pulls back, just enough to swoon at the smile on your face. A giggle knells out of you, and in a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement, you’re leaning in, smooshing your lips against Eren’s mouth.
He tastes like feta and cilantro and salmon and he tastes like home.
He draws an arm around your wait, pulling you flush against his chest. Eren deepens the kiss by craning his neck forward, sliding his palm along the line of your jaw. His touch is warm and familiar, and you lean into it, legs ripening into jello as your knees begin to buckle.
It only lasts a second, but when Eren pulls away, he pulls along with him all of the air from your lungs. He rests his forehead against yours, sheepish and giggly as he takes gentle hold of your hand, gliding his ring onto your finger.
Congratulations’ from strangers rings out, and you’re suddenly reminded that you and Eren aren’t the only people in the world. Eren hides his blush within his seltzer, eyeing you over the rim of the glass.
The restaurant doesn’t even end up giving you free dessert.
Eren snorts at that, and once the final food orders for the wedding are confirmed with the caterers, you gather into Eren’s car, pulling into a parking lot of the nearest McDonald’s.
Now, you sit in the empty diner with a spread of food between you—three large fries, two cheeseburgers. 
You nudge him from under the table, seizing his attention. “Good?”
Eren nods, swallowing. He tells you it’s sweet. He wants to tell you it’s not nearly as sweet as you. Not nearly as sweet as the kiss you’d shared thirty minutes prior. The one you’re both seeming to gloss over.
You silently finish the rest of the food before taking your leave, driving back home.
The next time you speak, you’re parked in front of your apartment, girdled by the sound of cicadas. “I had fun today, but your mac ‘n cheese puts all their hors-d’oeuvre to shame.”
A beam breaks out on Eren’s face. “Yeah?”
You hum, slinking out of his car. “See you tomorrow?”
“We’ve gotta show the list to Jean and Mika, so yeah,” he shrugs.
You idly shuffle in place. You’re waiting for Eren to say something; Eren’s waiting for you to say something. You opt for a shy smile, worrying at your sweater vest.
“So, tomorrow?”
“You said that already, baby.”
You roll your eyes and shut the door, waving as you enter your apartment complex. Eren doesn’t drive off, not until you text him that you’ve made it home safely.
Eren’s greeted home by Armin lounging on the couch, curled in a swirl of blankets, hot cocoa cradled in his hands. Eren sits down alongside him, laying his head on Armin’s shoulder.
“Sex and the City?”
Armin nods and flickers his gaze towards Eren. Eren, whose eyelashes flutter dreamily, cheeks rosy and engorged by virtue of his cheshire smile.
Armin nudges his roommate “What’s got you so happy?”
Eren shrugs. “Can’t I enjoy spending time with my closest friend?”
Armin narrows his eyes. He knows better than to embarrass Eren, and as a look of love colours his face, Armin finds it’s not what’s got Eren so happy, but who. 
“Uh-huh,” Armin hums, knowingly smiling.
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MONTH 4: SAVE-THE-DATES.
You think you’re in love with Eren Jaeger.
It’s not your fault. How could you have known? Eren has always felt like your home. He’s always been your home.
Eren’s always been your interlude; your respite; your best friend.
Well apparently, best friends don’t kiss. Or share longing glances. They don’t itch to have their hands on one another. Nor do they take each others’ virginities in the back of Connie’s 2019 Dodge Charger following the epilogue of their junior year in university.
You guess that—in some silly little way—it all means you and Eren aren’t best friends. That you haven’t been best friends in a long time.
You’re not sure when, but you know you ruined your friendship with Eren ages ago. And now comes the hard part. Now, comes the part where you must pretend you’re not entirely besotted with your “best friend”.
You hate him. You hate him because he’s making it so hard. With his stupidly large hands and his dumb smile that makes his eyes gleam gold.
Or maybe that’s just the glitter that garnishes his eyelashes. On his cheeks, his lips, freckled over his hair.
Eren’s gaze flickers up to you. “Something on my face?”
Your breath stifles, and your body works before your mind does; reaching out to sweep your thumb over Eren’s cheek, brushing away the silver and gold sparkles that wink at you beneath the kitchen light.
As you pull back, a wash of his saliva glosses your finger.
A raft of save-the-dates are spaced out in front of you and Eren. They’re thick with cardstock and coloured brown, rustic yet refined, decorated with dried flowers twined in ribbon. You did the calligraphy—because Eren can’t write in cursive for the life of him—while he punched out heart shapes in the corner of every card.
He wedges a Sharpie between his teeth, uncapping the marker. He hands it to you, and you repeat the process of your thirtieth card, halfway through the invites of sixty guests.
“Lemme do some,” Eren petulantly mumbles, squishing his cheek against the counter, “I wanna help.”
You push Eren’s bangs back, fanning them away from his face. “You’ve done enough.”
The space between you quietens, and you return to twirling coarse yarn around cardstock. But, you’re only able to sift through three more invites until the shutter of Eren’s camera kills the lull. He’s directing the lens towards you when you turn to him, squinting through the viewfinder.
“Eren.”
“You look pretty,” he burbles, “couldn’t resist.”
“You’re distracting me,” you grit, manually tearing your stare away from his aquamarine eyes; the ones that mirror celestial cities.
Eren cocks his head, lowering his camera. He leans over the kitchen island and inserts himself in your vision, biceps flexing, teeth charmingly flashing. “I’m a distraction to you?”
You glare at him over an invite. “Yes.”
“Let’s just take a break,” he whines, “we’ve been at this all day.”
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“Exactly.”
You roll your eyes and brush the supplies aside. “If we take a break, will you leave me alone?”
“Cross my heart,” Eren simpers, shaking glitter out of his hair.
That promise brings you to the couch in your living room. Eren’s on top of you, breath fanning your face, the aura he exudes causing ice to crawl up your spine. You relapse into helplessness and keep your eyes frozen on the ceiling because you don’t know what the fuck to do.
“Don’t move,” Eren rasps, “you’ll get glitter everywhere.”
You couldn’t move—not even if you wanted to. Eren’s above you, sprinkling sparkles around the crown of your head, caging you beneath him.
When he’s finished, Eren pulls back and admires his work.
Eren wants to tell you that he had the easy part; that the real credit goes to you, harmoniously heavenly beneath him. But Eren doesn’t have a way with words, so with a thrashing heart, he hooks his lips in a smile, clearing his throat.
Eren reigns above you and pulls his camera to his face. And just as he centres you in the viewfinder, his heart, and his world, he skirts a hand over your torso, tickling a laugh out of you.
The camera clicks just as you snort and swat his hand away, cavilling his name.
“I needed your smile for the photo,” he lamely defends.
“You could’ve asked.”
Eren non-sequentially shrugs, reaching out to toy with a curl of your hair. “I needed your real smile for the photo.”
“Rookie move, ‘Rennie,” you grin—genuinely grin—“my smile’s always real when I’m with you.”
Eren’s smirk marginally falters, and currently, you don’t have the bandwidth to read through your regular is-this-what-friends-do internal monologue. His eyelids are heavy and his breathing is straggled, camera dangling from his neck and sitting on your chest. His hand sinks into the cushion beside your head, forearm flexing.
You shift onto your elbows, peering through your eyelashes at Eren. He stares down his nose at you, a near pained look etched upon his face. His virtues are always acute and carven, always reeling the edge of—as Zeke likes to put it—a resting bitch face, but when confronted by you, you make Eren’s features melt into softness and fondness and all things tender. Just like how he disarms your ribs and seizes your heart.
“Get on your back,” your voice shakes as you murmur, “it’s my turn.”
Eren sees no point in your whispering. After all, it’s just the two of you in your apartment, but the sentiment tugs at his heart, nonetheless. It’s the fact that in the heart of San Francisco, nestled on your l-shaped sofa, your words are meant for him. The stare you seize him with is only made for him; the tone in which you serenade him is solely meant for him.
Eren lifts himself off of you and sinks onto his back. He unburdens himself by slipping off his camera, placing it in your hands. You roll on top of him, knees bracketing his torso and sinking into the sofa. Eren’s stapled to the couch now, chinched between your thighs.
His hands find your hips—partially on top of your Nike shorts, partially on the suppleness of your bare skin. The fleece of your shorts tautly stretches as you bend your legs, leaning over to graze your fingers through Eren’s odd-angled tufts of hair. 
He clasps your hips, kneads the flesh of your thighs, and slides his hold to the small of your back, pressing you down on his waist.
You yield to Eren’s guidance and seat yourself on his groin, bringing the viewfinder to your eyes. 
Eren’s hair—an umber halo around his head—curls into his eyelashes and flares against the pillow he lies on. His bronzed skin turns into a dark tan under the feeble lighting and under the camera lens. His lips—soft and Jolly Rancher-stained—cleave as he hums a quiet mantra under his breath.
His green eyes seem to shift into overdrive, already adopting a fucked-out mien. There’s an undercurrent of raptorial flush in his gaze… but maybe that’s just the camera's sensor sensitivity.
“You know you– you’ve still got that same effect on me,” Eren purrs.
You press your thumb on the shutter. Your perspiration smears around the mutton. The little click rings out, complementing the chime of Eren’s breathy chuckles.
“Oh?” Another photo, “What effect?”
“From junior year,” he laughs, it's charming but it’s strained, “when we fucked in Connie’s car.”
You squeeze your eyes, gnawing down on your lip. “You’re thinking of that as I’m sitting on your dick?”
“I think about it…” Eren spits a punched-out wheeze, “I think about it lots. More than I should, probably.”
“Why’s that?” You goad.
“Because you’re my best friend.”
Eren huffs out a laugh, and it seems to require effort—there’s you on top of him, there’s his hands on your waist, and his worn-out senses.
You roll your hips—adjusting yourself on top of him—which generates a guttural groan from the depths of his throat. Eren throws his head back, baring his neck to your hungry eyes and the prying camera and the sweltering heat of your living room.
Eren loses control of his waist as he fervently humps up into you, guiding your hips over his thickening cock. It’s impossible not to notice the heavy weight that swells from his sweatpants. It kicks you into excitement; he’s hard. Eren is so fucking hard.
You grind yourself down on him; hips rolling, cunt dragging over his cock. It curves into your clit, sparking for a kindling friction in the pits of your navel.
A whine bubbles from Eren’s throat. He beseeches you with his eyes and flatters you as he slips his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can you ki– can you kiss me? Can you please–”
You vigorously nod and feed into Eren’s warmth as he tugs you close by the sling of his camera, coaxing your mouth open with the slide of his tongue. Your teeth clink, lips slipping over the other in a salacious share of spit.
His body overheats, saliva dribbling from his mouth. He can feel the fat head of his cock drooling with pearls of precum, his arousal matting to his boxer-briefs and sieving through its froth. You weave your fingers in his hair and fist his head back so his neck is exposed—thumping with a wayward pulse, bobbing with an erratic Adam’s apple.
You suck hickeys onto Eren’s jaw, practically making out with his neck. He’s sensitive beneath you—quivering yet pliant to your teeth that sink into his sheeny collarbones. His v-line flexes and tremors. 
You swivel your hips over his dick, and Eren’s cock twitches, slipping between the folds of your pussy. It defies the restraints of your clothing; pressing into the fat of your cunt, rubbing onto your clit.
You rock yourself back-and-forth as your panties cling to your dewy pussy, your slick smearing around your upper thighs. You can smell the yearning in the air—you can sense it in each nerve-ending and every erect hair on the back of your neck.
The sentiment of carnal desire is palpable. It seduces you into a faster pace—an uncontrolled rush of your hips—and wheedles soft wails from your shallow lungs.
“I wanna cum,” Eren pants, digging divots into your skin.
“You wanna?” You sneer, bracing yourself with your hands atop his chest, “You think I should let you?”
A blanket of sweat swathes Eren’s skin, and it dawns on him that he is the paragon of a predator-turned-prey as he turns to putty under your hold, under your cunt, and under your heavy-lidded gaze.
“Please,” he babbles, “I can’t h– take it.”
Eren ruts his cock into you, lolls his head to the side, and shudders with a sob. 
You smooth your thumb against his mouth to wedge his lips open. You slide your finger on his tongue, rolling it into the inside of his cheek.
Eren sucks your thumb and twirls his tongue around your finger; eyes pinched shut, hips greedily thrusting against your cunt. His spine coils, and his face twists into pleasure. 
When Eren cums, he’s whiney. He mewls and moans and exhales and groans. His whines ripen into sniffles and cries as he kittens his nose into your palm and prattles against your skin, warbling for forgiveness.
It’s comical because as he apologises, the strokes of his hips don’t cease. Eren continues aiding himself through his orgasm, still dry humping you. His hard dick pulses, hugged by your warm and soft pussy, throbbing as it slavers with shoots of thick cum.
He stutters to a stop, face burning because he can’t believe he just came his pants. Because you made him come in his pants.
“Good boy,” you praise, and Eren’s too fucked-out to register you snapping another photo.
You bend down and charm him with your lips. Eren completes the kiss, mouth rippling against yours, chin lifted to lure you closer.
You rest your foreheads against each other when you break apart, breaths mingling between you.
Eren huffs out a laugh, gliding his palms down your back. He purrs into the threshold of your lips. “Just what are you doing to me?”
“What’re you on about?” You tease.
Eren pouts, scrunching his eyebrows. He does things to you. He makes you feel things—scary things—he carves out holes in your heart and refills the craters all the same.
You back away, sliding off of him. You cross your arms and stand up.
Eren sits up on his elbows. “Where’re you going?” 
“We have to finish the save-the-dates,” you mumble.
“What about you?” Eren reaches out, hand skimming your arm, “You didn’t–”
“That’s okay.”
“But I wanna make you feel good, too,” he whispers. Eren stares at you with puppy-eyes and pink lips.
You awkwardly pat his head. “Later.”
“Later?”
“Another time,” you sigh, “promise.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
Eren owlishly blinks. You pivot on your heel and stalk towards the kitchen. Your chest feels heavy but your head feels light. An inverted type of conflict sinks in your belly.
Best friends don’t give each other orgasms.
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MONTH 5: SPEECH WRITING.
In retrospect, choosing a café in which to brainstorm your wedding speeches may not have been the best idea.
There’s the overlapping chatter; tolls of the entrance bell; the purling sound of pouring coffee, and the occasional screech of silverware against saucers.
But in your defence, all these things tower the idea of being alone with Eren.
Your night on the cough last month has reared its ugly head, manifesting itself as an unspoken shift between you.
While out for hotpot with friends, you sit separately. When bowling, you don’t have him velcro your shoes and you don’t sit on his lap. You don’t promptly show up at his door during the height of twilight for another The Lord of the Rings rerun, and you don’t wrap your arms around his torso as he quarters grilled cheese.
Your friends have already paid heed to the sudden change, too. Sasha was the first to ask, followed by Colt, and then the rest.
The perception of your friends set you on edge. Are you and Eren really so inseparable? So much so, that when there’s a rift dividing you, it is more than overtly obvious? 
“Is it yummy?”
Eren knocks you out of your reverie. He has a real affinity for that, you realise.
“Hah?”
He uses his chin to point to your drink. “Your boba.”
“It’s nice,” you say.
“It’s been paused halfway up your straw for five minutes.”
You make an obnoxious show of slurping your refreshment, rolling your eyes. “It’s nice.”
“Can I try?”
You nudge the cup in his direction, pushing it past notepads and crumpled sheets of paper and uncapped pens.
Eren reciprocates by offering you his drink, too, and curls his lips around your straw. His eyebrows pucker as he tries to cheek a tapioca pearl lodged towards the bottom of your cup.
Eren pulls the straw from his mouth once he’s sated, licking away the glaze of almond bubble tea that laminates his bottom lip.
You slide his drink back in front of him. “Verdict?”
“Tastes like almonds.”
You snort. “But do I get the Jaeger stamp of approval?”
Eren chucks you a cheeky grin. “Platinum.”
“How courteous of you,” you sarcastically marvel.
A smile tugs at Eren’s lips before he stretches his arm across the table, wordlessly asking for your arm. You place your wrist in his hand, providing him a canvas in which he begins to doodle on.
And, it’s now—as Eren’s tongue pokes into his cheek, his pen drawing hearts on your skin—are you gravely confronted with the weight of your relationship.
Just last month did you spiral into a wasteland of rumination and ruefulness. You reamed yourself as you recalled how you coalesced into Eren, how he coalesced into you, and how you coalesced into each other.
Eren wrests you from your internal thoughts when he pulls away. “Tell me how this sounds,” he says, reciting the rough draft of his best man speech.
Honestly, it all goes in one ear and out the other. You focus on his lips; soft and plump and alluring as they wrap soundlessly around words you don’t have the energy to understand.
