#She's not bereft of romance

[ceruleanbender]

Perfect Date

After a nice dinner, fingers loosely intertwined, walking over the beach, the full moon is set high, the moonlight is shining bright, the mood is set, and she's finally taking the initiative, a kiss planted on another pair of lips. 

She's grateful for the date. 

#A girl can dream right? #She's not bereft of romance #Musing

[dullahandyke]

rlly disappointing that life (reprise) isnt on the soundtrack bcos i might actually like it a little bit more than the original. you are that someone you are my chance at having life lead me by the hands you are the one the moment i've been waiting for and i'm gonna hold on and not think twice i'll stay with you no matter the price february i am ready for a brand new day so take me away

#it rlly codifies bug's relationship w february in a way that the musical doesnt rlly end up resolving? #like. bug does Not like her romantically. he likes her bcos of what she represents (escape and community) #he loves her bcos shes something different bcos she introduced him to the starship rangers #and we never actually see him express any romantic feelings for her that arent tangled up in #1. she is my escape and i owe it all to her #2. hope she doesnt find out im an insect #3. she is the perfect example of a human and starship ranger which captivates me #< and like while tootsie and megagirl are having their romantic thing in the way i do #bug and february's side is completely bereft of actual romance in favour of highlighting bug's fears of being found out #so at the end when she accepts him as a bug it feels like hes more relieved that hes not being reject than relieved that they can date agai #+ his whole marked lack of interest in bugette but yknow #holds up bug. the transgender asexual

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | viii.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The rest of the morning flies by in a befuddling blur. Coriolanus takes you to the heart of the Capitol’s busiest street to have breakfast in a fancy tea house, one you’ve never set foot in before. For a while you ogle every item on the menu, brows furrowing at the prices. 

Coriolanus smiles at your expression.

“It’s my treat, angel,” he assures you.

The scent of fresh coffee and food hangs in the air. 

Your eyes roam about. Colorful flowers decorate the door frames. Mouth-watering pastries are exposed behind the glass under the front desk. The waitress comes over. She is nice. Her red curls bounce above her shoulders as she raves about the menu for the day. It’s clear the blond is a regular here.

He orders for you as you can’t bring yourself to decide, even after perusing the dizzying list of choices. You offer no resistance, glad to be relieved of your predicament. None of the dishes described particularly excite you. You’d rather let him pick. After all, he’s familiar with the place and you’re not.

He pays the waitress a compliment in that smooth, easy way of his and her cheeks glow pink as she tucks a strand of her behind her ear. It’s clear even the sweet waitress isn’t immune to his boyish charm.

Food is brought to the table and you stare at your plate for a while.

Your stomach stirs but you’re bereft of appetite. You’re distracted, the events of the night before still whirling through your brain in a hazy succession. Coriolanus’ soft reassurances collide with your unease. You fuss with your syrup-coated toast and strawberries, slicing little pieces you set aside but don’t touch. 

“You don’t like it?”

His deep voice startles you. You’re yanked from your numb haze, your head snapping up. A concerned frown mars his brow.

“What?”

“You’re not eating, angel.” He glances at your plate. The whipped cream has long since melted, forming a snowy pool around the strawberries and toast. “I can have it sent back if you want.”

Bristling, you shake your head. You’ve never been too fond of wasting food. While it’s a luxury the elite allow themselves since the rebellion was quelled, those horrid days of despair and rationing have never parted from your mind. Just a decade ago, gaunt children roamed the streets begging for scraps.

“No, I’ll eat.” You shove a forkful in your mouth, forcing your expression to be more cheerful. 

He admires you, a subtle smile tugging his lips. His gaze does not waver until you finish your plate. Your skin prickles beneath the sharpness of his scrutiny. Despite the tightness of your stomach, you force each bite down your throat. A thought appears to cross his mind, his head slanting.

He reaches over the table to cup your cheek. 

“You look beautiful when the sun hits you like that,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. Your heart skips a beat. 

You duck your head, mumbling below your breath, “I…thank you.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you fidget in your seat. 

It sounds exactly like a line from the romance books you cherish. The kind that would have the girl melt. The same way you’re melting now.

You lift bashful eyes to Coriolanus as he fondles the side of your face. 

After breakfast, he drags you along a path you don’t know. You trail behind him, hesitant when the front of a clothing boutique comes into view. He tries to pull you inside but you plant your feet into the concrete ground. 

He casts you a puzzled look. Anxiously chewing on your lip, you explain, 

“Coriolanus…my monthly allowance is only for school supplies and food. It’s barely enough for me and Walter to eat.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re overfeeding that cat,” he jests.

“Well, he doesn’t like it whenever I try to give him less,” you say with a shrug. 

His lips quirk upward.

“You really don’t know how to say ‘no’ to anything, do you, angel?”

Your gaze finds the floor.

He lifts your chin, his mesmerizing gaze drawing yours like a magnet.

“What’s the harm in looking?” he inquires. “You could still try on some dresses. You don’t even have to purchase anything.”

Your feet contort as your brows draw together.

“I don’t know. I probably should be home by now anyway.”

You can’t afford to fall behind. A mountain of studying awaits you at home. Between Saturday with Clemensia and the girls, the party and now…this is the longest you’ve gone without going over your notes. 

His expression dims, his fingers loosening around yours. You find yourself almost missing the contact, the warm, gentle pressure you’ve slowly grown familiar with. 

“Well, I suppose I could take you back home if you really wanted. I was just looking forward to us spending the day together.”

Your insides twist as you take in the glimmer of disappointment in his eyes. The thought of letting Coriolanus down makes your stomach ache. He’s gone through so much trouble to be nice and make you a part of his friend group. He’s spending time with you even if he’s always so busy.

“I guess there’s no harm in looking,” you belatedly relent. 

He beams at you. 

You let Coriolanus escort you inside. The high ceilings and gold accents of the place make your mind spin. 

He goes through every rack in the shop, running a critical eye over every garment that catches his attention. The saleswoman makes suggestions at his side, informing him of the current trends and which colors would compliment your complexion the best. You don’t utter a word. Their conversation fades as your focus bounces around the boutique. The feminine flair of the clothes you flip through are a sharp contrast to the contents of your wardrobe. 

You don’t see a single piece of you reflected here. You feel like an alien as you drag your feet across the soft carpeting. 

Rare items appeal to your scarce fashion sense but when you show them to him, Coriolanus hums his disapproval. 

“I know more about these things, angel. Trust me,” he whispers, his thumb caressing the back of your hand before he disposes of all your choices

You deflate but don’t argue. You’re only here to window-shop anyways, at his behest at that. It’s not like you’re craving new clothes. Or even need them. Still, a pang of regret lingers as the saleswoman strolls away with every piece of clothing that caught your eye. 

Once Coriolanus is done with his selection, you head to the fitting room.

You end up trying a bunch of dresses while he watches you. His intense gaze is glued to your frame as you pose and walk across the room per his demands. Every outfit draws a slightly different reaction from him, ranging from appreciative hum to skeptical groan. One in particular has his lips stretching in a wide smile. He beckons you to come to him with two of his fingers. You take shaky steps forward.

“I really like that one,” he says, hands rubbing up and down your waist. 

You fidget awkwardly.

“It’s not really my style.”

He cocks his head.

“How can you say that when you don’t have a style yet?”

You gape at him. Clemmie said similar words to you. But he gives you no time to ponder on that, grabbing your hand to make you twirl.

“I think you look very pretty in it, angel.” He leans closer to mutter in your ear. “In fact…I’m getting hard just watching you prance around in it.” To emphasize his lewd admission, he wiggles his hips against yours. The thick protrusion inside his pants carves a sizzling dent into your belly. Your breath snags, heat rushing to your face. You gawk at him, bewildered by his boldness. The saleswoman could walk in at any time. But this seems to be the last of his concerns, his blue eyes alight with lust as he drinks you in. 

“I-I should go change,” you mumble. 

When you try to shuffle away, Coriolanus’ hands tighten around your waist. Your chest grazes his as he murmurs, his deep voice riddled with desire, “You’re really gonna leave me like this, angel?” His half-lidded gaze drops to the bulge in his pants before landing on your face. “It won’t come down on its own.”

At a loss for words, a weak apology trickles through your lips. 

“S-Sorry.”

His rich chuckle penetrates through your skin.

“No need to apologize.” He angles up your chin, mischief dancing in his eyes. “How about you help me…take care of it?”

Shock rounds your gaze. “I-I don’t know,” you stammer, your skin growing hot all over.

“Come on, angel. It’s the least you could do for making me like this.”

Your mouth opens but before any word can pour from it, the blond’s lips slot over yours. His hand sweeps over your back until he finds the swell of your behind. He gives your ass a firm squeeze. You squeal against his mouth. His tongue slips between your lips. Eager digits relentlessly wander over your curves as he explores your mouth. 

He nudges you inside one of the fitting cabins, drawing the velvet curtain to hide the two of you from sight. When your hands push at his chest, his fingers clasp around your wrists, shoving them against the cushioned wall of the cabin.

“Coryo, please…Not here,” you implore. 

“We’ll just be quiet,” he insists while reaching under your dress. He gropes you as you squirm. A triumphant smile blooms on his lips when he finds the waistband of your panties. He’s impatient, swiftly dragging the pesky material down your thighs until it pools limply at your ankles. He makes quick work of his pants’ buttons, freeing his hard cock with hurried motions. While holding your hands above your head, he grabs his length and guides it to your entrance. “I’ll be quick, I promise. You’ll barely feel it.” He buries himself inside you to the brim. You keen sharply, your eyes flying open.

You definitely feel it. Feel him. His large girth tearing you apart, warring to fit between your tight walls. 

Coriolanus begins to fuck you at a steady peace. His cock splits you apart, dragging torturously against your sensitive walls. Fog forms on the nearby mirror as heat swells in the cabin. 

Your mind spirals. Your thoughts become white noise. White dots flicker in your sight every time he thrusts inside you.

A little whimper spills from your throat.

“You gotta be quiet for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, teeth nipping at your throat. His hand covers your mouth, stifling the helpless sounds you produce. His other hand grips under your thigh, the only thing keeping you upright as you sag against the wall.

He swallows his own moan, teeth sinking in his plump bottom lip when your walls squeeze his cock. After a few deep, languid thrusts, he goes still against you. He nuzzles the crook of your neck, thumb stroking your thigh. His cock twitches between your walls. He plays with your swollen clit, dragging wet, sloppy circles and pressing until you come apart too. A wave of heat crashes over you. Your walls flutter, milking his cock as he spills inside you.

Coriolanus unleashes a muffled groan against your shoulder. His eyes roll back as he finds his release. He takes a deep breath before letting you go. 

He steps back and fixes the stray blonde lock hanging over his forehead. He buttons back his pants as you slump against the wall, struggling to catch your breath. He pulls a pristine white square from his breast pocket and approaches you. Gingerly, he wipes the milky rivulets leaking from your spasming core and sliding along your trembling thighs. 

He does it until no trace of what he’s done is left. Except your shame, and a vague sense of pain and discomfort. 

He drops a quick peck on your cheek.

“Pull yourself together, angel. I’ll wait for you outside.”

You give a feeble nod. A great emptiness fills you as you watch him disappear behind the velvet curtain. 

The second he’s gone, you sink to the floor. You take a few minutes to bask  in how numb you feel, how sore and spent. Slowly, even breaths return to you. Hands shaking, you pick up your underwear and gather the clothes you came in with from the hooks on the opposite wall. 

You fumble with your clothes as you get dressed, your clammy hands catching into the material. Your chest burns with a feeling, one that sears through your bones and drops in your gut like a hot stone. One you can’t give a proper shape or name to. You just know you’re a bit nauseous and eager to go home. 

You unleash a drawn out exhale as you step out of the cabin. You arrange your messy hair in the floor length mirror nearby. The sight that greets you is doleful. Your chest seizes as you note the darkening bruises over your neck, where Coriolanus scattered rough bites and kisses. A burst of warmth invades your face. You pinch your cheeks and force a benign smile onto your lips. 

When you leave the fitting room, you're flabbergasted to see every single dress he insisted you try piled up on the front desk. Your eyes collide with the saleswoman’s. She takes a fleeting look at you before lowering her head. Embarrassment floods your insides as you realize she must have heard you and Coriolanus. 

Fleeing her gaze, you clear your throat and whirl to him. 

“Coriolanus. What are you doing?”

The saleswoman places all the items in boxes and bags, pointedly avoiding looking at both you and Coriolanus.

A disarming smile unfurls on his lips.

“Like I said today’s my treat, angel.”

“But…”

He approaches you, cupping your cheek. 

“It’s a gift. Am I not allowed to spoil my sweet girl?”

Stumped, you stare at him. His thumb skims over your lips. 

“How about ‘thank you, Coriolanus’?”

“Thank you, Coriolanus,” you echo instantly.

“That’s my girl,” he lauds, bending to plant a kiss on your forehead.

On the way back to your place, you can’t help but steal nervous glances at Coriolanus. It’s not that you’re not grateful. The time and attention he lavishes upon you. His caring gestures. 