He curls his tongue out of his mouth when he’s finished, a gentle sheen of saliva coating his lips.
“So? Does it sound basic?” Eren asks, “I don’t want it to seem like I got it from, like… BuzzFeed, or something. Because I didn’t.”
You inhale a mouthful of boba, subsequently saving yourself from saying anything stupid. “I think it’s good.”
“Read me yours.”
You do—after reminding him it’s just a very rough draft. Your speech is the stuff of jokes and enlightenment. How you had encouraged Mikasa to go on that first date with Jean; how you threatened to beat his ass after he was a no-show; and how you swooned upon finding out the reason he didn’t show up. Which was finding a three-legged cat on the highway and driving it to the vet.
You talk of how they complement each other. How they’re each other’s halves, each other’s purposes, each other’s muses. You talk with spunk and passion, eyes glossed over in—what Eren knows—is yearning. He’s seen it in the mirror enough times to recognise it.
Eren has long since mastered the art of masking his emotions. He watches you politely, but as your eyes flit down, he slips a quick peek at your lips, lapsing into awe as it rings around words like love.
If he believes hard enough, Eren can imagine your words are meant for him.
He startles when you glance at him over your notebook. “Too short?”
“Perfect.”
“You can’t say that to everything I do,” you groan, “you’re too biassed.”
“If the shoe fits…” he trails off.
You chuck a napkin in his direction, and Eren retaliates by nudging his shoe against yours.
“Help me,” he whines, “I dunno what else to write. I already have how Jean turned Mika into a better person. That’s good, right?”
“I never knew Mikasa before Jean,” you shrug.
“Well it’s true.” 
“What is?”
“That people turn into better people when they’re in love.”
You blink. Eren blinks.
“Okay, Romeo,” you mumble, your bubble tea swallowing the tail-end of your sentence.
“I’m just not good with words.”
“You’re stressing too much over this,” you coast out of the booth, round the table, and slide yourself next to Eren, “let’s outline.”
You’re almost reeling off the edge of the seat with how you keep your distance from Eren. Eren, who’s curled into the window on his side of the seat, dissolved into a hunch.
You tentatively extend a hand, picking Eren’s pen from his fist. He unfurls it, making it easier for you, and brushes your hand with his as you pull away. You dare not flicker your gaze up, as you know your eyes will betray your emotions.
You force your focus to the notebook before you, scribbling down a list of bullet-points.
relationship w mika pre-jean
how they met
how he helped her grow into who she is today
the changes u see in mika
throw in some jokes - none of ur corny knock-knock ones
“You like my jokes,” Eren defends.
You glance up, half-expecting him to still be huddled in his arch. But as you crane your neck up, you’re left momentarily stupefied to see how close he’d gotten.
His lashes flutter as they press into his cheeks. Lush. Tantalising.
Eren’s heart sputters to a stop, and his eyes reflect that sentiment as they go flickering down to your lips.
“Don’t you?” He ventures, “You like a lot of things about me.”
“Your jokes are idiotic,” you awkwardly try to diffuse, “I’m saving you the embarrassment for when nobody laughs.”
Eren’s face ripens into determination as he steals his pen back, scribbling into his notebook.
His writing is sloppy—especially when he falls into a spell and enters the zone. He writes of how Mikasa would gush about Jean after their dates, how she’d stress over which pastries to bake him, and how she knew exactly how to put a smile on his face.
“Mika knows him really well,” he says, tongue prodding his cheek, “just like I know you really well.”
You roll your eyes. “You know people really well, Eren. You're a harlot.”
“Actually, I haven’t looked at anyone else since our night in Connie’s car,” Eren says matter-of-factly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Just you,” he shrugs, “I’ve forgotten what men and women look like, to be honest.”
You loll your head onto his shoulder, unceremoniously snorting. “You’re such a dweeb, y’know?”
“Your favourite dweeb,” Eren teases.
You lift your head—not enough to be denuded of his warmth—but enough to fall into his gaze.
Eren folds his lips, preening under your stare.
“Say something,” he tacks on, “don’t make it awkward.”
“What would I even say?” You retort.
“Anything,” he shrugs, “there’s a lot we have to talk about.”
Eren smirks—falteringly, timidly—and it triggers an itch from the recesses of your brain. From those groves materialise the urge to nurture and care for him.
“Like?”
Eren doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least. He takes his forefinger and his middle finger, shaping them onto the inside of your wrist.
“Your pulse,” he slowly states, “it’s racing.”
You recoil, jerking your hand away from Eren’s smouldering touch. You doctor your wrist even though it doesn’t hurt, soothing a free hand over the lingering sensation of Eren’s fingers.
“That’s not how you do it,” you say, voice fluctuating, “you’re meant to put your fingers at the base of the thumb.”
“Yeah?”
“Annie told me,” you mutter.
“Well, maybe I could try–” Eren lets his words subdue, completing his sentence in movements as he skirts his hand along your jaw, pressing his fingers beside your windpipe.
You both stay like that for a while—fifteen seconds to anyone who may be watching—but an entire lifetime to you. He stares at you and you revert your eyes to your boba, refusing to acknowledge the heat that crawls up your cheeks.
Then, Eren withdraws his hand. “Forty-two.”
“What–?”
“Forty-two times four, about 170,” Eren mischievously hums, “beats per minute. I’m pretty sure. If what nurse Armin told me is right.”
You knit your brows when Eren leans forward, eyeing you through the web of his lashes.
“Do I make you nervous?”
His wry smirk turns into a wolfish grin. His gaze—teasing—peeks at you from the corners of his eyes. 
Eren’s coy about his feelings; his words are playful but his cheeks are red.
He takes a sip of his drink, and a dribble of spicy mango boba goes pearling down his bottom lip.
Your chest hurts. Your heart flutters. His chest hurts. His heart flutters. 
Eren dashes his tongue out, licking clean the last dregs of his drink. “The same way I distract you, do I make you nervous?”
Despite how he always prompts butterflies in your stomach, you know your answer. “No.”
“Annoy you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you don’t get tired of me?”
“How can I?” You say. “You’re my guava cake.”
Eren snickers. “Y’know, Mikasa is Jean’s mille-feuilles.”
“It’s pronounced mille-feuilles, Eren, the s is silent.”
He thins his lips in embarrassment, eyebrows cutely puckering. “Same difference.”
You edge towards him, your shoulders butting in the centre. “You can add that.”
“That Mikasa’s Jean’s mille-feui– that thing you said?”
“It’s cute,” you shrug, “like an inside joke between the four of us.”
“How gross,” Eren comically gags, “they’re really, like, in love, or whatever.”
“Yeah,” you say, tipping into his side, head resting on his shoulder. He tenses but it’s only fleeting, and the feeling of butterflies fulminates in your belly as he slackens into your warmth.
“They’re good for each other though, huh?” You hum.
Eren’s writing is thwarted. He turns to you; lips loured, face flustered. He looks at you. Eren truly looks at you.
“She makes him the happiest person in the world,” he purls.
A thick blanket of silence swaddles you both. It’s charged; it’s pointed; it’s loaded. Most importantly, it’s transient, because by the next second, a waitress approaches the table. She sets down two ramekins of crème brûlée. 
You bite your lip. “He makes her feel like she’s the only girl in the universe.”
And then, Eren smiles. And then, you smile. And then you whip your heads towards your notepads. And then, the moment is gone.
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MONTH 6: BACHELOR(ETTE) PARTIES.
You tilt your head back, the last lees of your champagne gliding down your throat. You set the glass down and, immediately, are offered another drink by staff.
She passionately recommends alcohol they serve—limoncello prosecco; saffron fleurtation; tequila sunrise. She lists them off, and you nod along as if you understand (you don’t).
You’re certain that if Eren were here, he’d whisper in your ear how snobby these people are when it comes to alcohol, and how he could get the same amount of drunk for $10 worth of shots at the hole-in-the-wall pub nestled near Colt’s apartment.
The staff clears her throat, awaiting your answer. You settle on a pomegranate sparkler. Her smile tightens, but she pivots, “off to fetch your order,” she says.
You redirect your focus to the flower vase that sits in the centre of your circle. It’s a Baccarat antique—curated and detailed—and out of it spouts a blooming bouquet. 
The glassed-in gazebo you’re seated inside of allows cascades of sunlight to sheen over your canvas, and the cacophony of colours that paint it. The air of spring percolates through the windows and doors, the honeyed scent of nature whirling through the room in a mix of eucalyptus garlands and bergamot.
While Jean and the boys are off doing God knows that, Mikasa opted to have a lowkey bachelorette party. Thus, the afternoon has been rife with wine tasting and painting classes.
“There’s only so many synonyms for yummy,” Sasha hisses, “how’re we meant to compliment wine?”
“Nobody’s here to actually rate wine,” Ymir drawls, swirling her glass, “we’re just here to drink.”
“I heard that winemakers don’t like when people chug their drinks,” Mikasa hums, drifting her paintbrush along the lip of her canvas, “it offends their craft, something like that.”
“Really?” Sasha gapes, “Niccolo’s the opposite. He loves when I gobble his food.”
“That’s cause he’s in love with you, dummy,” Pieck giggles, “Bert tried snarfing down his soufflé and Niccolo threw a towel at him.”
Your friends fall into a bicker over the intricacies of high-skill food, and in the midst of their squabble, Mikasa digs her chin into your elbow, smiling at your artwork.
“You never told me you had such a knack for painting.”
“Because I don’t,” you snort, “not really, at least.”
Your rendition of the flower vase isn’t terrible. It doesn’t scream beginner, but doesn’t drip of Basquiat-level adeptness, either. Mikasa’s painting is like her; abstruse and unique. She adopted an abstract style, the shapes jarring and the colours contrasted.
Mikasa follows your gaze, easing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m thinking of gifting it to Jean.”
“He’ll love it,” you say without thinking.
“Yeah? Our apartment’s kinda drab right now, it’ll look good in our room, or something,” her eyes slowly slink towards you, “are you gonna give yours to anyone?”
You purse your lips, cheeks soaking up the flavour of your wine.
“No…” you drawl, “who would I give it to?”
Mikasa’s quiet for a second, silently seeming to catalogue the look on your face.
“Red chrysanthemums symbolise love,” she shrugs, “tulips represent perfection, orchids mean refinement.”
You nod and divert your gaze, sticking it on your canvas that glistens in the sunshine. “Interesting.”
Mikasa’s eyes surge lower, down to Eren’s ring that you twirl around your finger.
Something flits over her countenance—something that remains unseen by you, as she hides her face behind the rim of her glass, polishing off her sangria wine.
Mikasa clears her throat. “Why are you wea–”
The waitress returns, setting your sparkler down beside you. You take a swig, saving yourself from saying anything more. Placing the glass back down, you brush the back of your hand against your chin.
“What was that?” You ask, glancing at Mikasa.
“Nothing,” she smiles.
You nod; she nods; and you both turn back to your canvases
On the other side of town Eren crawls on his stomach. Night-vision goggles assured on his face, a gun cradled in his hands.
He rises to his feet, bends at his knees, and hides behind a bollard. He slides his back against the plastic, expertly peeking over the post with unrivalled finesse. 
He fishes his necklace out of his pocket. It’s in the element of replicating a dogtag—not of similar shape, but holding the same sentiment. Ingrained in the silver chain is your Steam tag—a little unorthodox, sure, but matching the Genshin Impact UID of his that’s entrenched into your golden anklet.
He presses the cool jewellery to his lips, gloating over the moment’s respite it bears him in the midst of chaos. His mind drifts to you, your homemade paellas, your twinkling laughter. He skates the necklace back into his pants, pulling the gun towards his chest. Eren tells himself he must win. For you, for bragging rights, and for the opportunity to see the crushing look of defeat on Reiner’s face–
Beeeeeeep.
Eren’s kicked from his internal narration at the depleting sound of his chestplate. He looks down, then looks to the cause of his demise.
“Connie!” Eren throws his arms up in the air, whining as he slaps them back down to his sides, “What the fuck, man? We’re on the same team!”
The aforementioned boy slaps a hand over his mouth and scurries towards Eren. They take cover behind the bollard, Connie’s hands flattened to Eren’s chest as if to put pressure on an imaginary wound. Connie cups Eren’s cheek with a shaking hand.
“Shoot me,” Connie warbles, “an eye for an eye.”
“Idiot,” Eren growls, “go win.”
“Shall I?”
Eren coughs up a hacking sound. “An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.”
“I will avenge you,” Connie grits his teeth, sliding his palm against Eren’s nape, “and I’ll take care of your woman. Put your faith in me–”
This time, the moment is cleaved by the sapping sound of Connie’s chestplate. The teammates look over to Jean, who wields his glow-in-the-dark gun towards them, a stupid grin splitting his cheeks.
“We had a truce, Jean!”
“Sorry, Con,” Jean smirks, “you were the last one on team blue.”
Connie huffs in a petulant display of attitude. He holds his hand out, helping Eren to his feet.
“You’re lucky you got Braun on your team,” sulks Connie, “he carried.”
Right then, Reiner rounds the corner, chestplate bulging from the solidity of his chest. “What about me?” He grunts.
Connie puckers his lips, shaking his head. “Nothing, dude. It’s nothing.”
“You guys fuckin’ destroyed me,” Colt laughs, scratching the back of his head, “I was already out. You didn’t have to keep shooting me.”
“My bad,” Reiner heartily chuckles, nearly knocking Colt over as he slaps him on the back, “I thought you were one of the actors.”
While his friends are occupied, Eren shuffles to the side to seize the moment. He fishes out his phone and pulls up your texts, a smile gracing his features as he types out a greeting.
eren: hey stinka
you: hi stinky. Wyd
eren: wishing u were here :(
you: i miss u too you: are you drunk?
eren: can i not be sentimental?
you: send mea selfie <2
eren: y
you: bc i miss your stupid face and this place is pretentious
Eren huffs out a laugh, pulling his camera up and posing for his phone. You get a string of texts the next minute—a chain of photos of Eren, all blurry and foggy, taken by shaking hands.
you: and you call yourself a photographer?
eren: -_-
The next pictures you get are a series of clearer ones. Eren sports a peace sign, mouth wide open and fang teeth on display as he pretends to take a bite out of the air.
you: uwu you: my pretty boy
The air conditioning and his blush take turns nipping at Eren’s cheeks. He turns down the brightness of his phone, hunching his shoulders in case Armin decides to be particularly nosey (as he always is.)
eren: send me one of you
you: wait
Eren rocks on his feet, dragging the soles of his shoes against the carpet. His friends are getting ready to leave.
The ping of his phone chimes out, and the device almost gets thrown out of his hold from the speed in which he unlocks it. Eren locates his pinned messages, and the boisterous laughter of his friends seems to fade into nothing.
There’s just you, poised before a restroom mirror, your body swathed in mulberry satin. Your halter dress reches your mid-thighs, crepe and soft as it flutters over your skin. 
Eren wishes to tell you that you are gilded and aureate—an enigma that has enraptured him wholly. His mind, his body, his soul. He wants to say you are the catalyst of all his becomings.
But, Eren doesn’t have a way with words. So he bites his fist, shakes off his enchantment, and types out the first thing that comes to mind.
eren: just slapped my dick on the screen
you: LMFAOOOOOO I HATE U. you: (affectionately) 
eren: uwu eren: how close are u to home
you: 15 mins
eren: ur going home soon?
you: riding with annie :P
eren: go home
you: that’s the plan….
eren: no i mean now
you: …. Why jaeger
eren: i wanna see you now eren: i wanna talk u now eren: and hear you
Where you are, you stand in the centre of the estate’s restroom, rubbing your legs together. Your eyes cut from your phone to Annie, who’s leaning over the sink and applying lip tint.
“Ready to go?” She hums, “We all agreed to head home at this time.”
“Yeah,” you nod, shifting under her gaze.
Annie quirks an eyebrow. “C’mon, let’s say bye, then. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day for everyone.”
While you surge out of the restroom and bid your see you later’s, Eren, on the other side of the city, is pulling his friends in for hugs and clapping Jean on the back.
As he slides into his car, you pile into Annie’s vehicle, tugging on the hem of your dress to keep your hands busy.
Eren drums his fingers over his steering wheel, lukewarm towards the gossip Armin spews from the passenger seat. You rest your head against Annie’s window, peering out at the city lights that thrum past your vision.
You duck out of Annie’s car and wave at her as she parks in front of your condo. Eren loops his keyring around his forefinger, spinning it as he eases into his apartment’s parking unit.
While you’re settling into a corner of the elevator, Eren’s bounding up the stairs with a pep in his step.