It doesn’t entirely bother you, being the center of someone’s attention for once. Mattering. In a strange way, it’s new and exhilarating. 

Perhaps what happened in the fitting room wasn’t... entirely comfortable, didn’t feel too nice at times. Hurt even. A lot. In fact you’re so sore, you can barely sit straight. But somehow you can’t bring yourself to dedicate an excessive amount of thought to the matter. It’s not a big deal, is it? You lost your virginity last night and it was weird. And this morning’s even weirder. Weird in its striking normalcy. 

Your fingers twiddle in your lap. You swallow a deep breath.

 It’s fine. Everything’s fine. So you let the morsels of doubt sink in the hollow space inside your chest. Until your hands stop shaking.

“Walter?” you call. Coriolanus slams the door closed behind you. You dart across the apartment, combing every corner in search of your furred companion. Every spot he favors is inspected. Under the sink. Below the bed. The duskiest, dustiest corners of your wardrobe. Even the drawers. 

The blond is relaxed as you frantically unleash a storm upon your place, uncaring of the mess you trail in your wake. 

“That’s strange. He always greets me when I come home.”

“He must be around here somewhere,” he casually replies.

You call his name again and again. Still, there’s no sign of the orange ball of fur. No familiar purr or meow. No big yellow orbs staring up at you curiously. A sinking feeling grips your insides. 

Tears rush to your eyes. 

“Coryo…”

His concerned gaze settles on you. 

“What’s wrong?”

You draw a sharp breath that you slowly release, panic swelling within you. “I don’t think he’s in the apartment.”

“Did you check the windows?” he offers.

Your eyes bulge. It didn’t cross your mind. You heed his advice, checking every window in the apartment. When you inch towards the one in your room, your stomach coils. Your bedroom’s noticeably colder than the other rooms, which you didn’t linger on before.

As you find a crack in the window, your hand covers your mouth. 

“Oh my god.”

Coriolanus wraps his arms around you as you sob. 

“He can’t be too far if he jumped through the window,” he says gently. “He’s likely nearby playing or chasing after mice. The city’s crawling with them.” He cradles your face, eyes diving into yours. “Don’t cry, angel. We’ll find him, okay?”

Your chest grows tight, too many emotions surging through it at once.

“What if he doesn’t come home?” you mumble quietly.

“Don’t worry. He will.”

“I…” Your voice falters. 

The blonde tilts up your face, urging you to go on. 

“What is it?”

You sniffle and chew on your lip.

“I know I’m asking for a lot but can you help me look for him?”

That tight-lipped smile you know too well spreads on his lips. 

“Of course.” He pauses, seeming to ponder something. His expression lights up. “Maybe bring a treat. If he smells it, it might lead him to you.”

You acquiesce and fetch one from one of the drawers in the kitchen. 

As promised, Coriolanus spends the rest of his day helping you look for Walter. The both of you shout his name in the streets but his drooping little head never peeks from a dank alley as you keep hoping. He even drives around the area to see if perhaps he’s stuck on a roof somewhere, to no avail.

As the evening veers to its end, the sky coming aflame above you, hope dwindles inside you. 

You lost Walter. Of all the things in the world, it had to be him. Your only friend. Your only light in the darkness. You want to climb into bed and never leave the cocoon of your warm blanket. 

In fact, you do just that the minute you return home. You toss your key and wearily plod to your bedroom. Even that simple act has you aching at the loss. Usually at a time like this, his little form would be curled somewhere near your head, his eyes closed and his tail whipping against the headboard. 

Your chest threatens to burst from your quivering sobs. 

A lot of things are slipping away from you these days. Things you’re losing quickly. Too quickly. You’re not sure how to cope with any of it. 

Your body weighs a ton. Your mind throbs, the onset of a headache pressing insistently at your temples. 

Coriolanus is sitting beside you. Caressing the top of your head, he says, “We could put up missing posters, in case someone sees him.”

“No,” you answer, gulping down yet another sob. 

“Why not?”

You wipe your tears with your elbow. 

“I’m…I’m not really supposed to have him,” you confess. He slants his head, his expression inquisitive. You suck a wide breath and say, “Remember that day at the Academy when we were small? The thing she did to that poor creature in front of us?” 

It says a lot that you don’t even have to specify that you’re talking about your mother, immediate understanding creeping on his face.

He nods, displaying no emotion besides a subtle flicker in his eyes. “It does ring a bell indeed.”

You fiddle with the frayed edge of your pillow.

“I didn’t want the same thing to happen to him, so I took him home.”

Perhaps that was your true offense, your original sin…Interfering with your mother’s work. And now you’re paying the price. 

Weariness settles over you, bone-deep.

“It’s all my fault.”

His knuckles drag over your cheek.

“You just forgot to close a window. It happens.” He smiles down at you, his tone soft as a caress. “We’re all a little careless sometimes.”

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction

[heliads]

Newt x reader Bridgerton AU. Reader, the diamond of the season, is the Duchess of Hastings. She wants to marry someone who likes her as a person and isn’t after her money. Newt, son of a widowed viscountess, needs to marry to save his family’s reputation because his sister Sonya was seen alone with her fiancé Lord Aris before they were engaged. The anonymous writer Lady Whistledown is Ava, a widowed modiste who has her nose in everyone’s business, and Aris is the only one who knows.

'foxes and hounds' - newt

masterlist

The start of a new social season, although intended, supposedly, to be a cause for joy, feels rather more like a fierce uprising of dread, not celebration. Across the ton, young maidens find themselves new entrees– or, entrants– to the marriage mart. This game of rings and dances, men with ambition and women with more, will end in blissful happiness or deepest discontent. And all will be witnessed by every worthy family from one corner of the country to the next.

If all goes according to plan, an eligible would-be bride will find herself engaged to a man she loves, a man in possession of a handsome fortune and a sterling reputation. If luck slips past her, she’ll settle for someone decent, or someone without any income at all. If nothing goes in her favor, her first year in society will not be her last as a single woman. She will have to repeat her attempt the next year, this time without the glimmering aura of a new arrival, and hope that something within her has changed enough to attract a proposal. Otherwise, she will sink to the bottom of the pile of dance cards, ignored, abandoned, and grown up into a spinster. All that hard work gone to waste.

You’ve heard many young women discuss the marriage mart with nothing short of absolute terror in their voices. A good opening season can seal a girl’s fate forever. Attracting the eye of a worthy man is an impossible task for all but the best of the rosebuds, or so it seems. Most of us will settle for something halfway decent– a tidy sum per annum but nothing extravagant, a man with casual disinterest but nothing harsh. Something that can be shaped into something good, or at least ignored in favor of not being alone. Such is the romance of a married life.