You trifle with your lanyard as you fish it from your purse, keys chiming a loud peal in the empty hallway. As you shove your keys into the lock, Eren enters his code into his apartment door.
He stumbles inside his apartment as you stumble into yours. You haul your phone out of your purse as it vibrates, the screen flashing with Eren’s contact.
You accept the call with bated breath, wedging your phone between your shoulder and your cheek as you scurry into your bedroom.
“Hey there, baby,” Eren says. His voice is mellow and tipsy—not off alcohol, but in a way so rheumy, you can picture the bleary sheen of his eyes.
You bite down on your cheek, suppressing a chuckle. “Hi.”
Eren, on the other hand, freely lets a giggle slip. His mouth is so close to the phone that the sound scruffs against the receiver. “Hi.”
“Hey,” you rasp, sprawling yourself out on your bed which, you now realise, feels starkly empty.
“Saw your Instagram stories,” he starts, “and the pic you sent. You look really pretty.”
You roll onto your belly, kicking your feet behind you. “I’m still wearing the dress.”
“You haven’t changed?”
Your voice dips lower as you answer, “No.”
“What a coincidence,” Eren laughs.
“Oh?” You toy with your skirt, “You don’t say.”
Eren hums. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”
You flop onto your back, skating a palm down your chest. “Oh, totally.”
You’re quiet for some time, and the next thing to caulk the silence is Eren’s sweet voice.
“Can you FaceTime?”
“I was just about to get changed, ‘Ren.”
“... Alright.”
“Why?” You croon, “You wanna watch?”
Your words—while teasing—reel the edge of grave sincerity. It’s clear you’re testing the waters, highly-strung yet giddy as you catalogue Eren’s breath through the speaker.
The response you get is the call disconnecting. Your eyes widen, but before the next second, an incoming call flares over your screen. This time, it’s accompanied with the live image of you, aureoled by your sweat-saturated hair and clammy makeup.
Sitting up so fast, you’re welted with a dizzy spell. You make quick work of taming your hair and fixing your lip oil, using your phone as a makeshift mirror before accepting the call.
Eren’s face stretches across your phone screen. He’s leaning back on his myriad of plushies and pillows, mischief colouring his face. “Hey, you.”
He’s wearing his clothes from earlier, just as he’d said. A silken button-up tinted rose gold; sleeves rolled over his veiny forearms, collar folded, first few buttons undone.
You chortle into your palm. “You wore that to Jean’s bachelor party?”
Eren frowns, looking down at his outfit. His chest expands against the canopy of his blouse, the gilt material slipping and glimmering in contrast to his brown skin.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, it’s just…” you giggle, “you look like a harlot.”
Eren steadily smirks, huffing out an amused laugh. “Yeah, well, a hoe never gets cold.”
“Where’d you guys go?” You roll onto your side, deciding to poke fun at him, “Strip club?”
“You serious?” Eren’s eyes bulge wide, “We’re loyal men. We went to laser tag.”
“So… you’re a laser-shooting harlot.”
He casts you a wink. Once again, it’s awkward. It’s entirely embarrassing (then again, when is he not), but so outrageously endearing that you can’t help the grin that brightens your face.
“You’re a wet dog, y’know?” You say.
Eren scoffs. “Rude.”
“Calling to see me change?” You tut-tut and shake your head, “You’re dirty.”
“Well… are you?” Eren ventures.
“Am I?”
“... Gonna change.”
Laying on your stomach, you stretch yourself out on your bed, sliding your arms in front of you before propping your phone up with slothful hands. Half of your face sinks into the plush of your duvet, the other half peeing up at Eren in a teasing manner.
“Depends,” you coyly say, “you alone?”
Thankfully, Eren takes the bait. You aren’t sly—and Eren knows what you’re doing—but with his growing arousal, he can’t bring himself to care that you’re meant to be best friends anymore.
He rises, camera shaking with how quickly he closes in on his bedroom door. Eren swings it shut and locks it, leaning into his pillows as he crawls back onto his bed.
“Just us?” You ask.
“Just us two,” he beams, “always.”
Eren lolls his back against the headboard, phone resting atop his denim-clad thighs and held up with his ring-garlanded hand.
The angle has you dazed. It’s as if you’re on your knees for him—yielding and forthcoming between his legs. Eren tilts his head to the side, surveilling you through heavy-lidded eyes and the thick frame of his lashes. The shine of his chest peers at you, his glossy shirt tugged down as he cards his free hand through his hair.
His mane falls perfectly over his head, hair mounting his eyebrows and curling behind his ears. The lamp in the corner of his room radiates a soft and orange smoulder, the shadows that issue from it pooling in the dip of his cupid’s bow.
“You wanted to see me?” You ask.
Eren nods. 
You kiss your teeth. “No manners?”
“Please,” he begs.
You grin wickedly, pulling back and propping your phone against your pillow. You slide your halter-collar over your head, pushing your dress down your body.
In only your brassiere and panties, the air conditioning slaps at your bare skin—and you would shiver—if not for the molten that crawls up your spine, pin-balling beneath your skin.
Eren sheds his shirt, the light grooves of his lithe chest now fully exposed. You lick your lips at the sound of his fly unzipping, the ring penetrating through the air, piercing your lungs. He shoves his jeans over his thighs and twists them off his ankles.
Eren’s cock is salient under the strain of his boxer-briefs, semi-hard and pressing against the material.
You expel a soft curse and cup your breast, squeezing yourself through the froth of your bra. Eren begins palming himself in slow, languid circles. His eyelids droop, his lips part, and he flutters in need.
“Do you– wanna take off your bra?” Eren pants.
“Do you wanna take off your briefs?” You retort, unclasping the hook of your bra.
The nylon falls, and with it, falls your breasts. You steady them with your forearm, pushing them towards the camera.
“Fuck,” Eren gasps, “you’re so fuckin’ pretty.”
He lets little oh's and ah's slip as he tugs down his boxers, freeing his thickening dick that slips out and smacks his chest.
Beads of precum rivulet down Eren’s chest, and his cock dumbly nods as he snakes his hand lower, kneading his balls.
The camera shakes as you arch your back. “‘M taking my panties off,” you huff.
Your phone glides lower, down to capture the mound of your pussy laced by your panties. You wiggle your hips to tug down your undergarment, and strings of your arousal cling from your pussy lips to the crotch of your panties.
You carelessly chuck them to a random corner of your room. You ghost a finger over the slit of your pussy, collecting arousal and tracing it around your clit.
“Ah– your nails,” Eren exclaims, “they’re so cute!”
You enter a breathy fit of laughter—the pads of your fingers still swirling your swelling and sensitive bud, the length of your fingers still sliding between the wet fat of your cunt.
“Thanks,” you pant, “we got them done this afternoon.”
Eren lazily smirks, rolling his head back. “Can’t wait to see ‘em wrapped ‘round my cock, baby.”
You fixate your gaze on Eren’s dick, how it slips in his hand. He’s gorgeous—sublimely thick and salaciously curved—pink and heavy with a bulbous tip and plump balls.
Eren tightly groans, cock jumping in his fist. You pinch your clit but soothe the burn as you billiard a finger over the bud, crying out in pleasure.
“I wanna fuck you open, baby,” Eren shudders with a whine, “fuck, so bad, so bad–”
He throws his head back as he beats his dick, grip tightening at the sound of your sweet moans and the charm of his name bowling off your tongue. His chest ebbs and flows. His lips wrap around your name in soundless yearning.
His cock pulses in his slick grip, his eyes gloss over with an off-white tint, his lips pop open.
Your face flutters with the tide of pleasure. You writhe under Eren’s stare, his gaze fencing you in place.
Your legs shake, your pussy puffy and split as you sink two fingers into your hole. You’re still wearing Eren’s ring. It sends a chill up your spine, your back arching at the cold brass that rolls over your clit. At this point, you don’t even have the energy to keep your head steady. You let it flop down, ears keen on the wet click of Eren’s dick as he drags his hand over his cock.
“Look how hard you got me,” Eren’s voice filters through the receiver.
Your head just barely balances on your shoulders as you force it back up. You begin nodding off as you circle your clit, pussy wet and pupils dilated as you watch Eren fuck his fist.
His hips rise and fall in choppy fevour, bedsprings wailing beneath him. He tells you he’s close. You tell him you need a little longer, but as Eren’s abdomen begins flexing, his strokes turning sloppy and losing control, cum spouts from his cock and paints his chest. He fucks himself through his orgasm, heedless towards the arousal dripping down his fingers.
The sight utterly melts you. From the inside, out. You imagine him cumming inside of you, your ass pulled flush against his pelvis, cock stuffed so far inside of you that his cum fills your tummy and warms the grooves of your heart.
Your orgasm weighs down your eyelids. You fight to keep them open, but pleasure unfurls upon you like a silken spill-wave.
Your clit pulses and your legs tremble. You fall slack on your bed, slick running down your ass and pooling over your sheets.
The lull of carnal air gets pierced by Eren’s mousy giggle. You open your eyes, heartbeat simmering at his beaming smile.
You brush your hair out of your face, batting your sleepy eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, “I can’t smile at my best friend?”
“Best friend,” you parrot. It doesn’t bother you like it used to. The term spins off Eren’s tongue with inflexion, candied in cadence.
You wedge your bottom lip between your teeth, giggling into your pillow.
“I really mean it,” Eren murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
Look, not looked. Eren’s still besotted by you in this moment—mascara clumping your lashes, lip oil smeared against your cheek.
It’s a sweet and soundless moment. Liminal, as you both contemplate the other.
Your eyes are heavy. They dip with fatigue.
“Go sleep,” Eren whispers.
You flap a hand in dismissal, but the grip on your phone still weakens.
“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he tacks on, “I’ll miss you until then.”
You nod into your pillow, curling into your comforter as Eren ends the call. And before slipping into the limbo of sleep, you find yourself imagining Eren’s arms garlanding your waist, pulling you into his warmth, all until you irrevocably become whole.
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MONTH 7: THE WEDDING.
With the last of your luggage loaded inside the car, you round the vehicle, sliding into the backseat. Armin’s already in the passenger seat, connecting to the AUX; Annie’s in the driver’s seat, adjusting the controls to her height; and Eren’s scooting towards you—despite there being plenty of space in the back—resting his head on your shoulder.
The 8AM air of San Francisco looks good on you, Eren muses, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of Annie’s car, gracing your face.
Eren kittens his nose into your neck, preening under Armin’s prying gaze through the rearview mirror. You lay your cheek on Eren’s head and chafe your face against his wispy hair, inhaling the sweet scent of his strawberry shampoo.
Eren reaches out and twists his fingers with yours, tracing his calloused index over the heartline of your palm. He brings your hands to lay on his lap, lulling you to rest as you begin easing into the small and sunny town of Jenner-by-the-sea, California.
The venue is already bustling with staff by the time you get there. Both the event lawn and the deck are wreathed in waxflower, the glassed-in lobby flecked with fairy lights.
You and Eren weave your way through vendors as you navigate the homey halls of the lodge. The vaulted ceilings hang antler chandeliers, the cosy colour of walnut wood swathing you from every direction. Eren’s already snapping photos, squinting through his viewfinder at the preparation for the wedding.
The venue smells of cedar wood and mimics a cabin in the woods. It’s perfect for Mikasa and Jean. Rustic, yet refined.
“Here you are,” Eren slows to a stop, “suite 33.”
He jams the key in the lock, swinging the door open.
Stepping inside your room, rolling your luggage over the teal green carpet, you’re not above ogling at the muscles that ripple beneath Eren’s taut t-shirt. The black stretches over his lithe muscles, thinning into his limber waist, and curving into his bottom, filling out the space of his jeans.
He twists at his waist, throwing you a boyish smirk. “Enjoying the view?”
Your eyes slide up, slink towards the oceanfront scape of your window, then creep back to Eren.
“Something like that,” you tease, gently nudging past him.
You press your face against the window, fawning at the coast of Sonoma decked with wooden chairs and a flower archway. You watch the ocean ebb and flow, the clement waters likened to the fluctuating beat of your heart as Eren plants himself next to you.
“You know…” Eren starts, “we could fuck against this window.”
Your lips pop open and you whip your head in Eren’s direction, batting your palm against his chest.
“What!?” He pleats his lips, “It’s true.”
“And all those vendors on the ground?” You hiss, chiding yourself for the sizzle that sparks below your navel.
Eren shrugs, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Not like we’d ever see them again.”
You can’t deny the blaze in your belly; it overrides all other sensations at the prospect of Eren taking you against the window. You, with your cardigan chucked over your tits, your body folded into his large frame and conforming arms. Eren, with his nose buried in your neck, teeth digging into your collarbone. You, stuffed with his cum as you head downstairs. Everyone else, unassuming.
You turn to Eren, pressing your boobs against his arm. He slips a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer so that you’re pulled flush against his chest.
You brace your hands on Eren’s shoulders, clinging onto bated breath as he fixes you with a stare. He looks at you, eyes reading of warmth; lips cleaved, breath unfurling against your face; cheeks supple and rosy, bulging with his megawatt grin.
“Twenty minutes,” you bubble. You bite your lip to contain your giggles, “Or will they notice we’re gone by–”
A little tinker on your right rents the moment. You and Eren jump away from each other and, upon looking out the window, you see Connie on the event lawn—Jean balancing on his shoulders—a fistful of pebbles in his hand and a puckish grin on his face.
“Get your asses down here!” Connie loudly cackles, neck straining as he looks up at you, “Jean-boy needs to start getting ready!”
The aforementioned boy leers, tightening his legs on either side of Connie’s neck. Connie retaliates by smacking Jean’s calf—to which he locks Connie’s head, brands his knuckles, and rubs a rough noogie onto his scalp. The exertion has Connie fumbling, eventually toppling over and bringing Jean down with him, the pair ending in a tangled heap of limbs on the ground.
Eren snorts, rolling his eyes. “Those idiots are our best friends?”
“You’re that idiot’s best man,” you grin, “you should get going.”
“Yeah,” Eren airly chuckles, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. His eyes twinkle and his cheeks burn. His chest wavers, as if he’s reminding himself how to breathe. “I’ll see you?”
You teeter on your tippy-toes, pucker your lips, and press a smooch onto Eren’s cheek. Shyness roils off of him as you pull back, his cheeks a vibrant shade of pink.
You smile, heading towards the door of your suite.
“I’ll see you,” you confirm.
You toy with the strap of your dress—the one that keeps slipping down your shoulder—as you watch the stylist tweak Mikasa’s hair, adjusting her pearl headpiece.
Sasha’s currently fanning her face, rallying herself on, making sure her tears are kept at bay. Hitch is adding the finishing touches to the bouquet. Annie’s leaning over the vanity, folding her lips to spread her soft red lipstick.
The door swings open and there stands Vivienne, her off-the-shoulder floral dress swaying around her calves as she struts into the room. She throws a hand over her shoulder. “Bridesmaids and groomsmen should be at the walkway.”
“Already?” Sasha gasps, sliding a finger below her waterline.
Vivienne nods. 
“Everything ready?” Mikasa asks as she turns, fiddling with the sleeve of her dress.
“Everything’s been ready,” Vivienne softly smiles, “they’re waiting for you.”
Sliding past Mikasa, you place your hands on her shoulders, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I’ll see you there.”
You slip out of the vanity room with the rest of your friends. You grip your bouquet, and smooth a hand over the silk of your sage green bridesmaid dress.
All of the special guests—Jean’s mom, Levi, the groomsmen and bridesmaids—congregate behind the white curtain that leads to the event lawn. You’re able to hear the lull of the guests from where you stand, the seaside breeze flapping past the curtain, fanning your face.
It’s when the group starts tapering off into pairs, does a hand brushing your shoulder catch your attention.
You pivot, and there stands Eren; eyes wide, lips parted.
“You look…” he expels a heavy breath, tugging at his lopsided tie, “… wow.”
You giggle, a shy thank you crossing your tongue.
Eren’s very aura inspires euphoria. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as you tuck your bouquet under your arm, adjusting his tie and the sling of his camera.
“There,” you tease, patting your palms down his chest, “now you look like a gentleman.”
Your hands loiter on Eren’s chest, his pulse rapping through the sheen of his suit and thumping beneath your touch.
He sweeps your hand up and raises it to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the apex of your knuckles. “We should get going.”
Eren leads you to the back of the line, looping his arms with yours. You stand side-by-side, poised to walk down the aisle to open the ceremony.
Eren leans down, breath tickling the shell of your ear. “Nervous?”
You shoot him a look, nudge him with your side, and stick out your tongue. “Never.”
The line shuffles forward, parting the curtain that lets the high noon sunlight spill into the room you’re waiting in. The parents move out first, and the seated guests quieten.
The alluring air of calming violins charm you as you amble—arm-in-arm—with Eren down the aisle.
The lawn is flecked with clear balloons and blooming vines. There aren’t many guests, but the sunshine hangs over them, sluicing a twinkling lustre over the lush grass, wooden chairs, and flowering archway.
At the altar, you and Eren part. He stands by the groomsmen while you get in line with the other bridesmaids.
Eren shoots you one last smile before raising his camera to his face, squinting through the viewfinder.
The action, of course, leads you to turn your head. There, Levi leads Mikasa down the aisle, the satin of her dress soaking up the sunshine, reflecting it in waves.
Her wedding dress is silky and smooth as it sways around her like a crown of light. It’s a sheath column dress; off-the-shoulder and satin, reaching her ankles with a layered slit that shears between the middle, drawing attention to her muscular legs.
Out of everything, though—her vine headpiece, the silk that cascades down her dress, the twinkle to her shoes—Mikasa’s face is what beams the brightest.
Her smile puts the sun to shame as she eases down the aisle, eyes trained on Jean.
The violins recede to silence just as Mikasa arrives at the altar. Levi claps Jean on the back, no-doubt slipping a little something under his breath to him, too, judging by the way Jean goes rigid. The groom shakes it off with a smile, giving Levi a resolute nod.
“Knock it off, Levi,” Mikasa lightheartedly scolds.
Levi soothes his hands over his tuxedo, and draws Jean close for a tight embrace. They pat each other on the back in the way that family members should, and pull away with tears flecking their eyelashes. Levi turns before Mikasa sees his glassy eyes and—knowing her—gets the chance to pause the ceremony to tend to his overflowing emotions. Levi jams his hands into his pockets, settling into his seat in the first row.
“Welcome everyone, please be seated,” the officiant begins, “whether old or young, male or female, single or taken, we’re all here today to witness the blooming love between Jean Kirstein and Mikasa Ackerman.”
A breeze unfurls across the lawn, bringing the scent of the ocean with it. The waves curl and crest, singing a staccato.
“Many of us here have known this couple for years. We’re seen them grow, and today we get the opportunity to see them grow as one…”
The officiant’s words fade into your background as you rock in your heels, creeping your eyes across the venue. You sneak a glance at Eren, and lapse into surprise when you see his gaze is pointed at not Jean nor Mikasa, but you.
His hands are folded in front of him, his eyes depthless emeralds thronging with stars.
“We all know marriage is not created by law or ceremony, rather it occurs in the hearts of two human beings.”
The corner of Eren’s lip capers up in a tilted smile, the chub of his cheeks swelling in his sheepish show of teeth.
Eren pulls a comical face—which really isn’t all that funny—but he’s just so foolish he has you shaking with mirth, a grin unfurling upon your lips.
“So, here today, we are observing an outward sign of an inward union that already exists between two people.”
Eren’s face dwindles to something softer. Something dulcet, mellow, and ill-defined. His gaze is just as strong, though, causing goosebumps to prickle up the scruff of your neck. You maintain the stare, feeding into his allure.
The drape of Eren’s lashes somewhat dull the intensity of his gaze as the officiant continues on, easing into the declaration of intent.
Something inside of you stirs; it rouses, tailspinning its way around your heart.
“Jean, do you take Mikasa to be your–”
“Hell yeah, I do!”
A ripple of amusement fans over the lawn, guests flaring up in laughter. Eren, too. His shoulders shake, eyes crinkling as he watches Mikasa playfully swat Jean’s chest.
“And do you, Mikasa, take Jean to be your lawfully wedded husband? To live together in matrimony; to love him; comfort him; honour him and keep him. In sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward?”
Mikasa settles for a kittenish smile, breathing her reply. “I do.”
The couple skips their vows, opting to keep their words for each other privy to the walls of their suite. Gabi approaches the altar with a slab of circular wood in her hands—a rustic alternative to ring pillows.
“Thank you,” Mikasa smiles.
Between that, the voice of the officiant, and the image of Jean and Mikasa slipping rings onto each other’s fingers, it’s all a blip in the streamline of your memory, because your gaze stays locked on Eren. 
A gust of wind plaits through his brown hair, causing his tufts to twine and twist through the breeze. He smiles—that boyish, lopsided, charming smile of his—and looks away.
“It is in my honour to officially acknowledge you married. Go forth and live each day to the fullest. You may seal your marriage with a kiss.”
Jean slips his hands over Mikasa’s waist; Mikasa slides her fingers over the cusp of Jean’s jaw. The former pulls him towards her, mashes her lips to his, and breathes him in like a lifeline.
It truly is movie material—deep, unrushed and impassioned. It doesn’t cross the threshold of awkwardness, but it does tug at your heart.
“It is my privilege to present you—for the very first time as husband and wife—Jean Kirstein and Mikasa Ackerman.”
The guests exclaim in peals of good-wishes and cheers, clapping the newlyweds back inside as they retreat—arm-in-arm—down the aisle, the lilt of joyful birdsongs and happy friends serenading them as they do so.
Mikasa leans forward, resting her cheek on Levi’s head as they sway to the maestoso of violins.
The redwood deck is sparsely packed with guests—some snacking on hors-d’oeuvre; some playing bocce; others wreathed around the dancefloor, watching Mikasa share a dance with Levi.
Eren stays to the side—camera in hands, viewfinder near his eyes—as he captures the memory on film.
He’s dizzy. With love, cherry spritzer, or the cascade of clementine macarons he ingested? Eren doesn’t know. He thinks it may be all.
Just as he snaps another photo, he hears the call of his name. Eren looks up to see Jean shepherding him close with a grin, eyes glossy with mirth.
The first thing Eren does upon approaching his best friend is pull him into a bear hug for the nth time that night. They snivel, vulnerable yet safe in one another’s arms.
“Congratulations, Kirstein. Really, I mean it.”
Jean rolls his eyes by a pretence of annoyance, but it’s clear he’s trying to fend-off the tears that tease his waterline. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Jaeger.”
Jean hands Eren a flute of champagne. “And you? Any progress?”
Eren makes a sound between a scoff and a gasp, eyeing Jean over the lip of his champagne glass. “What?”
“Oh, c’mon, Jaeger,” Jean drawls, “I’m literally a married man—and one of your closest friends—I know how to read what’s there.”
The cast of redcurrants makes its way onto Eren’s cheeks as he folds his lips, shoulders curling in embarrassment. “I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it…” he mumbles.
“You kidding me?” Jean wheezes, “You’re more obvious than Levi and Hange. And that’s saying something.”
The pair glance to the side to see Levi stepping off the dancefloor, ambushed by a tipsy Hange. They ply him with chocolate-covered strawberries as Levi’s cheeks turn pink under the cataract of golden lighting.
“Am not.” 
“Totally are,” Jean snorts, “so? What’d she say?”
“Haven’t talked to her since,” Eren bites.
Jean pulls a face. Eren knows it, he’s just too busy scoping you out through the cleaved sea of people as you jump and laugh in Annie’s arms. You’re a beacon of light, eclipsing everything around you.
“Go talk to her.”
“Later.”
“Go,” Jean shoves Eren in your direction, taking his camera from him, “I’ll give this back after.”
Jean departs without another word, off to his wife, who welcomes him with a noogie.
Eren reorients himself before shuffling towards you, wringing his hands, cracking his knuckles. Annie heeds his approach and unsarls herself from your grasp, leaving your side as she heads for the grazing table.
Eren’s by your side before you can question it. He rests his arm on your shoulder, watching Jean and Mikasa flail around to the current song.
Once your fleeting surprise disappears, you smile. “They’re quite the pair, aren’t they?”
“Owe it all to us,” Eren giggles, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.
Eren holds his hand out, a feeble smile on his face. His eyes are blown wide, the emerald pool of his irises eclipsed by love-imbued pupils. His gaze is garnished by the sparkle of hanging curtain lights.
“May I have this dance?”
Of course, you slip your hand into his, and titter as he kisses the back of it. Eren leads you onto the dancefloor as Waterloo by ABBA plays. His skin burns the silk of your dress as he squeezes your love handles, gliding his palms up your arms before settling them on your shoulders.
The two of you slow dance like stillwater despite the upbeat song that plays. Eren weaves his fingers behind your neck in order to draw you close, anchoring you to his chest. You mould your hands against the curves of his lithe waist, tugging him forward.
A part of you swears that the earth’s final kindle gets snuffed out, and thus reduced to just you and Eren. He rests his forehead against yours as he smiles that goofy grin of his and, just as the song draws to its end, you latch a hand behind Eren’s neck, thrusting him into a theatrical dip.
A peal of laughter pools out of Eren’s mouth, the sound putting the tune of Bee Gee’s Night Fever to shame.
Eren juts out his neck, brushing his nose against yours. “That was awfully extra of you.”
“How could I resist?” You joke, standing him back up.
Eren shuffles closer, and uses his thumb to brush away the crumbs of meringue flecking your bottom lip. The sweetness mixes with the taste of his flesh, and you’re overcome with the urge to bite, to keep biting, and to inhale him entirely.
Eren lifts his hand and slots his thumb over his tongue, sucking your taste off his skin.
Your breath hitches. “Y’wanna get out of here?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he grins.
You assure Eren’s wrist in your grasp and giggle as you lead him away from the party. Your heart stutters—not because of what’s to happen—but because of what’s already happened. His speech echoes in your mind, reverberating in your heart. The fuzzy furore of love trickles down, pooling like lava in the heartbeat below your navel.
The murmur of the ceremony drowns out as you enter the lodge. It’s seemingly a blip in time; the inn is empty, save for just you and Eren, and reads like your own little paradise. You’ve made your own liminal space as you trudge upstairs, tripping through the halls.
“I need to get my toothbrush,” Eren pants, tightening his grip on your hand.
You loop an arm around his bicep and tug him close, sliding your palm down his willowy chest. “I can’t wait any longer, Eren.”
“I don’t want my kisses smelling like chicken,” he smooths his hand over the hinge of your jaw, skating it down your neck, over your collarbone, “and I… I wanna taste you.”
Your knees go weak as you ensconce your forehead on Eren’s shoulder, whining a punched-out “Fuck,” under your breath.
And so Eren pulls you into his suite and nudges you over the threshold of the bathroom, handing you a spare toothbrush. You scrub your teeth, impatiently bump your hips together, and giggle at your reflections in the mirror as you rinse your mouths.
It’s a far cry from the tight space of Connie’s junior year car, the wall that Eren pushes you up against. He cants his head down—causing the scent of mint to sluice down your face—and cages you between his arms, interminably trapping you in a corral of Eren, Eren, Eren.
“That speech,” you slur, “it was about me.”
“Of course it was,” Eren gasps, gripping your cheeks in his hands, “it fucking always was.”
You press yourself against him, revelling in the thickening bulge that rubs between your thighs. Eren pants, his spritzer-frazzled breath washing your face, clouding you delirious. Your orientation is impaired, all as Eren skates a large hand beneath the silky material of your slip dress and chucks it over the curve of your ass, moulding your flesh in his bare hands.
The next thing Eren moulds is his mouth against your lips. He devours you—your flaws and your virtues—and as you melt in Eren’s embrace, you feel as if you’re a drowsy child again, being carried to your bedroom on a chilly evening to a summer’s end in the arms of someone warm and loved and trusted.
Eren threads his fingers in your hair, tugs on it to lever your head back, and walks his teeth down your throat.
He flirts with the flimsy strap of your dress; you pull him closer by the lapels of his suit. It feels so natural, feels so right as Eren slews his hand under your panties, working his fingers between glossy folds. Your head swims. It’s a culmination of champagne, arousal, and love.
You toe off your shoes and bully Eren backwards until the back of his knees hit the mattress, sending him flopping onto the bed.
He draws his hands up your hips and pulls you between his legs, running his fingers over each divot of your spine—each divot he commits to memory.
“Can’t wait to get this off you,” he huffs.
“What happened to fucking me against the window?”—You cut yourself off with a gasp as Eren yanks your dress down to take your breast into his mouth, tounging at your nipple—“Thought you wanted everyone to see?”
“Want you all to myself,” he moans, “waited so long for this, had to sit through all your shitty boyfriends you introduced me to.”
A muted buzz crawls up your spin as you pull away, cradling Eren’s face in your hands. You pant, but your inflexion is doused in seriousness. “If you told me how you felt, I would’ve left them. All of them.”
Eren stares up at you, eyes glazed over with a lustre of love. And before your next breath, your vision is whirring by an abundance of degrees, and your back is suddenly sinking into the plush foam of the mattress. Eren reigns above you, his lips against your mouth.
“We’re here now,” he mumbles, “that’s all that matters.”
Eren crawls off of you and unbuttons his shirt, capitalising off your rapt attention as he makes slow work of peeling back his clothing, unbuckling his belt. The clanging metal sends shockwaves to your pussy, sticking your panties to the lips of your dewy cunt.
Eren shoves his pants down and haphazardly hops out of them, palming his erection. His fat cock distorts the fabric of his boxer-briefs, causing moltern to slip its way under your skin and wreath around your heart.
Eren creeps onto the bed again, pressing his lips to your legs. He sucks a mulberry-red mosaic over your thighs. He kisses a trail up your legs, and sinks his teeth into your flesh; he nips the hem of your panties, and presses a chaste kiss to your clothed clit.
He pinches the front part of your panties between his thumb and forefinger, bunching it up. Eren draws his hand up and down, back and forth, letting the soft gauze of your thong slip between the fat of your pussy, and slide over your puffy clit.
The string of your underwear cuts into the slit of your cunt, catching onto your nub. Embarrassment flares over your face as you spread your legs, squirming at the sticky sound of your pussy. Eren furrows his lips and blows, expelling a cold breath that unfurls upon your folds.
You twitch and gasp and loll your head to the side, shrinking under Eren’s predatory gaze. He grins, sharp fang teeth peeking from the hood of his pink lips—his pink lips that he puckers, lowers levelled to your cunt, and brushes over your clit.
“Your panties’re fucking ruined, baby,” he croons, pulling at your panties, relishing in the way your back arches as the froth of your intimates rubs over your hole, “you’ve soaked ��em.”
Eren tugs your panties off and tosses them behind him, lowering to his chest. With his dominant arm, he slides his hand between your folded fingers, grounding you, and with his other, Eren slips the tip of his thumb under the hood of your clit, rolling circles over the engorged pearl.
“You’ve got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” Eren mumbles, brushing a feather-light finger over your sticky folds.
He swats your pussy and drinks in the scent of your arousal, dragging his nose over your drenched hole. Your thighs quiver as your wetness coils over your clit, each sensation causing your toes to curl.
“Wanna taste you,” he swears, gently rutting his dick into the mattress.
You reply with a tight groan, fingers twisting in his hair as you hook your legs over his svelte shoulders, shepherding him close. Eren digs his fingers into your skin, kneading the chub of your thighs in his hands. He leans close, noses at your clit, and flattens his tongue against your pussy, licking a fat stripe up the slit.
Eren loses himself in your taste, gloating at your sweetness that soaks the buds of his tongue, gleams his lips, and trickles down his chin.
His fingers cut into your flesh like the sands of time as you drag your pussy against his face, fucking yourself on his tongue.
Eren’s calloused hands bite down on your skin as he grips your hips, holding them in place.
He’s attuned to your every whimper, your slightest twitch. Eren’s lips move in sequence to your smallest needs—adding and relieving pressure where you need it most, sucking where you want it most, kissing where you demand it most—you move like the ocean with a shared heartbeat.
Your heart and stomach synchronously capsize as he snags your clit between his lips to suckle, slurp, and twirl his tongue around. Eren makes slow work of tasting you; of gushing his tongue up your every curve; of spreading your hole open around his tongue.
Your cunt drools over his lips, to which he gladly laps up, muffling his moans in your folds. Your eyes gloss over upon pulling Eren closer, fucking his face for your climax.
He’s in awe at how your face screws into pleasure. You reel the edge of your orgasm and, simultaneously, a wave of heat washed through Eren, and before he know it he’s soiling his boxer-briefs because your pussy is literally gushing on his tongue, his head locked between your thighs.
Eren wails as he creams his underwear—all from eating you out—as he humps the bed, his resonant mewls ringing in your ears.
You go slack, ribs rattling with each leaden-footed breath. Eren slides out from underneath you, palming his neglected cock.
He snivels as he speaks, squeezing the aching balls that swell from his underwear. “Want you to cum on my dick next. Can y’do that, baby?”
Eren cages you with his arms, kissing your forehead. You nod—or, at the very least, produce a jerk of your neck that permeates one.
Eren tugs his underwear down, groaning at the friction of froth against his cock. His dick springs out—angry, red, tip pearling with precum—and bobs in place as he settles himself in front of your pussy.