You, however, hope to extract a little more out of the whole affair. As the Duchess of Hastings, you have no need for money. A marriage would be nice, the final touch on the portrait of a successful lady, but you do not require the financial stability of a husband. You have plenty of money and plenty of friends. You will inherit your estate. If you look for a husband, you will look only for love.

One would think, then, that entering your first season among the eligible women of the ton would be bereft of the panic permeating through most of your friends in search of husbands. However, when you line up with the rest of the young women to be presented to the Queen at the start of the season, you find that it couldn’t be less true. 

Your stomach is in knots, even as you sweep confidently through the corridor to wait outside the door. The white feather in your hair stands tall and proud. Your dress is crisp and finely stitched, the highest of fashion yet never gaudy. You attract stares wherever you go– from the other girls, envious and jealous and heartsick, from the men, longing and cutthroat and mercenary– but pretend they don’t phase you in the slightest. As duchess, you’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to onlookers. You won’t allow them to interfere with you on this all important day.

At last, your name is called, and you enter the throne room, your mother behind you. You keep your steps small but light, and seem to float towards your queen. When the time is right, you sink into an elegant curtsy. The moment seems to last forever, your knees bent, your hands shaking slightly, but when the queen calls you to stand, you look up to find her smiling benevolently at you.

“I believe I have found my diamond of the season,” she announces.

The room erupts in polite applause, and you do your best to smother a smile that’s entirely too giddy to be proper. As you retreat from the room, you gaze at the faces surrounding you, trying to remember which ones look genuinely happy for you and which seem to be identifying a prize pig for the slaughter. When the town gossips all gather later to share their thoughts on today’s proceedings, you’re certain that some of them will attempt to discredit you, saying that of course the queen would choose the duchess as her diamond, but you know just as well as all of them that you deserve the honor today. You were the best of everyone here, and it’s plain to see.

Among all of them, your gaze catches on a singular man, almost lost in the crowd from all the bodies packed together but no less entrancing. What strikes you the most is that his face seems kind, and his eyes sparkle with pride as they watch you go. Pride for you, for your accomplishments. As if he couldn’t be more delighted that you of all people were named the season’s diamond.

Then you’re gone from the room, and the kind man is no longer before you. Still, you puzzle over the encounter long after your carriage takes you home. You don’t believe you recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything to sway you towards any decision. An image of the young man swims in your mind– short, dirty blond hair, an upturned mouth, dark eyes, his face almost spritely. Clever, for sure.

You know better than to mess with clever men. Clever men are the type to try and twist your mind, convince you that they only love you then attempt to make off with your money. You know full well what marriage to you will offer any would-be suitor. This season, you may be looking for affection, but every man in the room will be after your fortune. The task of finding someone who truly cares for you will be a difficult one indeed.

So, clever men or not, you’ll have to keep your heart under close guard. When the first ball of the season comes to be, you don one of your finest dresses, and firmly admonish yourself to be careful. The game of hearts is not one that you lose. Either you win, or you destroy yourself.

You time your arrival carefully, so as to make the best entrance, and your efforts are rewarded. From the moment you’re announced, all eyes turn to you. Were it not for your extensive experience with being scrutinized in the grand magnifying lens that is the ton, you’d be nervous to have that many people looking at you. Even still, you can’t pretend you don’t feel a small flutter in your stomach.

It gets easier once you sweep further into the room, once people start smiling at you again, when the conversation picks up and you’re asked for your first dance of the evening, which you accept. Your partner is a charming man named Minho– dark hair, witty eyes, an excellent sense of humor. He’s athletic and a decent dancer, and by the time the music stops, you’re back to your usual self again. You can’t stop yourself from mentally sizing up your dance partner. He seems nice, and you wouldn’t be bored around him, at least. His family owns land. Although he’s not of your precise social standing, few are, and he’s close enough to you that it would be a respectable match.

Still– still, you think to yourself, as you move away from the center of the floor once more to consider your dance card, it’s not quite enough. You want love, you want a spark, and you didn’t quite get that with Minho. There are plenty of eligible suitors here, though, and many more balls to come. You’ll have other opportunities to select a match.

A few dances later, though, your feet are beginning to feel heavy and you’re still no closer to finding someone of interest than you were at the start. A good lady of extensive training such as yourself should have no problem dancing the entire night through with a pleasant smile on her face, but you’re still human, still tired, and your charming demeanor is beginning to pinch at the seams before long.

The music for the latest dance ends, and you curtsy to your partner, praying silently that no one else will be looking to fill your dance card for the next rotation. However, when you turn around, you’re greeted with the sight of many anxious faces. Something inside you wilts, perhaps your endurance.

Before the mobs can descend upon you, however, a figure appears in front of you. You sigh in relief to see one of your closest friends, Miss Teresa Agnes. “Teresa! And here I thought I wouldn’t have a single good friend all evening.”

Teresa laughs, her dark hair shining. “I would never abandon you. Certainly not when our diamond is sparkling so spectacularly tonight.”

You smile at her. “I’m not the only one who’s sparkling, Teresa. You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Teresa says sincerely. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce someone to you. This is Viscount Newt, a good friend of mine. I met him through Thomas.”

You smile to yourself as Teresa turns to beckon someone towards you. Teresa has been harboring a not-so-secret admiration for Thomas since you were all small. This is her first season in the social circles, too, and if she doesn’t come out of it with a proposal from Thomas, you’ll think the sky has fallen. Even now, he’s watching her fondly from across the room, trying to pretend as if he isn’t pining madly while Minho teases him for it.

“Here he is at last,” Teresa says, and all of a sudden you can’t think about Thomas’ case of lovesickness for a second longer, because Teresa has brought her friend before you, and you know him. It’s the stranger from your presentation to the queen. The nice one, the clever one. The one that caught your eye, and then your imagination.

You curtsy automatically, and Newt bows. Once the two of you straighten up, you’re able to observe him more closely. You’d only gotten a fleeting glimpse earlier, but now you can drink in the sight of him, and you do. His eyes are dark, but catch the lights like stars. His mouth has a habit of twitching up at the sides, as if he’s always thinking of a joke but just barely managing to keep it at bay. When he looks at you, he really looks at you. You’ve been stared at all night by would-be suitors, but their gazes never went farther than surface level. Right now, it’s as if Newt can see through to your very soul, and most intimately of all, appreciates it.

Teresa gives you a confused look, and you realize you’ve been standing in silence for longer than is probably courteous. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say.

“I must return the sentiment,” Newt returns. “Teresa has talked about you many times. I’ve been quite eager to meet you.”

“I hope I’m worthy of what she’s told you,” you say.

Newt smiles again. “I believe you’re even better than that,” he tells you.

Teresa is looking at you with an odd smile. “I believe I’d better let the two of you get to know each other, then,” she says, and sweeps away before you can stop her.

Newt laughs. “She’s been wanting to set us up for ages. For a friendship, I mean,” he breaks in hastily. “Apparently, she thinks we have a similar sense of humor.”

“I look forward to finding that out myself,” you smile.

Newt’s eyes flash with mirth again, delighting you. Behind you, the music picks up again. Newt extends a hand towards you. “Would you mind if I shared a dance with you? Unless, of course, you’d rather sit for a while.”

“I’d love to dance,” you say quickly, and it’s true. All of a sudden, the pain in your feet is gone, as if it had never existed at all.

Newt smiles and takes your hand to lead you to the dance floor. The orchestra begins its melody, and you start your dance. You make a mental note to ask Teresa a little more about Newt later; he dances like an aristocrat, but he speaks so freely to you. It’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced in a suitor before.

Newt arches a brow as he steps through the dance. “Sizing me up, are you? It may be improper of me to ask, but I do hope I’m meeting your requirements.”

Your cheeks heat up. “I’m simply appreciating your mastery of this dance. Nothing more.”

Newt laughs easily. “Of course not. It’s not as if everyone else here is doing the same thing right now. Every dance partner is a strategy meeting. In just a matter of minutes, you’ll walk away knowing if I am a worthy wager, and I will do the same. This ball is full of hounds and foxes, my lady. We all know our parts.”

You glance at him, feeling a curious grin tugging at your lips. “And which am I? Fox or hound?”

Newt returns your proud gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out at the end of the season, won’t we?”

You laugh, feeling oddly triumphant. Newt has this way about him that you find enchanting. It’s  almost breaching impropriety with how candid he is around you, but it only makes you trust him more. The dance ends far sooner than you’d like. Newt relinquishes you to the storm of suitors outside, hopefully with just as much reluctance as you.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Newt is truly the only one that stands out to you. You don’t have a chance to dance with him again, but you keep making eye contact as you dance with other partners. You can practically hear his clever words in your head, catching you in the act of evaluating the suitors in front of you. Fox or hound?

When the ball ends and you return to your carriage for the ride home, you’re blissful, practically dreamy. You’ve had enough time with Newt to dream about it until the next ball, where you’ll likely repeat the same cycle over and over again until the season ends.

However, your golden mood is shattered when your chaperone sits down across from you. Her face, by contrast, is twisted with disappointment. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re getting yourself into?” She asks once the carriage pulls away.

Still caught up in the heady dream of a merry boy who smiled the brightest when he danced with you, you don’t realize the trap descending around you until it’s too late. “What trouble?”

Your chaperone’s lips purse. “You’re meant to be dancing only with eligible gentlemen, my lady. I should hope that you’d be able to recognize the suitable candidates from the unseemly by now.”

The veil is pierced, and you’re beginning to be brought back to earth. “What are you talking about? I thought I made perfectly reasonable choices with my dance partners.”

Your chaperone shakes her head, a quick, sharp gesture. “All but one. Goodness, haven’t you heard about the trouble with that one family? I can’t believe Miss Agnes had the nerve to introduce him to you, but perhaps the fact that she’s so besotted with Lord Thomas is upsetting her mind.”

Your heart freezes in your chest. “You can’t mean to say that the Viscount is not a suitable bachelor? What else could he be?”

The other woman sighs. “You don’t know, do you? My lady, I would not interfere if I did not feel the need, but I can assure you, his motives with you are purely mercenary. That man is desperate for something to cover up the follies of his family, and you, my dear, are the perfect gilded shield.”

You feel cold. “What follies?”

“His sister, Miss Sonya, was seen alone with her fiance,” your chaperone murmurs at last. “Lord Aris. I would think you would have heard his name, although perhaps not connected it with Viscount Newt. Miss Sonya and Lord Aris were happily engaged, and by all accounts it was a fine union, but they were seen together without a chaperone past dark. Quite the scandal. The Viscount knows it and is eager to get the ton talking about anything but his sister’s misdeeds. Entering into a courtship with you would do just the trick.”

She’s right, and you know it, and you hate it. “He seemed so genuine,” you whisper, and instantly know how foolish it sounds.

Your chaperone, to her credit, is kind enough to take pity on you. “He did,” she tells you, “and you looked happy together. You would be less happy, however, when you found out the truth. I would rather you know now and stay away. Men like that are nothing but trouble.”

You nod solemnly, turning your head to watch the dark landscapes rumbling past. The sun is already beginning to rise, a hallmark of a late night out. It had been a beautiful night up until this, and now the entire evening is ruined in your mind.

“I feel for Miss Sonya,” you whisper. “She was already engaged. They were just talking.”

“She knows the rules of society, and so do you,” your chaperone reminds you. “We all have our roles to play.”

And the consequence of setting a foot outside your role is instant public mortification. Yes. What a forgiving world. You immediately plant your exhausted body in your bed when you return, hardly sparing the time to wash and dress, but the only things to bloom from your rest are troubled dreams of the boy that could have been yours. Now that you know the truth– that Newt was only trying to use you for a better reputation– every interaction with him is tainted.

You’d meant what you said in the carriage, though. You did think Newt was genuine. Hadn’t he laughed more than usual when he was with you? Hadn’t he regarded you with that fierce pride of his, as if he’d finally found a mind that was an equal to his? Hadn’t he watched you with something akin to jealousy when you danced with the other men that weren’t him?

Hadn’t you wished he would only dance with you? And don’t you wish that you could truly do what you promised yourself and marry only for love, never mind the rest? It is a simple dream to think that love is easy. Marriage is not simple, not in the ton, not in your lifetime. Every one of your days will be shaped by the whims of society, even when they take Newt away from you.

When it comes time for the next ball, you do your best to strengthen your spirits before you go. You intentionally avoid him, making sure to always have your dance card full whenever the music ends. It’s easy enough to find a crowd large enough to hide you from him, and yet you still catch glimpses of Newt from across the hall, several partners down, in a carriage many behind yours. You successfully go two balls, then three, without seeing him, but it aches like a knife in your ribs when you think about what could have been.

As it turns out, you’re not the only one wishing you were with him. At the fifth ball of the season, your attempts to distance yourself from the viscount are foiled at last. Newt tracks you down, signing his name on your dance card before you can stop him before leading you out to the dance floor.

“That’s a rather abrupt way of asking a lady to dance, don’t you think?” You ask as you curtsy.