He locks his lips with yours, carding his tongue past your mouth, curling it over your teeth.
He kisses your hole with the flared tip of his cock, sliding it up and down, coating his dick in your arousal. He slaps your pussy with his cock as he folds you in two, sinking into you, concurrent with the moment all air from your lungs is seized.
Your lips pop open, your back arches as he glides deeper, filling out your every crevice.
“Wait–!” Eren chokes out, “Are you– fuck– serious?”
Eren’s pupils flare as he gawks down at you. You squirm as he bullies his cock into you, squeezing past your pussys first ring of muscle. You claw at his arms and palm at his chest, simultaneously sucking him deeper and pushing him out.
He’s big. He’s so fucking big. 
And Eren’s hard, he is so damn hard.
His thumb finds your nub at the same time he falls into a rhythm; keeling his hips, rolling your clit between his fingers.
Your legs dumbly flay as Eren batters your insides, fixated on how your pussy pulls him in, gushing around his dick. He stretches you to your limit with his fat cock and swallows your salacious moans, pawing at your bouncing tits.
Eren fucks you like he’s been looking for you for a lifetime. He holds you close as though he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers. He fucks you with acute, deep thrusts, with strokes that you feel in the sizzling pit of your belly and in the curl of your toes.
He leans in close and licks your ear, his quivering balls excruciatingly salient as they slap against your ass with each thrust. Your skin is searing, embers dot your bloodstream, your marrow goes numb.
Neither of you are going to last. Not when you can barely last the weekend apart; not when you can’t last an afternoon without your hands on each other.
You force your eyes open as you crest your second orgasm, straining through a tearful gaze to gape at Eren’s face.
His hair is wild—wispy and tousled—bouncing like spun-thread sepia as it frames his face like a halo.
Eren grins as if he’s not stuffed balls deep inside of you, pummeling your pussy.
Your legs tremble, and even before you’re able to voice a warning, you find yourself spurting all over his chest and thighs. Eren slows his circles on your clit, drawing out your orgasm before you go slack.
Eren gets thwacked with the cusp of his orgasm not half a second later. With his cock snug inside your walls, Eren rockets his release inside of you. He coughs out an animalistic groan, pressing a hand down on your navel as he rocks himself deeper—as if that’s even possible—seized by the rattling of the hotel bedframe and its wailing of bedsprings.
He spills into your tummy, filling you so full. He shoves himself so deep that he pushes you up the mattress, curving your back. And once his balls are empty, once you’ve milked his cock dry, Eren cries, collapsing against your chest.
Your hand finds his hair as his cock marinates inside of you—twitching, softening.
He twists his neck, staring up at you.
“Hi,” he whispers, not wanting to ruin the post-coital lull.
You smile, giggling. “Hello, Romeo.”
“In case I haven’t made it clear,” Eren continues, “I’m in love with you.”
He slides his cheek against your tits, walking his lips up your chest.
“And I love loving you,” Eren mutters against the murmur of your pulse, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock slips out of you, leaving creamy strands of your mixed cum to trickle down your thighs and pool upon the sheets.
Your heartbeats click together in sync. You card a hand through Eren’s sweaty hair, smiling at him. He looks down at you, rich face mounted with muted love.
“Did I tire you out?” He asks.
You snivel out a drawn-out whine, moving to cover your face with your arm—but Eren’s quicker. Quicker with the way in which he catches your hand and swipes it toward his lips, plastering a kiss over your knuckles.
“You’re breathtaking,” he admits. 
And you believe him.
You lean in close and work your jaw against his lips, pulling him towards you.
“Say something,” he nudges you, whining into the kiss.
“Do I need to?” You ask, biting your lip to suppress your giggles, “I think we’ve said enough. For long enough.”
Eren petulantly pouts. “I needa hear you say it.”
You click your tongue and cup Eren’s face—holding your world in your hands—as you slowly brush his tears away.
“Eren Jaeger,” you purl, squishing his cheeks, “I think I love you more than life.”
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gingerjolover · 3 months
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omggg well since u asked for holiday requests: soft!gf and julien ice skating together?? and one of them (dealer’s choice) is super nervous / has never done it before but the other’s a natural. maybe the boys and muna are there, maybe they aren’t, up to u. love ur work mama g 🫶🏽
okay wait soft!gf gives me lowkey figure skater vibes... maybe figure skater!gf oop
like gf lived a whole life before they became soft!gf and met jb and got into a relationship
(i physically cannot create another universe rn because i am so backed up, but we can keep this in the back of our minds, yes?)
okay i would like to think that jb would actually be pretty good on skates but it would be getting her on the ice thats hard
like if soft!gf actively still skates, julien is watching her rehearse or going to competitions or maybe watching her teach classes in awe of how she moves
but julien is SO resistant to getting onto the ice, like seeing how graceful soft!gf is, julien just doesn't believe that she could be the same way??
but let's say that julien and soft!gf are in NYC or soft!gf's hometown, maybe at the rink they grew up skating in (whether soft!gf was a figure skater or just ice skated with friends for fun)
and soft!gf is BEGGING julien to come skate, even just for a little
def goes as far to rent out the rink or hit some people up and be like "can we just have an hour, my girlfriend is super nervous"
and soft!gf is a treasure and loved so dearly...so clearly, they get the rink to themselves
getting julien in the car to go to the rink? check
getting julien in the proper clothing and skates? check
getting julien on the ice? girl... bffr
it takes SO much bribing and bartering, i mean soft!gf owes julien like 5 massages, a warm bath, 2 hours of braiding her hair, and special cookies that she doesn't make often because they're time consuming before julien agrees
and julien is giving bambi
holding onto the wall, slipping and sliding
it takes most of the hour? two hours? that they have the rink for jules to just acclimate to the ice
eventually soft!gf convinces jb to hold on to the walker thingy (yall know what im talking about?) or the big traffic cone and skaet around the ice
and right before they need to clear out, julien lets soft!gf take her hands, skating backwards as they pull julien around the ice, teaching her how to brake and glide
julien doesn't fall once and is encouraged by the many kisses and butt grabs that soft!gf graces her with
ice skating!julien comes back into play when they return to LA
i feel like soft!gf was talking to kelli or katie about ice skating and they were like wait lets go ice skating
so munagenius all decides to go to a rink
and everyone is nervous, except katie and soft!gf, i feel like phoebe would be nervous but still just like step onto the ice
and julien has increased confidence but is still terrified
mainly because she hasn't fallen yet
but she lets soft!gf genuinely teaches all of them, Katie assisting because of their rollerskating knowledge
and all of munagenius are ice skating like grandmas, the best playlist you've ever heard bumping through the speakers
and i feel like julien would get tired quick, like would go off the ice and sit, a cup of coffee between her hands as she watches soft!gf try and help jo and lucy skate in zig zags
eventually munagenius watches katie and soft!gf's choreography you know how when you were a kid and you made dances with your cousin and performed them? thats the vibe
and it's to a song thats just so out there, maybe its like fucking hardy or something idk
or silk chiffon teehee
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ashbashsquashmabosh · 7 months
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Went to the Boygenius show in Dublin yesterday and I'm trying to combat post concert amnesia by documenting everything before I forget it. So here's a bunch of the best bits
Openers
Phoebe just casually walking on stage in a hoodie to announce ye vagabonds and tell everyone to shut up while they're on
Muna have amazing stage presence like I already knew that but woooww
God bless whoever was in charge of the camera for all the beautiful shots of Jo I was struggling to breathe honestly
Katie's jacket was so low cut and tight
Naomis mic was ON
Katie crying during kind of girl
Phoebe silk chiffon verse, her voice was lighter and airier than I expected, everyone else came on for the 2nd chorus
No one in the crowd seemed to know Muna very well I heard them talking about "the bassist" and "the one with curly hair"
The energy was so good they are amazing performers
Katie being an "annoying American with Irish grandparents and a celtic tattoo" in her own words
Saw Catherine Clinch from An Cailin Ciun in the gold circle
Boygenius
Lucy resting her head on Phoebe's during without me without you ahhh so cute
Slippy floor on Phoebe's side of the stage, Julien checked it, Phoebe cleaning her hands with "purell' that's just funny to me cause it's so American
Julien telling the story of getting a minor chemical burn from just picking random things up in chemistry class, Lucy teasing her that she was the reason for eyewash in labs, Julien joking that she'd found her career.
Phoebe in her suit pacing around with her hands on her hips looking very Father
Everyone wore their suits, Julien took off the jacket halfway through and rolled up her sleeves it was awesome
Sound quality not amazing I would have loved to hear more of their harmonies, the balance of vocals to music was a little off in my opinion
The boys had to stop multiple times for people to be taken out, they passed around water
Julien sang the "best song love song you've ever heard", and "familiar characters" in Anticurse and I could not believeeee it
Lucy getting the words of bite the hand mixed up singing I can't see you in the first line instead of I can hear you and giggling about it
The band absolutely slapped, the trumpet was so good
Phoebe asking for the pics of everyones dogs before me and my dog
Julien giggling and screaming about the cute dogs
Julien playing the piano was amazing so beautiful omgggggg
Everyone being so respectful when phoebe asked for no phones, phoebe just sinking back into the crowd at the end of the song
The boys coming back on super fast for the encore and phoebe saying "we just go back there, get some water and high five, that's it"
Everyone saying they loved each other and Julien "dangling my feet off the edge of a tangent" but stopping herself because there was only one song left. What did she want to say????!!! I want to knowww
Lucy going down to the audience during salt In the wound to kiss the crowds hands
I underestimated how hard the songs would hit I was teary eyed for a good portion of the concert
Julien absolutely slayes the " gnashing my teeeeeeth like a child of Cain" part in Salt in the wound
Katie coming on for salt in the wound in a hoodie
Couldn't keep track of who kissed who all of the boys kissed each other I think
Phoobies
Everyone was on the ground in a pile kicking their legs in the air and then Julien got up again for some last minute zoomies to finish out the guitar
Katie trying to quietly leave the stage and Phoebe motioning for her to come back and take the last bow with them
Lucy and Julien hugging, piggybacking off the stage
Overall amazing show would 1000% go again, because I love Muna and boygenius so much I basically got 2 in 1 so def my favourite concert thus far
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My Whole Life, Too
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Seven years after you've left Hawkins, a beautiful day for a wedding in New Mexico brings up old feelings. You're hoping to make the most of it with the comfort of best friends.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader, previous Steve Harrington x Reader
Wordcount: 8,419
Warnings: smut & smut adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), angst, lots of gushy friendship talk, weddings, drinking, mentions of drugs and cigarettes, so much guilt, Steve Harrington slander, lovin' both the boys, fluff, oh and Jancy
Navigation • Masterlist
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January 1994 - Albuquerque, NM
The pale blue chiffon of your dress wrinkled in the car, and your mouth tasted of wax from when the peachy pink lipstick clipped your teeth and smeared over your chin a few minutes earlier. You’d scrubbed at it with a wet forefinger, scrutinizing your reflection in an oblong mirror beside the gift table, but you couldn’t help but lick at your front two teeth self-consciously.
You ankles ached under your weight in your new heels, and each burst of winter, mountain air prickled the stubble beneath your nylons, but you were rooted to your spot in the lobby, nearest the guest book, making eye contact with each and every wedding guest as they entered through the chapel doors. 
So far, several little old ladies in lace collared dresses eyed you up, and several families with too-many kids stumbled in from the cold. You hadn’t seen a familiar face since you arrived, and you couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse.
From this vantage, you could barely see out into the parking lot, where snow was packed along the curve and inside oversized planters and the afternoon sun was just starting to dip low beneath the mountains, kissing everything in golds and roses. It was a beautiful day for a wedding.
Three teenagers entered, all three of them ducked over handheld video games, and just beyond you saw the swoosh of impeccable brown hair. Your heart thundered in your ears, mouth gone fully dry. You flattened clammy hands to the midsection of your dress and stood at full height to greet Steve Harrington.
Though, suddenly all of your rehearsed greetings had flown out of your mind. The only thing you could think of were the last things he said to you, the hurt blurring those big doe eyes, his mouth slightly agape, his fingertips grasping at your t-shirt as you released his shoulders and said goodbye. Well those things and Elvis’s Can’t Help Falling in Love, which had been playing on loop in this little lobby since you’d arrived.
A woman excused you out of her elbow-range as she signed the guestbook, sending you a little off-kilter and almost into a stunning satin-decked wreath, but you managed to catch yourself on the windowsill, cooling your palms as your prints came back fogged over. You ran a chilled hand over your face and released a breath you’d been holding for minutes and hoped to God this wasn’t a dry wedding.
That’s when you heard the familiar scold of a best friend. “Eddie, top-button. Robin, no more singing. Honestly, how old are you two?”
Nancy Wheeler entered looking tighter-wound than she was a month ago, when you’d last seen her. Her bangs were cut short, hair black, thin fingers busying themselves with Eddie Munson’s bolo tie. Eddie looked miffed by the action, like a school boy embarrassed by his mom, but he daren’t move a muscle lest he get smacked. Beside them, Robin Buckley adjusted a tie of her own, flattened the lapels of her velvet blazer against her chest. 
And it was just them, just the three, alone in the entryway, Nancy fussing over their appearances before perfectly manicured nails went to ensure her oversized earrings were still clipped to her lobes. You glanced around one last time for Steve, but found a parking lot full of old people and void of any handsome young men whose hearts you’d broken. With a deep breath, and a clench of your shaking fists, you took a step toward them.
“Hey, strangers.” 
Robin let out a shriek that sent a pen flying from gasps at the guest book, and when Nancy shushed her, she snickered and wrapped her long arms around you to breathe a greeting into your ear, all clove cigarettes and patchouli. “Hey, stunner. Missed you.” 
“You too,” you smiled and let her rock you into her hug. You were almost her height in your heels.
She released you, her hair sticking to your lipstick, and you reached out to melt the wax off the strands with your fingertips. 
“Have you seen him?” Nancy asked, slipping in between you to give you the tightest hug you’d ever received. 
Your heart jolted a little in alarm, glancing over her head to the parking lot beyond. Still no Steve. When you pulled away, you noticed Nancy stood on the toes of her own high heels, stretched to get a good view of the chapel behind you, and you realized she wasn’t talking about the same person. “I’m sure Jonathan’s getting ready with the other groomsmen. He hasn’t been out this way.” 
Nancy’s gaze met yours then, a harsh glare in blue, but you saw the fear in her eyes, wondered if your stare mimicked her own. She squeezed your forearm and shrugged, as though she could care less, as though she didn’t sit in your apartment last month downing glasses of wine and confessing her and Jonathan had had a Thanksgiving tryst for the first time in seven years. “Oh well,” she nodded toward the hall where the guests had begun to funnel. “Shall we?” 
Another gust of wind fanned your hair, ruffled your skirt, and you glanced one last time at the nearly vacant lot before a scraggly head of hair blurred your view. You blinked until Eddie’s smile came into focus, head tilted to meet your gaze. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 
You breathed a nervous laugh and allowed his arms to envelope you in a hug. He was warm and a little damp under the arms, but distinctly Eddie, all murmured chuckles and cigarette smoke. But with your face buried into his hair, you sensed something else that made your heart stop, something familiar, something Steve.
“How long’s it been? Two years?” He asked, pulling away. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, and you noticed the purple scarring that etched his throat, just beyond too tight of a collar. He must have seen your gaze, because he reached up to unbutton the top button and loosen the tie, two strands of leather and a carved silver demon’s face. You snorted.
“Yeah, just about.” The last time you’d seen Eddie had been on a New Years ski trip to the Harrington’s time share. Your memories of that trip were fogged with White Russians and too much time in a hot tub. You remembered Eddie’s bare ass, stark white, when he’d been dared to make a snow angel.
“You look beautiful as ever,” he flashed you those sharp canines. 
“You don’t clean up bad yourself,” you smiled, though his compliment had fallen a bit on deaf ears. You hadn’t dressed up for him. 
“Hey, don’t sound so shocked.” He scoffed, adjusting the lapels of an old blazer. It looked a bit small for his shoulders, a bit tight, and you swallowed. Maybe that’s why he smelled of Steve, maybe he’d borrowed it.
A groan sounded from behind you, and you pulled your attention from Eddie’s shoulders to see Nancy impatiently tapping her clutch to her hip, just outside the chapel door. She gestured for the two of you to hurry, and you felt Eddie’s hand on the small of your back to follow you inside. 
Robin had already shuffled into a pew near the back and was thumbing through a hymn book. Nancy shoved you out of the way before shuffling in beside her. 