Newt bows. “I felt it was the only way of guaranteeing that you would dance with me.”

“A lady never declines a gentleman in need of a dance,” you remind him.

The music picks up, and the two of you begin your paces. “A lady also never avoids a gentleman as thoroughly as you have at the last few balls,” Newt says. “Were it not for the fact that I know you to be as perfectly agreeable a duchess as there could ever be, I would say that it was personal.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, even with his hands on you, guiding you through the steps. “It’s not meant to work out, my lord. Us, I mean. We cannot forget the rules.”

When Newt speaks again, his voice sounds hurt. “Why not? Forgive me, my lady, but I remember what it was like that first night. You were happy. We were happy, and happy together. What changed?”

At last, you risk a glance towards him, and instantly regret it. Newt’s eyes are filled with genuine hurt. Are you wrong? Did he actually want you as more than a cover-up? “I heard about your sister,” you say as delicately as you can.

Still, Newt flinches as if you’ve hit him. “You don’t know the full story,” Newt says raggedly.

“Then tell me,” you beg him. “I would choose you if I could, but everyone seems to think that you are only interested in me to advance your station. Give me a reason to believe in you, not them.”

“I can’t say it here,” Newt whispers. 

“I can’t go somewhere with you alone,” you tell him quietly. “Especially not after what happened to your sister. You must tell me now, or we will never have another chance.”

“Alright,” he says at last. “But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Once you agree, Newt begins to speak in a hushed whisper hardly audible to you, let alone the other couples around you. “Sonya is deeply in love with Lord Aris, and he is in love with her. So much so to the point that he has been battling a deep rage ever since that awful gossip rag, Lady Whistledown, slightly disparaged her last season. He took it upon himself to find out Lady Whistledown’s identity, and somehow, he did. The only problem is, Lady Whistledown is not someone Sonya would consider a friend. He wanted to warn her about the dangers of being anything less than perfect around that insidious writer, and he didn’t want to waste a moment. He called on her to meet with him as soon as possible. He didn’t think they would be seen, but they were, and of course Lady Whistledown ran with it to discredit them in case they would reveal her.”

You suck in a harsh breath. “It was never anything wrong, then. He merely wanted to protect her.”

Newt nods. “Lord Aris is a good man. He never would have done something like this if he realized how it would backfire. He regrets it daily, even though all he wanted to do was keep my sister safe. The ton knows their characters, too. Neither of them would do anything unseemly. The rumors diminish by the day, and soon, it will all be over. They will be happily married.”

He sighs and looks at you again. “I tell you this to explain myself, and to clear my name. I have nothing to hide from the situation with my sister and her future husband. In fact, it is only because they directly asked me not to spread this information that I haven’t gone public with the identity of Lady Whistledown herself to spare their reputations. I have nothing to fear, my lady. Certainly nothing that would make me risk the happiness of my marriage on a good rumor. I would court you because I have never met anyone like you before, nor do I think I ever will. You are utterly entrancing in every possible way. If you do not wish to be with me in that fashion, I would understand.”

You shake your head quickly. “I do want that, my lord. I want you.”

A careful smile slips across Newt’s face. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” you tell him. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you at my presentation. I would have found you no matter what lies they spread.”

Newt grins. “I believe I have decided something important, my lady. About your inner nature.”

You arch a brow as he spins you. “And what is that?”

“You’re a hound,” he informs you matter-of-factly. “Sharp and bright. Brave, too. But, then again, I am a hound as well. We make quite the pair, I think.”

“I think so too,” you tell him. In the days to come, rumors will abound about the viscount and the duchess. At first, there will be surprise across the ton, but then, even the most tenacious of gossips will realize that this makes perfect sense. The most clever of men and the most ambitious of women, bound together in holy matrimony. Even the best of poets couldn’t concoct a story that beautiful.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

the maze runner tag list: @blondsauduun, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @mayfieldss, @hiya-itsamber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria, @w1shes43, @imwaysthelastchoice, @fadedver, @il0vebeingdelulu

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#newt #newt imagines #newt x reader #newt oneshot #tmr #tmr imagines #tmr x reader #tmr oneshot #the maze runner #the maze runner imagines #the maze runner x reader #the maze runner oneshot #maze runner #maze runner imagienes #maze runner x reader #maze runner oneshot #tmr newt #tmr newt imagines #tmr newt x reader #tmr newt oneshot #the maze runner newt #the maze runner newt imagines #the maze runner newt x reader #the maze runner newt oneshot #bridgerton au #au #regency au

[dragonagecompanions]

hello, this is my first request :) unsure if your still taking requests but I was wondering how the companions (maybe romanced maybe not) would react to finding out the Inquisitor has a dead kid? I think the only way the party would find out is in the fade via the fear demon, and then maybe the advisors find out on their own ┐⁠(⁠ ⁠∵⁠ ⁠)⁠┌

idk but I would be truly honored to see you answer this request, and even if not than thank you for reading over it <33

- 🍡

WARNINGS For CHILD LOSS YOI HAVE BEEN WARNED

Cassandra: When the fear demon, gleeful in it’s telling of their leader’s loss, reveals the truth the Seeker is…well, there are no words. Forcibly she is reminded of how they swayed, pale and weeping, when she had said there were no other survivors. Guilt churns low and deep at her own words, a year and more gone now, throwing that fact in their face as accusation. Throwing such a loss in their face and then demanding answers.

Throwing a calling at their feet and demanding leadership, never knowing what a loss they struggled through.

She fights all the harder for them, as if every enemy batted away from them is attempted absolution. Cassandra Pentaghast thought she understood grief in all its facets, but what does the loss of older brother and parents- expected losses if come too soon- stand before the loss of a child? Maker, how do they still breathe through it?

When they are free of the fade, she approaches only to offer apology. If they wish to speak of their loss she will listen, but only then. She has forced enough from them.

Varric: Shit. Just…shit. Here he is, going on for months about how this story is bad for heroes and how the Inquisitor is the main character and blathering on, and never saw it. Never saw the aching grief, because it was never shown. The only example he has, or is at least intimately familiar with, is Leandra Hawk and his own mother.

And as the Inquisitor had never fallen into drink or taken to blaming whoever was closest to them for things outside of anyone’s control there had been no sign for Varric to catch on to. And it makes him feel…almost dirty. Stained with his own intentions, blithely going on while their leader had lost their kid.

He doesn’t bring it up to them, doesn’t know how, but Skyhold’s resident author is absolutely the own who tells Josephine as soon as they tumble out of the fade. That raven missive is a short and brutal telling, far from his normal goings on, and his guilt is manifold in it.