“Wheeler said Robin and I aren’t allowed to sit next to each other,” Eddie mumbled just over your right ear, and you snorted before pulling yourself into the seat beside Nancy. He followed.
She snatched the hymn book out of Robin’s hand and tucked it back in its pocket. “Could you sit still for like two seconds?” 
“Could you?” Robin snapped. “Jesus, Nance, how much coke did you do this morning?” 
Appalled, Nancy shushed her. You snickered. Eddie wrapped his arm over your shoulder to lean in. “You have coke? And you aren’t sharing?” 
“I knew I should have left you in Hawkins,” she reached past you to tighten his tie again.
You leaned back against his arm to make eye contact with with Robin, who flashed you a goofy grin, and for just a moment, you felt at peace. You didn’t need Steve to fall back into the chaos of this friendship. You didn’t need stolen moments of romance, you needed Robin’s raspy laughter and Nancy’s neurosis to keep you grounded, to remind you why you agreed to go in the first place.
“So how are you?” Robin asked, propping her elbow to the back of pew. 
Eddie reached his fingers to tickle her, and you smiled, shrugged.
“Heard you had a good time in Louisville,” she waggled her eyebrows and your heart sank to your knees. 
“Robin,” Nancy hissed. She knew the whole story, from your perspective. You’d gone to Louisville for a conference, invited Steve to join you for the weekend, didn’t expect him to say what he’d said, to request what he did. You hadn’t had a chance to talk to Robin about it. You should have known Steve would get to her first. 
“Steve says he’s sorry he couldn’t make it, by the way,” Eddie pitched in from beside you. 
You felt your entire body heat with embarrassment, and you turned to face a Cheshire grin. Did everyone know?
“Jesus Fuck, you two!” Nancy squealed, and a woman in front of you turned to shush you all loudly, covering the ears of a little boy. 
With a groan, you buried your face in your hands and accepted the squeeze and shake of Eddie’s arm around your shoulder, the vibration of his chuckle against your right arm. 
Nancy’s apology was cut short by the chime of the organ, and the shuffle of guests in their seats. You craned to see the minister at the podium, a man with a swoosh of brown hair that had you letting out a frustrated exhale. He wouldn’t be here, but apparently he’d haunt you.
The groom entered first, linked arms with his mother, and you almost didn’t recognize him. Argyle was tightly pressed into a handsome sky blue tuxedo, luxurious hair pulled back into a low pony tail. A handlebar mustache traced his upper lip, and you half-expected it to fall off when he bent down to plant a kiss to his mother’s cheek. She was crying already.
“If it’s any consolation, he told me he was staying home in solidarity with Dustin,” came a whisper to your temple. 
“What?” You turned to see Eddie frowning back to you, face the most serious you’d seen it in years. 
Eddie nodded sideways to the bridesmaids and groomsmen that had begun to file in two-by-two, arms linked and sleeves ruffled. You watched head after head of beautiful brunette women glide by in lavender. “Since Dustin and Suzie broke up.” Eddie explained into your hair.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe he didn’t shave for his best friend’s wedding.” Nancy scoffed under her breath beside you. 
Jonathan stood beside Argyle, warm smile stretched across his boyish features, just beneath the ghost of a mustache. It was clear he couldn’t quite grow one like the groom, tried as he might. He looked more like a French waiter in baby blue. You watched his eyes scan the crowd, and saw the smile widen when he spotted the four of you, and you joined Eddie in waggling your fingers his direction.
“Stop it,” Nancy snapped beside you, and you dropped your hand to your lap reflexively. 
You felt Eddie’s chuckle beside you again, warm, welcome. You turned to flash him a smile, and he winked. 
“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise.” The minister announced, and you all shuffled your bags to your seats to stand. 
You wobbled a little, sandwiched tightly between Nancy and Eddie, and you groped for his hand for balance until his grasp tightened around yours, firm and unyielding, another safe space.
The music changed tempo, and the organ sounded the first few chords of Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. You heard humming in front of you, felt the thrumming of fingers against the back of your hand, and you smiled at your friends’ inability to keep quiet. A few notes in, the bride entered. 
Eden was a vision in white, hidden beneath a massive veil and more rhinestones than you’d ever seen. She waltzed in on her father’s arm, a portly man who looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. He also donned a mustache. The detail made you smile, made you think of your own father, made you imagine yourself slow-stepping to the alter.
“Shit,” Nancy hissed from behind you, and you glanced to see her mopping at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. You laughed and were glad to see Robin reaching around to envelope Nancy in a side hug.
Nancy didn’t do well at weddings. Not since her almost nuptials four years ago in Boston. She’d been a month out, crying mascara stains into steamed linens while you and Robin called florists and caterers and DJs. Pete was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the one. She couldn’t be the hard-hitting journalist she was with a mousy man like him under her thumb. It was right to set him free, and she knew it. 
You knew the feeling. You released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, and the minister asked for you all to be seated. 
Eddie released your hand and slung his arm over your shoulders again to jostle Nancy. She sniffled and patted his hand. You gave a squeeze to the soft skin of her knee where her skirt split and exposed her nylons. 
“This better not be a dry wedding,” she muttered under her breath, and you laughed at the reflection of your own thoughts while the minister began reciting scriptures about love. 
You made it through the ceremony and down to the reception hall relatively unscathed, catching up with old friends and grateful to find many men behind an open bar. In fact, you were a whole three bites into your salad (and one glass of champagne in) before Eleven mentioned his name. 
“Where’s Steve?” 
A cherry tomato evaded your fork and bounced off rose colored linens. 
“Back in Hawkins like a loser,” Robin explained, crunching down on a crouton.
You tried and failed to do anything but stare at the food on your plate. 
“You guys are living together, right Eddie?” Will asked from across the table.
That caught your attention. You gaze shot to Eddie, who was already watching you, a sheepish look across wolfish features. He nodded and tongued at something in his molars, reaching for the beer bottle in front of him. “Uh, yeah. Since June.” He sipped. You watched the bubbles fizz in the amber liquid.
You supposed it had been an easy detail to miss in Louisville, what with all of the other ludicrous things Steve had spouted. 
“Get any time in the bathroom?” Mike snickered behind his own beer. 
Eddie smiled, shrugged. “Not really, but hey, beats paying out my ass in rent. You of all people should know that teachers don’t make dick for a salary, and turns out, neither do janitors, so…” He glanced sideways at you again before turning back to the salad in front of him. 
“Yeah, but I have a girlfriend who works for the government,” Mike concluded, tugging Eleven tighter under his arm. She rolled her eyes, but seemed pleased to belong to someone. 
You felt your own cheeks heat, and you went back to staring at your plate.
“Gross,” Robin managed between mouthfuls. 
“Are you and Steve…?” Eleven started, and panic rose in your chest, constricting your airflow, until you looked up and realized the girl was asking Eddie. He nearly choked on his own tomato, slamming his fist to his chest while Robin barked a laugh that stirred the attention of several tables nearby. 
“No, no,” Eddie wheezed, taking a chug of his beer. His hair shook around his face, and you noticed the shy smile building on the corners of his lips. “No, I’m not exactly Harrington’s type.” 
“Too emotionally available?” Nancy snipped from beside her brother. You shot her wide eyes, and she just shrugged, forking her own crouton between thin lips. Champagne made her bitchy. 
“Alright, enough about Dingus. He isn’t even here to defend himself.” Robin sighed, taking a sip from her own flute. 
You felt Eddie’s arm drape over the back of your chair again, the warmth of him mixing with the champagne that had begun to tingle the apples of your cheeks. “What about you, Robin? Any prospects?”
She sighed from your other side. “I have been talking to a girl in the Peace Corps.” There was trepidation to her tone.
“…but?” 
She glanced your direction and flashed a cheeky grin. “I, too, am into emotionally unavailable women.”
You picked up your rogue tomato and tossed her direction. She squawked and dodged it, and it rolled somewhere far off to be squished beneath a heel or kicked across the dance floor. 
“Hey, guys!” A cheerful greeting announced Jonathan’s arrival, and the man placed his hands on his younger brother’s broad shoulders. The table chorused a “Hello, Jonathan,” in greeting. Everyone but Nancy, you noticed. You made eyes at her, and she shot you a dirty look. 
“Dig the mustache, dude,” Eddie grinned, and you held back a snicker as Jonathan’s eyebrows raised.
He brought a hand up to scratch at the atrocity, and you noticed his gaze flicker toward Nancy. She remained stoic and focused on her first course. “Yeah? Argyle wanted us all to have a stache. He thought it’d be cool for pictures or something.”
“Yeah, man. It’s sick. I’ve been thinking about growing one myself,” Eddie scratched at the smooth skin above his upper lip, silver rings glinting in the center piece’s candlelight. You hadn’t noticed how full his lips were before, supple beneath a broad nose. He’d arrived clean shaven, boyish face carved away in harsh edges since you were kids. Now he was all strong jaw and defined cheekbones and full lips, a sparkle in his brown eyes. 
You must have made a face because he flashed you his canines again. “What? You don’t think so?” 
You shrugged. “I think it’d throw off your,” you gestured to his being with your champagne flute. “Vibe.” 
“Yeah,” Robin nodded. “Too Mercury. You’re much more of a Brian May.” 
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to the members of Queen,” Eddie grimaced and lifted his bottle to clink rims with your glass.
“Shit, that reminds me. I have to make a toast.” Jonathan groped for the breast pocket of his jacket, pulling out folded pieces of paper. 
“Where are the bride and groom?”
You all glanced around. The happy couple seemed to be anywhere but the close quarters of the reception hall. 
“I believe they’re consummating their vows,” Jonathan flashed a shy smile. 
Eddie clinked his glass to yours again, and you laughed before taking another sip. Will, Mike, and Eleven groaned. 
“Cheers to the happy couple.” Robin raised her own glass, which again drew the attention from several tables. 
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Guess I better find them. I’ll catch up with you guys later, yeah?” And you waved him off. He left with the soft graze of his hand to Nancy’s shoulder. When you met her gaze, you notice her face had flushed a deep pink, and she fought back a smile with an eye roll.
The band tapped out the rhythm to a soft jazz tune for all the happy old couples in the room, and Mike and Eleven. You watched her curly head pressed to his gangly chest and wondered if that ought to have been you. If things were different, if you hadn’t have panicked, if Steve had showed. You could still smell him, close, warm, a ghost that lingered. 
With a sigh, you opened your eyes back to the harsh lighting and glanced sideways at Eddie’s jacket on the chair beside you. You were tempted to check the inner pocket, to look for some sort of monogram, proof that it was Steve’s. Eddie had slipped out the side door with the bride and groom and the Byers boys. He mentioned something about a wedding present, and flashed you the fattest joint you’d seen in years.
 You resisted the pull of the jacket and sipped from your water glass, a vain attempt to curb the steadfast champagne hangover.
“Will that ever be me?” Nancy lamented from beneath her own champagne flute, sunk back into her chair with slumped shoulders and crossed arms, far past the rigidity of the afternoon. Glazed eyes stared longingly onto the dance floor. Robin warmed her bicep with a soft hand. 
“Of course it will, Nance,” you sat forward in your chair to comfort her. “You’re brilliant and beautiful, and you’ll make someone the perfect wife someday.” 
She offered the softest smile on the corners of her pink lips. 
“After all, you’re emotionally available,” you compared with a pointed finger. 
Robin groaned and took another sip of her drink, something chock full of cherries. “Both of you are catches, damnit, and I will not sit here and let you talk shit about my friends in this way.” She prodded each of you until smiles cracked on all three of your faces and you let out soft laughs. 
The song ended in a burst of applause from dancers who shared sweet kisses and evacuated the dance floor. Mike and Eleven approached with blushed cheeks and smiles they couldn’t wipe off their faces, and the next song really picked up its tempo. Eleven found her seat again, but Mike stood beside his sister with an outstretched hand.
“Come on, Nance. I’m sick of watching you get bitchier and bitchier.” He offered with that signature Wheeler smirk.
“Fuck off,” Nancy shot, but she gripped his fingers and allowed him to pull her to the dance floor. 
You watched them with a laugh until you felt a hand wrap around the backside of you chair. Robin had leaned closer. She watched you with sad eyes, big and blue, something mischievous in them. “What?” You narrowed your gaze. 
“Steve’s an idiot.” She commented easily, as though his name didn’t feel like a direct hit every time. 
You sighed. “Robin.” 
“No, I’m serious. He’s cocky, and he’ll never learn. Of course you weren’t going to uproot your life for him.” 
You sucked in your cheeks to avoid the panic slamming behind your ribcage. Steve had told her everything, and for some reason, you felt like a bad friend from keeping it from her. Maybe you worried she’d take his side. 
“And he’s not here because he’s a chicken. So there’s no reason you shouldn’t be having any fun.” She pried the water glass from your hand and set it beside your empty flute. “Can’t feel hungover if you keep drinking.” 
You laughed and watched Eleven’s fervent agreement, brown eyes glowing. “This is a party.”
“What’re you drinking?” Robin prodded you with a long finger again, swishing her glass your direction. 
You crinkled your nose, watching the ice melt droplets to the side of her glass, which beaded and splattered, darkening the tabletop beneath each shake. You chewed through her words, realizing that she was right. Steve had chosen to bail. You were the better person here, showing up for your friend despite your worry, your anxieties. Sure, you had wanted to see him, hoped to patch things up, silently prayed for a heated makeup in a coat closet or your themed hotel room. But he wasn’t here, and you were. 
You straightened your posture, gave Robin a firm nod. “Dirty Shirley, please.” 
“Atta girl,” Robin grinned and pushed off from her seat to head to the bar. Eleven yelled for her to wait up and traipsed behind her, leaving you alone at the table with half-drank glasses and Eddie’s suit jacket. 
You stared at the black lapel, wondering if it looked familiar. You glanced upward at Mike and Nancy, laughing with each swing of their arms over their heads. You swallowed and trailed your fingers along the hem, gripped at the shoulder pad. You stared back at the soft material, albeit a bit tattered. Maybe it wasn’t Steve’s. Maybe it was just secondhand. You made to flip the left side over, to look for an inscription, when a voice startled your hand away. 
“Dance with me.” 
You clutched at your chest, attempted to calm your breath, and spun to see Eddie with an outstretched hand and a wide grin. “When did you get back?” 
“Two seconds ago,” he shrugged, waggled his fingers your direction. “Get up. I want to dance.” 
There’s no reason you shouldn’t be having fun. A smile tugging at your cheeks, you slipped your hand into his and allowed him to pull you to the dance floor. Only, when you reached the spot beside Nancy and Mike, the song ended and the tempo slowed again, something sweet and soft. Mike and Nancy High-fived. 
“Aw man, I was hoping for the fast one.” Eddie groaned, but he pressed a soft hand to the small of your waist and tucked you in tight, cheek pressed to your temple as you began an awkward, off-kilter sway, a bit too dramatic, outrageous. It made you laugh, and you felt his chuckle bubble against your chest. 
He was warm, but damp. His hair had been pulled back, low and loose at the base of his neck. Wet curls lined his cheeks and your own. He smelled of cigarettes and spearmint, and you pulled back to get a good look at his brown eyes, wide, but not blood shot.
“I thought you were going for a smoke,” you commented. 
He flashed a canine, shrugged. “I did. Nasty habit.” 
You cocked a brow. “I thought you were going to smoke.” You reiterated, glancing around the room to ensure the other guests hadn’t caught the inflection in your voice. You were pleasantly surprised to find Nancy tucked into Will’s chest. The poor boy’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had a slaphappy smile etched over his features. Nancy rolled her eyes at you, but she was smiling too.
“I let them have all the fun,” Eddie explained, his voice a low rumble against your chest.
You smiled, allowed yourself to drape a little closer, your own hand warm in his. “Why? This is a party, after all.”
His shoulder raised in a shrug under your palm. “Guess I’m growing up.” 
You pulled back again to see the sly smile carving into his cheeks, and you both laughed again before he tucked you back under his chin. 
You were swung around for six full songs, pink vodka and Sprite splashing the dance floor, and abdomen in stitches from raucous laughter, before you groaned about sore ankles and were all but carried back to your seat. You set your drink next to your discarded purse on the tabletop and slumped into your seat, cheeks flushed and aching. You hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
“So much for keeping your top-button done,” Robin commented as you approached.
You followed her point to Eddie’s bare chest. You hadn’t realized his bolo Demon had nearly slid off, buttons undone to expose a litany of scars around a smattering of dark curls. A few faded tattoos lended to the chaos, shiny. 
“It’s freaking hot.” He excused himself, slumping into the seat beside you, that taunting jacket swaying under his weight.   
“Eddie, I didn’t know you were such a voracious dancer,” Nancy waggled her eyebrows over her own drink. 