Solas: The Dread Wolf is not so unattached from the world as to not consider the losses suffered at the conclave, but for the most part -when he did turn his mind to them- they were mostly academic. A balance of power, and the loss of so many leaders among both chantry and mages a destabilizing force for his future efforts. Numbers laid cooly on a chart, beads on an abacus. The fortunes of war laid bare.

But more than one parent lost a child in that terrible moment, and siblings mourned. Children bereft, friends torn asunder, lovers left to weep alone for their loves. Listening to the fear demon enumerate the inquisitor’s loss magnifies the enormity of what happened, and though he will undoubtedly be the source of much worse for a moment the Dread Wolf cannot breathe.

It passes, of course, and when they leave the fade the rift mage dies his best not to carry those emotions out with him. This world is not to blame for his actions, for the destruction of his world, but he must restore it and so they must bear the cost. It is not fair to them, and it will be long months until he can be east about his plans.

In the interim, he dares to approach the inquisitor only once about their loss. He is there as a listening ear in the silence of his rotunda if they wish to speak of their sorrow. Or if they wish only a silent companion, he will direct the kindest spirits he can find to guard their dreams and remain at their side as long as he can.

Blackwall: Maker forbid. For a moment Skyhold’s would be warden is swamped by the images of Callier’s children, dead under tiny shrouds beside the ruined carriage at his command. Too many children fall victim to the machinations of their elders and with none to protect them from the fall out, but for all that most of Blackwall’s experience has been from the other side.

Being confronted with the parent who had lost a child, confronted with the knowledge that they had told none of them and had suffered under the burden alone was staggering. Damn it, they had all laid burdens at the Inquisitor’s feet and expected answers, demanded decisions and leadership in a word gone mad— and none had known what they had lost.

He doesn’t know what to say or how to act and instead channels everything into the fight to flee the fade. Rainier would be too much the coward to speak to their leader in the aftermath, but Blackwall- older and hopefully wiser from his own griefs- will offer quiet condolences and whatever aid he can. If they need to speak of it be will listen. And if not there is soft wood and chisel enough to grind out any feelings if that is what they need.

Vivienne: Children had never been in her destiny. As a mage, even one so elevated as to be all but free of the constraints of the circle, motherhood was forbidden to her. Any child of her womb would be sacrificed to the Chantry, given to a family deemed ‘more worthy’ to raise it.

And as a mistress, no matter how deeply the love between them bloomed, Bastian could never have given her such a blessing. He had children— an illegitimate child, and a mage child at that, would have been too great a weapon against him.

And so she had put it out of her mind, never allowed herself to consider or imagine what a son might look like, how a daughter might smile. To think of it would be a loss too great to contemplate—or so she had thought. Met with the active loss and overwhelming grief that their leader must feel, Madame de Fer is suddenly glad not to know how such a burden might rest on her soul.

Could she be so calm a leader as the Inquisitor, while bleeding out inside? Vivienne does not know, and that…well, terrifies her in a way little has. But she is not called iron for nothing, and so when all is calm again she will go the Herald and ask simply and plainly what she might do for them. If the answer is nothing she will abide by it. And if there is something that might in any way assuage their grief then she will ensure they have it.

Dorian: Well, that at least explains the Inquisitor’s uncharacteristically violent outburst, when Halward Pavus had made his way to Ferelden. Upon hearing the possible consequences of the blood magic ritual the Inquisitor had laid into the Magister, flaying with words when they could not use violence. Even the Pavus paterfamilias had seemed shaken by the diatribe, and Dorian had felt championed.

He is not so shallow as to feel betrayed by the knowledge of what terrible grief must have driven such an impassioned defamation of character, but can instead only ache for his friend’s loss. They must have been a wonderful parent, and in a quiet time later will gather his courage to tell them so.

Sera: It doesn’t really register in the moment, so great is her own fear of the Fade and it’s denizens, but later it will simply break the Red Jenny’s heart. Their leader lost a true little one, and still managed to bring themselves to protect the rest of the little people no matter their age.

Like Blackwall she will either offer distraction or uncharacteristic silence in comfort, baked goods an offering that feels too…personal for such a gaping loss. But her admiration for them grows exponentially.

The Iron Bull: Public, corporate grief is rare among the Qun. Not forbidden, exactly, but when everyone is given a role it also implies that every person is inherently replaceable in that role. As Koslun said, the tide rises and falls and things must work forward toward peace.

But the death of a child is different. Whether disease or violence or simple accident, losing an imereki is a tragedy. The Tamassran mourns, the others in their care mourn, and all those in the sphere of the lost one are permitted some little allowance for the loss. Things cannot grind to a halt- this is why parents are separated from children, to ensure the deep emotional bonds that are anathema to the Qun- but there is not simple acceptance without acknowledgement of the loss.

Not even that was given to the Inquisitor. It’s east to see the shock of the others even through his own fear, and the knowledge infuriates Bull enough to get him through the Fade. Their leader lost a child, and no one was there for them. Instead piled on the whole world and its imminent loss on their shoulders. It’s disgraceful.

Later, when Adamant is pacified and they return to Skyhold, he will pull them aside. It will be painful and it will be slow, and whether they need alcohol or pain or even the clinical breakdown that bondage and sex can only give-with their explicit consent- he will help them bleed the pain and begin the grieving process.

Cole: The pain was too big for him to help, the threads caught up in pain and joy and guilt and anger and terrible despair. He didn’t even have the words to describe it to others, and so had kept silent.

If they need him later he will help, but this loss is too big for a spirit unsure of how to act.

Cullen: Maker’s breathe. How could they…why did they not…Damn it, how could he not realize?! He had all but thrust the entire inquisition on a parent who had been robbed the chance to even bury their child, let alone mourn them.

Varric’s report rocks him to the core, and the commander in truth does not know what to do. If the rest of the inner circle has it well in hand he will simply work to make sure their leader has less in their plate. If they wish to discuss it with them, he is there and if not…

He hardly has the words anyway.

Josephine: She weeps over the missive, when it arrives. Their inquisitor has been hiding the worst of loses from them, putting on such a brave face to do so much. Like Cullen she works to make sure they have less to do when they return, but does pull them aside briefly to awkwardly hug them and ask if they want a memorial somewhere private in Skyhold.

Leliana: She knew. She knew from only a few days after, when her spies brought her everything there was on the Herald. And even The Nightingales Heart could ache for such a loss, but Leliana took her queues from the Herald and simply never discussed it. That does not change now— she will follow their lead.

Mod Fereldone

#cassandra pentaghast #solas #dorian pavus #varric tethras #the iron bull #sera #madame de fer #warden blackwall #cole #tw:child death #tw: loss #tw: death #cullen rutherford #josephine montilyet #leliana #dragon age inquisition

[retroghouls-if]

THE STORY

Music has always been a part of you.