Eddie flashed his signature grin and pointed a finger her direction. “You’re next, Wheeler. After I catch my breath.” His chest was heaving. The last number was upbeat, somewhat of a swing, and he definitely prided himself in attempting to throw you around. It was sloppy, to say the least, but fun. 
“Watch your legs, Nance,” you rubbed at a Charlie horse smarting at your calf from your heels. “He’s a kicker.” 
“I am not!” Eddie gawped, and you squealed when he reached to encircle your ankle and pull it into his lap. Surprisingly agile fingers pulled your strap from its buckle, and he slipped your shoe to the ground, relief flooding swollen toes. You rolled your ankle in his grasp, and strong hands melted the muscles of your calf, coaxing out the tight knot that resided there. 
You were a little light-headed, and the buzz of alcohol made it difficult to contain a sound of delight. You clenched to stop yourself from moaning, and hissed when your calf tightened further.
“Relax, will you?” Eddie mumbled, all tease. 
You laughed and settled your shoulders, slid further down the cool metal chair.
He released one leg and tapped the other, and you complied, trying to ignore the prickle of gooseflesh beneath his knuckles as they grazed your ankle. 
You hadn’t been pampered like this in months, not since Steve offered you an early morning favor you couldn’t refused. You felt your cheeks warm, and you licked the cherry from your bottom lip, watching the glint off Eddie’s rings with each stroke, eyes unfocused. It was definitely the alcohol talking, but you’d always felt safe in Eddie’s hands, cared for, well-looked after. 
He tilted his head to face you, curls falling around his face. He shook them out of big, brown eyes, cheeks creasing in a smile. “Better?” 
You hummed a thanks and tucked your toes back around the leg of your chair, out of his grasp. 
You watched, breathless, as his eyes raked your form, his own cheeks flushing, before he slapped his hands to his knees and huffed a breath. “Ready, Nance?”
Nancy groaned, but pushed herself to her feet, downing the rest of her cup before she allowed Eddie to drag her out onto the dance floor. You never noticed how tall he was, slender yet firm, dwarfing Nancy’s tiny frame as he took her petite hand into his, his other hand wide against her lower back. 
“Feeling better?” Robin pulled your attention. She had mischief in her eyes, and she jiggled her glass in the air between you. 
She was feeling toasty, you could tell by the rouge of her cheeks, the stained of her lips. Mike and Eleven spoke in giggles behind hands, playing Will at a game of Go-Fish with hole-punched cards he’d procured at some point. Jonathan sat beside them, stoned as all Hell, with a silly grin just beneath that God awful mustache. You felt warm, you felt at home. And for the first time in seven years, that feeling didn’t require Steve. 
You released a shy smile, unable to hide it, and lifted your glass to clink with her own. “Much. Thank you.”
The bride and groom left in a flurry of sparklers, tucked into a bright yellow van, waving their goodbyes with blown kisses and dazed looks on their faces. The guests made their exits into breath-steaming cold, and you found yourself against the frigid hood of your car, sipping a stolen Dirty Shirley with Eddie’s jacket thrown over your shoulders. Grenadine dripped from a maraschino cherry, sticky-sweet, as Eddie lifted it from your glass and popped it between plump lips. It burst between his molars, and he procured the stem from between his front teeth. 
“Can you tie it into a knot?”
His brows furrowed into the most dramatic scold you’d ever seen, and he tossed the stem to the ground between your feet. “I’m not giving away all of my secrets.” 
You warmed at the insinuation and fingered around melting ice for the second cherry, avoiding his gaze. When you grasped the stem, he elbowed your side, almost causing you to fling it from the cup. He chuckled at the indignant noise that fell from between your lips. 
“Sorry,” he grinned, and you noticed his eyes lingered on your lips when you put the cherry in your mouth. 
You both looked away, facing out at the winter night. The stars were brighter here, sky bigger. Shirley had warmed your insides, and Eddie’s jacket had warmed you out. You placed cold fingertips to the embroidered letters on the inside pocket, pretended you couldn’t feel a cursive SFH. 
“So,” Eddie mumbled, reaching into the jacket pocket at your hip. You jumped under his touch, and he procured a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, shaking it your direction. “Want a smoke?” 
You declined the offer, tossing your cherry stem into your glass while the fruit popped syrupy sweet between your teeth, soaked with the sting of vodka. 
“Alright, I’ll be right back though.” He nodded off toward the side building, courteous. Before he stepped away, though, he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck. You noticed a soft blush burning at his cheeks, the cold having already nipped his nose a soft pink. “Hey so, would you maybe want to come back to my room with me?”
You buzzed on his words, the softest he’d spoken, the smallest he seemed. You chewed on the cherry and swallowed with a smile, but before you could respond, he clarified. 
“I mean, you know because I have that fridge full of mini-bottles of alcohol and peanuts, and the room’s on Harrington’s card, so we really can’t let that go to waste.”
You hoped your face didn’t falter from the sound of his name, his ever-presence. You swallowed again, took a the final few sips of your drink, watered down, and shrugged. “Sure, Eddie.” 
“Great,” he breathed, all fog. “See you in a minute?” 
You nodded. “I’ll be here.” And he disappeared around the corner, pulling a cigarette between his lips. Maybe you should have joined him, you could have used the nicotine to calm your sudden nerves. You dumped your ice beside you, water splashing your nylons and crossed your arms over your chest, one again feeling for the soft embroidered letters. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back.
Had he been there, you might be doing the same right now, hunkered under his jacket, waiting for a quick smoke before he took you back to his room. Steve had always been warm hands and lingered kisses, flirtation, toeing the line. With Steve it was always about not getting caught, but not caring if you did. It was young and reckless, and now you were older and more responsible, and terrified of settling down. 
“Hey, babe. Will and I are tucking in for the night,” Robin approached with Will linked to her arm. He looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, pupils still slightly blown.
You raised your brows at Robin. “And Nancy?” 
Robin cracked a sly smile. Will groaned in disgust. 
“Good for her,” you snorted. 
Robin nodded, pushing Will in the direction of her car with the promise of pizza. She turned to you with an arm outstretched, ready to accept your tight hug. “Will I see you soon?” 
“I hope,” you shrugged. “Come see me for your birthday?” 
“Hawkins,” she sighed into your ear, squeezing you tight. All warm and patchouli and Robin. “But I’ll be in DC around Easter. Can we meet then?” 
You were that age, where you scheduled time with your friends, where you didn’t have fun anymore, where life had begun to slow down. You swallowed and pulled away, holding her padded shoulders at arm’s length. “Robin?” Your pulse began to quicken.
“Yeah, babe?” 
You glanced over her shoulder at a skyward billow of smoke. “I’m going back to Eddie’s room with him.” 
Her eyes widened, and you worried it might be judgement, disappointment, until her lips cracked into a grin. “Holy shit.” She laughed. 
You nodded. “Holy shit.” 
“Tell me every gory detail, please? Call me the moment you get home.”
Your heart fluttered at the idea of details, of Eddie’s rumbled voice, of cigarettes and spearmint and cherry. Your ankles wobbled and Robin caught you with a laugh.
“You good to drive?”
Eddie was. You didn’t think you saw him drink anything after the beer. He toasted with water.
You tightened the jacket around yourself, thumbing at the letters on the inside pocket. “Robin, do you think…” You weren’t even sure what you were asking. “I mean, they’re roommates.” You huffed, gesturing off in Eddie’s direction. 
Robin rolled her eyes, gave your wrists a tight squeeze. “The three of you are consenting adults,” her voice rasped with exhaustion, the end of a great night. “You asked Steve to come, and he didn’t. That’s on him.”
You felt your cheeks warm. Steve really did tell her everything. 
“Tell me something.”
You hummed, glancing over her shoulder at Eddie’s approaching frame.
“Do you want to marry Steve?” 
That familiar panic clawed at your chest, and you staggered further into her, the mountain air creating static cling between your nylons and the chiffon of your skirt. It had been a question you’d been asking yourself over and over again for months now, a question that provided you with nothing but hurt, confusion, a question for people your age. 
You grit your teeth, stood up straight, shook your head. “No. At least, not right now.” 
She smiled at that, another sweet, unexpected smile, one bathed in mischief. “Good. It’s important to have fun while you’re still young.” 
Eddie lead you into his room in a flurry of apologies, lifting an explosion of clothes off various pieces of furniture to shove into his suitcase. The room was large, too opulent for Eddie’s taste, with pastel wallpaper and a balcony overlooking snow-topped mountains. Or, you’d assumed it would in daylight. Currently, honeyed street lamps glowed at gauzy curtains, the city was pitch black beyond and below.
The thing that struck you the most was the double beds, one pristine and pressed, the other haphazardly shoved together, a crease where Eddie’s body had lain the night before. Steve had booked the room for two. You wondered how long ago, and at what point he changed his mind. 
“Ta-da,” Eddie gestured to the open space before giving the grand tour. “Bathroom,” all peach marble and gold fixtures. “Television, with pay-per-view.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And… snacks.” He swung open the door to the mini fridge and reached in to pull out a few mini bottles of vodka. They clinked against his silver rings. 
Anxiety bubbled in you, that familiar precipice of a storm. It tingled in your fingertips, thundered your heartbeat in your ears. It was electric like static shock clinging to your nylons. You took a few uneasy steps forward, coughed a laugh. 
Eddie tossed the liquor bottles to the unmade bed and tugged at the Demon medallion around his neck. It was barely on by now, scooped neck of a white tank top visible low on his chest. Eddie was rough around the edges, sticky, stretched like taffy over wiry limbs. He moved with umph, a cartoon character. He pulled his bolo tie over his head and deposited it to the bedside table nearest a phone, a lamp, a pad of paper with the hotel’s logo. 
“Good for Nancy and Jonathan, huh?” He commented, stirring your attention back to the present, back to the fun evening you had, removing the pressure of it all. 
You laughed, tossed your clutch to a side table, leaned against a wall to unbuckle shoes and release your aching toes. “I know, right? She needed it.”
“Did you know they hooked up over Thanksgiving?” Eddie offered like a secret, rolling his sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way. The tank top beneath clung to bits of him that sweat through, see-through, exposing bits of purpled flesh, like Steve’s.
You sucked in your cheeks and wiggled your toes against the carpet, strode to the mini fridge to find a bag of M&Ms. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ll here about tonight for the next three months.” You shook the bag his direction, and when he held his hands out to catch it, you tossed and grabbed yourself another bag. 
“What? You don’t think they’ll be together forever after this?” Eddie snickered, tearing open his bag from the center. The plastic split and a few candy-coated chocolates pelted the carpet, but he kicked them under the unmade bed and threw himself onto it with all of the flair for dramatics he was famous for. The comforter sighed under him.
You snorted, shrugged, tore open the corner of your own bag, and crawled to rest against the headboard beside him. You popped a green one into your mouth, and a brown. They tasted a bit stale, and odd refrigerated, but the crunch between your teeth was satisfying enough.
“Hey, so,” Eddie pulled himself upward and shifted onto his side to face you, all long limbs and chocolate breath, and you turned to catch watchful brown eyes. “I know I’m a thousand percent going to regret asking this,” he licked the corner of his plump, pink lips. “But what exactly happened in Louisville?” 
You nearly choked. Eddie laughed as you sputtered, and he darted from his spot with an apology on his lips to pull a sealed plastic water bottle from the fridge. You laughed with him, tears forming at your eyes while you twisted the cap off and sat up for a drink and a gasp of fresh air. 
“That bad, huh?” He settled beside you again, his surprisingly weight teetering you on your side. 
“Steve didn’t tell you?” You sipped, licked chocolate from your teeth. 
Eddie’s eyes were soft, innocent, head tilted to yours as he shook the curls from his eyelashes. “He didn’t say much, just came back grumpier than usual. Robin yelled at him the other day because every time we mention you, he gets all… weird. Quiet. Obnoxious.” His lips split in a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He was concerned, concerned for his friend, for you too.
You took a deep breath, acknowledged the idea of a sullen Steve, moping around at your expense. You thought back to that blessed weekend, boring conference room meetings anxiously awaiting 5 o’clock when you could stumble back into a hotel room, not unlike this one, unzipping your dress and soaking in Steve Harrington’s all-encompassing affection. All weekend, he had been soft words and sweet sounds and roaming hands, until the end.
And then you fought. God, you’d never fought anyone like that. 
“Steve asked me to marry him.” 
It was Eddie’s turn to choke. “I’m sorry?” 
You shrugged, tugged at a run in the chiffon of your pleated skirt. “Well, he more told me to marry him than asked. There wasn’t a ring or anything.” You groaned and slammed your head back into the padded headboard. “He wanted to try long distance, and when I said no, he told me to marry him, told me to move to Hawkins, promised to take care of me. And Jesus, Eddie, no offense to Hawkins or its residence, but you know I can’t do that. I mean, after the Earthquake? After all that happened?” You were rambling, but you hadn’t talked about it. Not since you spewed to Nancy, and that was months ago.
“No, I get it,” Eddie sighed, tugging his hair tie from his end to run his fingers through scraggly hair. “I’m only there for Wayne, and half the time, I think he’s staying for me. Hawkins is like a black hole.” 
“Exactly!” You poured a few more M&Ms into your hand and ate them one-by-one. “And like, I obviously like Steve. I mean, he was my first kiss, my prom date. We have history, you know? I think that’s why I know him so well.”
Eddie hummed in response, settled back down beside you, shoulder to shoulder. He tossed a candy, missed his mouth. It settled somewhere between you. 
“Steve needs the nuclear family. He needs a stay-at-home wife and six kids, a golden retriever out back.” You mused. You almost hated that you saw yourself in the role, could see yourself melding perfectly into it, had been imagining it for months and months. 
Eddie just let you speak, continued to shuffle chocolate into his hand and down it. 
You elbowed him. “What, no input here?” 
He crunched a few bites, mouth full, and shrugged. He pulled your water bottle from your hand to chase the chocolate coating his mouth, and took a minute to compose his thoughts before he said. “Can I be totally honest with you?”
“Please,” you nodded, tilting yourself to face him. 
He glanced your direction for a split second, but looked outward, gesturing to the room, to his invisible audience. “I mean, I obviously want you both to be happy. He’s one of my best friends. We share a toilet, for Christ’s sake.” 
You chuckled at the visual.
The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile, and he glanced back at you again. You watched his Adam’s apple bob. “But uh… I’m feeling really selfish tonight.” 
You felt it again at his words, that buzz of electricity to your fingertips. “Yeah?” Was all you could manage. 
“Yeah,” he nodded, looked away, gestured out to the neatly pressed bed to your right. “I mean, he’s not here. He could have fought for you, and he chose to be a coward and stay home, and I feel like kind of a dick because I’m just so grateful I finally have you to myself.” 
You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest before he turned to face you again, his eyes big and brown and watching you watch him. 
“Because honestly? It’s been killing me to fight for your attention when Harrington’s around. I mean, I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you offered to tutor me sophomore year.”
You licked the crease between your lips, saw it catch his gaze, watched him do the same. A shiver slipped down your spine. “You could try now. If you want.” 
A soft sound spilled from his mouth, and his brows furrowed neatly. “Are you sure?” 
You smiled, leaned back against the headboard, and whispered, “Kiss me, Eddie.” 
His lips were soft, pillowy, all-encompassing. He overtook your space, crowded you with a cascade of curls and a firm hand to the headboard above your head, his other grazing your ribcage, and you leaned into the taste of chocolate and spearmint. He was gentle, timid, a stark polar opposite from the dramatic flair of the man you’d grown accustomed to, a facade, perhaps. 
His nose nuzzled your own, and your cheek, and you breathed a warm smile to his temple when his lips found the hollow at your ear. “Can I?” He whispered, and you muttered an allowance before feeling warm, soft kisses down the plane of your throat to the dips of your clavicle. 
You pushed at his shoulders, unraveling the collar of his shirt until he was pulling away to yank folded sleeves down his forearms. His lean frame was sinew and faded ink and a smattering of scars that matched a few of your own.
He pulled his tank over his head next, not one to waste time, and you trailed your fingers along tight flesh from ribcage to hipbones, leaving a trail of goosebumps along pale skin. With a groan, he dipped back to capture your lips in a kiss again. You heard the scatter of M&Ms across the side table, felt the shift of the bed as he gripped your hips and pulled you downward until your head rested on a cotton pillowcase. 
“I meant it when I told you you were beautiful,” he muttered to your lips, hands ghosting your thighs as he made for the waist band of your nylons beneath your dress. 
You felt self-conscious about the creases left to your skin there, but nimble fingers rolled the thin material down past your knees, and you watched it waft to the floor. Firm hands quickly replaced it, kneading at aching leg muscles, pinching the meat of your thighs between ringed fingers. You moaned into an open mouth. 
“You deserve to be worshipped.” He sighed into your shoulder.
He was right. You deserved to have fun, to enjoy your friend’s wedding, to party, to live a little. You deserved to not worry about the ever-present stress of adulthood. You deserved to sink into a cushy mattress and clutch curls as a man buried his face into you, as a man praised you, as a man pleased you. 
You held chiffon pleats to your thighs, wished you’d shaved, felt pillowy lips to the crux of your hips, tried not to compare calloused hands to smooth ones. You saw stars, eyes and jaw slammed shut, and tried not to compare a round-tipped nose to a flat one. You allowed Eddie to kiss you, lips tacky, breath hot, and tried not to compare sweet sounds to filthy ones. 
Eddie was all lips, where Steve was all hands. Eddie was strong shoulders, nimble fingers, and Steve was rhythm and hips and thighs. Eddie was whispered truths and damp and sticky sweet, and Steve was furrowed brow and grit teeth, determined. Eddie let you pin him, hair splayed across a creased pillowcase, your small hands pressed to the faded ink on his chest, tracing lines with manicured fingertips. Steve would have pinned you wrists over your head. 
“Can I hold you?” Eddie asked, when you were all spent and sweating and breathless, curls stuck to his temples, eyelids heavy.
You sunk into spindly arms, your legs tangled but spread wide across an uneven bedspread. You dress has been discarded beneath the side table. The soft lamplight accentuated the shadows, a honeyed glow pooling in from the patio beyond. 
Something heavy rattled in you, guilt perhaps, and you released a shaky breath. 
“Need a smoke?” Eddie breathed into your neck, that warm chuckle, friendly, like he understood, that safe space to bring you back to Earth. 
You tucked his hand tighter into your ribcage beneath your breasts, a buoy tying you to the reality of the day, of your life, to the consequences of your actions. 
You fell asleep to the low, rumbling hum of Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling In Love. 
---
A/N: This has been floating around my head for ages, and for some reason, it chose this week to finally come out, and it's so vastly different from what I had planned. Listen, I'm a Steve girl, trust me. I know it may not seem like it, but I'm really, really a Steve girl. But Eddie's just so... I just love him sometimes, okay?
Also I just really felt like this was so about the friendship between them all. If you can't tell, I think I'm in love with Robin and Nancy. Let me know what you think. Love you forever and ever. xo Amanda
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prescottsgirl · 6 months
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SHE’S SO SOFT LIKE SILK CHIFFON
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sidney prescott x tatum riley
summary: emotions are high after an eventual night. tatum and sidney can’t keep their feelings contained anymore at their sleepover. they can’t keep their hands to themselves either.
warnings: none
note: my first tatney/satum fic!! also title is inspired by silk chiffon by muna bc duh
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Tatum lightly bobs her head to the soft melody playing and Sidney looks over at the poster on the wall of a shirtless actor. She thinks; she doesn't want to kiss that man as much as she does Tatum. She should feel attracted to that, but the only ounce of attention that picture gets is when Tatum makes her flustered and she has to look at anything else besides her.
She thinks about what it would feel like to kiss Tatum. To think about soft blonde hair, and soft skin, and kissing her best friend. She wants to do each others makeup, and giggle at movies, and paint each others nails, but she also really wants to kiss Tatum.
She notices all the little things about Tatum, and she falls further in love with her. How she wears shirts that barely cover her stomach and she loves to show off her legs with little skirts. But when it was just her and Sidney, she always wore childish pajamas and cuddled with her stuffed animals. Sidney got to see all of her. Not just the Tatum that the boys want to see.
"I think you're going to drill a hole through my wall if you stare at that picture any longer," Tatum says boldly. Sidney turns her head and looks shocked at the fact that Tatum was still even there. She realizes that she was staring right at her.
"What?"
Tatum rolls her eyes at her, but she doesn't do it with malice. "Okay, what's going on?"
"Nothing," Sidney shakes her head, but she continues on talking, "I just— do you think something’s...wrong with me?"
"What?" Tatum now says. She looks offended that her best friend would ever say something negative about herself. "This is going to sound bias but absolutely not. Why? Did grease-ball-Billy say something to you?"
"No," Sidney sharply replies. She broke up with Billy a few weeks ago. She wasn't attracted to him and she didn't think it was fair to continue the relationship. He, still, continues to try and change her mind. "I just— why don't I like Billy? You always tell me how he's so perfect and all the girls love him..."
Tatum sighs and moves over to the other bed that she bought specifically for Sidney when she sleeps over. Somehow they always end up in one bed by the morning. She sits cross cross and is directly facing her best friend. Sidney can smell Tatum's strawberry shampoo from where she sitting, and she can already feel herself falling into a hazy trance.
"So what? You're not attracted to Billy. There are so much better men out there." Tatum says it like it's not big deal, but Sidney's heart sinks and she feels the walls closing in on her.
Tatum notices that Sid's not content with her response. There's something deeper that's bugging her. "You don't need a boyfriend anyways. You have your best friend." Tatum nudges Sidney's shoulder and she only slightly smiles. Right. Her Best friend. That seems to be the problem.
"It's just that every time Billy touches me I just want to be small and run away. But everytime you even hug me I feel safe and it's comforting." Tatum's eyebrows raise at her best friends confession. Sidney doesn't even process what had been said until she sees Tatum's reaction. "Oh. I didn't mean it like—"
"It's fine," Tatum says. She doesn't want Sidney to work herself up, she doesn't want Sidney to stop talking either. "Keep talking."
Sidney was always very smart, but Tatum knew more about love and relationships than her. She was never interested and always had to pretend that she wasn't staring at the women in a romcom when Tatum would make her watch them.
"I know you're my best friend. It's supposed to feel this way."
"What way?" Tatum pushes, because they'll get nowhere if she doesn't. Sidney is good at doubting herself and falling back on her feelings.
"Like...jealous when Stu holds your waist or kisses you," Sidney admits, and her cheeks burn a bright shade of red because deep down she knows that that's not what best friends are supposed to feel. And deep down she knows that she wants to be able to kiss her the way Stu does.
Tatum reaches out and holds onto Sidney's waist. It's awkward because they're sitting down, but Sidney can only focus on the feeling of gentle fingertips on her body. Every time Billy tries to hold her like that, she squirms away. He's too aggressive with it and his fingers poke too hard into her skin. 
"Like this?" Tatum asks, referring to what makes Sidney so jealous.
"Mhm." Sidney's voice is weak and fragile, and if they weren't sitting so close then Tatum wouldn't have even heard her.
"I hate when Billy would touch you like this," she moves her hand down to Sidney's thigh. Closer to her knee than anything because she respects her best friend.
Tatum watches a lump go down Sidney's throat as she swallows down her anxiety. "You got jealous of us too?"
"Mhm," Tatum now says, sounding more sensual than Sidney did. "Made me so mad. Wanna know why?" All Sidney can do now is nod. She really, really, wants to know why, but she forgot how to even speak.
"Because I wanted to do that to you." Tatum whispers it, and they're so close that Sidney actually hears it. She can feel her best friends breath against her face and it makes her shiver. But she's not even cold. Why does she feel this way?
"Well...you— you finally got to," Sidney says and nervously chuckles. She feels like she ruined that moment but Tatum doesn't bat an eye.
"Maybe you should kiss me. So I can get the real idea."
Sidney doesn't even move. She doesn't even know how to do this. She's been in a romantic relationship but this is with Tatum. Her best friend, another woman, someone who actually makes her heart beat faster than it should.
"I don't know how..." Sidney trails off and hopes that her best friend comes to an understanding of her resistance. She wants to kiss Tatum so bad that it's actually dizzying, but she doesn't want to ruin it.
"Kiss me like you kiss Billy."
Sidney feels a boost of confidence with this. Tatum wants her to kiss her. She just wonders if Tatum wants it in the same way she does. She couldn't possibly...right?
Sidney puts her hand on Tatum's jaw so she doesn’t move. And it takes her a minute to actually put her lips on Tatum's. Her skin is just so fucking soft under her fingertips.
She finally moves her face closer. Her lips taste sweet like the cherry lollipops that she always sucks on. And then Sidney can't stop thinking about that goddamn lollipop and the way that her favorite blonde stares her down as she licks it. Suddenly, everything starts to piece together and make sense.
And she doesn't kiss Tatum like she kisses Billy. She kisses her likes she really wants it, like she needs it. That not how she kisses him.
The kiss doesn't last long, but neither of them seem to move more than a couple centimeters away from each other. They stare back at one another like they've witnessed the collapse and creation of the world.
Sidney doesn't know where to go from here. She liked it more than she thought she would.
"Do you feel something right here," Tatum pokes Sidney's stomach as she speaks, "that you don't feel when you kiss Billy?"
Sidney doesn't even want to answer that, because she can hardly even admit to it in the safety of her own head. Her face is a deeper shade of red now and Tatum's bright light is only accentuating that. That itself answers Tatum's question.
All Sidney does is nod and she doesn't understand why she feels the need to cry at this confession. She doesn't though. She just bites her tongue because crying right now would just be embarrassing.
"Me too." Sidney feels a little better at Tatum's same confession. If only it weren't for the nagging anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't supposed to like this. Her dad probably wouldn't approve and the entire school would be even more disgusted with her than they all already are. "I'm really into you, Sid."
But, suddenly, she doesn't care what anyone else thinks. All that matters is the fact that she just kissed her best friend and liked it. All that matters is that Tatum Riley just admitted to the same feelings Sidney has.
Sidney leans forward and presses her lips against Tatum's again. It's enough to show her that her feelings are certainly reciprocated.
Before Sidney knows it, she's being pushed back on the bed and Tatum's on-top, straddling her. Tatum's never moves her lips away from Sidney's. She can't get enough of the sweet taste of her best friend.
Tatum's blonde hair tickles Sidney's face and her body pressed against her makes her feel warm. But all she can think about is the way Tatum's tongue glides across her bottom lip, or even the way that her breasts press again her body. She thinks she's going to melt in this warmth.
Tatum's the one to pull back. She looks for any sign of discomfort on Sidney's face, but she can't seem to find it. She wants to keep kissing her, making her feel alive, but she can see her best friend is struggling to keep her heavy eyes open.
Maybe they should both sleep now. Maybe they should sleep and clear their heads.
Sidney holds Tatum by the back of her neck and tries to bring her in for more but she doesn't reciprocate it. She worries for a moment that she went too far, but Sidney quickly pushes back those thoughts as Tatum speaks. "You're so tired," she says. And it's the simplest thing in the world. They just made out, they just confessed their feelings, but Sidney's tired and she needs to sleep.
"I know but I wanna kiss you," her words are almost slurred. She's so drunk on Tatum. She needs to make up for all those years that she didn't kiss her best friend.
Tatum plops herself beside Sidney on the bed and before the young brunette can cuddle closer, she's being pulled on top of Tatum by her waist. She didn't know Tatum was that strong. Maybe she's just too sleepy.
She lays her head down on Tatum chest and the blonde girls arm wraps around Sidney's body. She feels so safe here. She hasn't felt so safe and comfortable since her mother died. But nobody can hurt her in Tatum's arms. She can rest. Finally, she can rest without being so afraid.
Tatum could stay up all night to make Sidney feel good, but Sidney was always had a schedule with herself. She would never be able to get up for school if she didn't go to bed. And Tatum cares more about Sidney's needs and wants than her own.
"Goodnight, Sid," Tatum says, and continues in a whisper, "I love you."
She's said it before. Of course she has. She loves her best friend. But now she loves her...girlfriend? Is that what she is now?
Sidney eyes quickly start closing in the comfort of her lovers arms until she's fully asleep. Tatum just watches with a gentle smile on her face. Watches the way her long dark eyelashes flutter, watches the way that her teeth show through the small gap of her parted lips.
She too eventually drifts off.
-
Sidney always thinks of Tatum as the sun goes down, and now it rises with her in Tatum's arms. It's a full circle, she's think. She's so glad that circles are never ending.
When Sidney wakes up, she's still in Tatum's arms, and the girl is still sleeping. She knows there's school today, and she's a good girl; she gets good grades and doesn't miss any days of school. But was the feeling of academic success better than this? She'd rather lay here in Tatum's warm arms than sit on a cold hard chair all day. So she simply doesn't wake her up.
Sidney tries to hold in a giggle at the way that Tatum's nose scrunches in her sleep as stray frizzy hair tickles her nose. She bites down on her lip, hardly realizing that she's nearly drawing blood. Her finger lightly trace the outline of the young blondes pale jawline.
She wants to lean down and replace her fingers with her lips, but her desires are interrupted by Tatum's eyes fluttering open. Her dark eyes were flaked with gold and Sidney seemed to be mesmerized by it. It suddenly didn't matter that they had this confusing affair going on. All that mattered was the way Tatum looked at Sidney like the sky rose and fell with her.
"Good morning," Tatum says it first, because she could see how lost Sidney looked.
Neither of them make an effort to move out of each others arms. It was then that they realized that they didn’t need to just sleep whatever happened last night off. They truly wanted what they gave each other.
"Mornin," Sidney responds and Tatum can hardly understand her when the brunette slurs her words with the way her mouth moves again hers.
Tatum's taken back but the sudden confidence in her lover. Her cheeks shine a bright shade of pink in the morning sunlight that peaks through the crack of her sheer curtains. She focuses on how noticeable Sidney's freckles are in the morning light, and the way that her lips are still plump from the kiss. She thinks she can get used to waking up like this.
"We gotta get dressed. Sorry for not waking you." Sidney’s not truly sorry. She knows Tatum shows up late to school most of the time and that she’d rather stay here in bed with her anyways.
Sidney attempts to get up, but Tatum grabs her arm and keeps her in place. There’s something in the way that Tatum grabs her that isn’t so greedy and aggressive. Her heart doesn’t sink when she’s pulled back. She doesn’t wonder if that hand around her arm is going to squeeze too tight until she just explodes. Tatum’s gentle, and her fingertips softly brush against Sidney’s arms while she holds it.
“Not so fast,” Tatum speaks to her in a quiet, tired manner. Her eyes are still foggy with sleep, and her brain is still in a dreamlike state. Maybe it’s just Sidney. Maybe she feels like she’s in a dream because she’s curled up in bed with Sid.
“We’re gonna be late—” Her words are cut off by the soft press of Tatum’s lips shutting her up. She sighs into it. A gentle, content sigh. And suddenly nothing else in the world matters too much.
“Okay now we can get dressed,” Tatum says, and gets up, but it takes Sidney a moment to process it.
-
Tatum sits at her vanity while she finishes up her makeup and begins doing her hair. Sidney’s stands in the background of Tatum’s mirror while she throws her clothes on. The young blonde tries so hard not to be distracted by Sidney’s lacy white bra on her body, or the soft pale skin of her stomach. She tries so hard to focus on her hair.
She gets frustrated as she tries to run a brush through her hair though. It's so frizzy and tangled and the more she brushes it, the puffier it gets. Tatum loves fashion and makeup, but as soon as she has to do her hair, it's a lost cause.
Sidney notices Tatum's struggle and walks over to her. She stands behind her and looks at her through the vanity mirror. "Stop fussing. Do you want me to do two braids for you?" Sidney talks so gentle and all of Tatum's anger flutters away. She picks up her brush before she even gets a response because she can't stand seeing Tatum so frustrated.
"Yeah. Thanks."
Tatum's picky with who touches her hair. In middle school, she was so stubborn that she wouldn't even let her own mother help her brush and style it. She would wait until she got to school to let Sidney do it for her. Sidney was always better at doing hair than she was and it never hurt when she brushes through all the knots for her.
She watched Sidney through the mirror the entire time that her hands work on her hair. Her eyes almost flutter closed as she has her blonde strands brushed through but she's too entranced by Sidney.
When she's done with her task, she looks at the braided hairstyle in the mirror. Instead, she meets Tatum's eyes, locking with hers. It's makes both of their cheeks burn a bright shade of red. Tatum doesn't get embarrassed that often, but this had caught her off guard.
Sidney finally clears her throat and lightly smiles. "All done. Ya like?"
"Love it, Sid. Thank you." They both pretend like it didn't happen. But then Tatum decides to stand up and kiss Sidney's pink cheek. She thinks it adorable how Tatum has to stand on her tippy toes to kiss her, especially with Sidney having a small heel on her boot.
Sidney turns her head to the side so she can properly kiss Tatum this time. Both girls are flustering messes at this point, but neither of them can stop.
"We should go have breakfast before we're late." Sidney says, somehow having Tatum's confidence rubbed off onto her now.
"Breakfast. Right. C'mon."
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