You could hold a bow (violin/viola/cello) before you could hold a pencil. Unfortunately, life has catapulted you into a downward spiral. Your college band disintegrates. A close friendship goes up in flames. You’re doing nothing with your life. Death and a personal betrayal have left you bereft. You have never felt more worthless. Everything culminates on the night of your sister’s wedding when you drunkenly form a Faustian contract with the entity that haunts your apartment.

For better and for worse, you are now destined for greatness.

The devil has but one thing to ask in return: absolute domination. You are to conquer anything and everything through the power of good ol’ fashioned rock n’ roll. And you’re not alone. Armed with friends (new and old), a new band, and quite literal hellspawn to help, you are going to conquer the world.

Not because it’s what you want, but because failure is not an option.

Not for any of you.

CONTENT WARNINGS

Retroghouls is intended for mature 18+ audiences for dark topics including abuse, violence, explicit language and sexual content, and more.

FEATURES

Customize your MC from their physical appearance, personality, sexuality to their musical background (violin, viola, or cello), familial relationships, and more.

Choose your band’s concept and determine its overarching message. Is your group activist, a sex symbol, or a harbinger of destruction? Will you tell your fans that they’re not alone? Will you challenge them to persevere no matter what? Or will you encourage them to burn it all down?

Manage your newfound inspiration and the cornucopia of side effects that come with it.

Protect the anonymity of you and your bandmates.

Outwit a demon or two – if you play your cards right.

Romance a cast of troubled individuals.

Make objectively terrible decisions! Ruin lives! Or don’t. You will face the consequences of your actions either way.

ROMANTIC INTERESTS

Camille ‘Ilim’ Vaughan [she/her or he/him] is the drummer of your new group. Having been involved in the music industry for over a decade, they are a person who invokes a myriad of opinions. Both beloved and reviled, Ilim themselves operate in extremes. They make no effort to hide their agenda. So the question follows – what part will you play in the reckoning? [MORE]

Tuesday ‘Needle’ Nelson [he/him or she/her] is the bass of your band’s guitar trio. So, whether it is during concerts, midnight comp sessions, or just casual riffing at hq, they are always close by. Music has always been their one true love and so they’re determined to pour their blood, sweat, and tears into this project. Tuesday has very little else otherwise. [MORE]

Micky Monroe [she/her or he/him] You two took orchestra together in high school and haven’t given a passing thought towards one another since your graduation performance. Now, courtesy your prodigious manager, Micky & Archangels are the feature on your upcoming album. Once the album is done, you’ll surely fade from one another’s lives just like before. Both of you agree, it’ll be just like before. [MORE]

Jack/Jackie Graves [he/him or she/her] is the heart of your PR team, coordinating with managers, publicists, and social media specialists to ensure no unnecessary information about the band leaks. Your privacy is their bread and butter. Your security pays their bills. Don’t mistake their friendliness. Don’t mistake their kindness. It’s just common business to look out for one’s best interests.

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive game #twine game #dating sim #retroghouls if #interact if #if wip #interactive fiction wip

[lazuruspit]

The Plight of Yearning — (m)

+ 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

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?”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren smut #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger x reader smut #eren yeager x reader smut #aot x reader #snk x reader #mine

[flowersforchoso]

Intro dialogues w/ mk1 male characters

background: fei is an oc and a chloromancer which means, she's a practitioner of plant magic. these are intro dialogues with the men of mortal kombat 1. ranging from friendly, flirty, subtextual romance to animosity.

sub-zero: you're as delicate as a rose

fei: wait till you see my deadly thorns

sub-zero: i do not wish to fight you

fei: are you conceding defeat already?

fei: i have immense respect for you but i wont stand down

sub-zero: a fatal mistake

fei: you have something against me. what is it?

smoke: i- well...

fei: you find me alluring?

smoke: your powers are

smoke: you'd fit right in with the shirai-ryu

fei: a compliment, but i doubt it

fei: for the last time johnny, its a no.

johnny cage: wait. i just wanna ask for gardening tips

johnny cage: you could be the leading lady in a movie. just let me contact my agent

fei: i'm not interested in your proclivities

johnny cage: i've been thinking about going vegetarian

fei: this concerns me how?

havik: you're pathetic and weak

fei: a baseless assumption you'd soon come to regret

havik: chaos is order, beauty is oppression

fei: you gain converts by spouting such nonsense?

havik: when order has been replaced by chaos, you'll be by my side

fei: keep your delusions to yourself, havik

shang tsung: your powers would be beneficial

fei: i won't be subject to your sick experiments, sorcerer

shang tsung: when i say join me, i'm being diplomatic

fei: never! not even in my death

fei: how do you live with yourself?

shang tsung: *laughs* its all too easy

reptile: i've- i've never met someone like you

fei: is that a good thing or a bad thing?

fei: you bleed green?

reptile: does that terrify you?

reptile: have you ever heard of the kytinn?

fei: yes. they're truly... bizarre

fei: you're so different from your brother

kuai liang: sharing blood is where our similarities begin and end

fei: how is young hanzo doing?

kuai liang: very well.

kuai liang: you still trust bi-han? after everything he's done?

fei: not trust. more so, understand his perspective.

general shao: i'll trample upon your vines and thorns so scamper.

fei: if raiden can take you down, then i can

general shao: your kind should not be in battle

fei: care to explain further, general?

fei: i must admit, you're terrifying

general shao: *laughs* and you still choose to proceed, woman?

fei: crafting a world and maintaining it must be tedious

liu kang: a price for the greater good

liu kang: don't overwork yourself

fei: thanks. i'll try not to

liu kang: its regrettable. what we've become

fei: i'd rather not dwell on it

kung lao: you and lord liu kang were a thing?

fei: how- how did you know of this?

fei: your ego will soon be your demise

kung lao: doubt it. its one of my greatest assets

kung lao: i'm single y'know

fei: tell that to someone who cares

reiko: liu kang is not gonna save ya

fei: i'm more than capable of holding my own

fei: basking in the glory of war makes one inhuman

reiko: keep your sanctimonious drivel where the sun doesn't shine

fei: you're no soldier, you're a criminal

reiko: and what does that make you? a sheltered brat

fei: the way tarkat holds you hostage worries me

baraka: i do not need your pity

baraka: i'm sure my mere presence sickens you

fei: don't assume such baraka.

baraka: my ilk are treated worse than dogs

fei: its terrible. they deserve better

fei: you have alot of luck on your side with that amulet

raiden: *laughs* even without it, i'm formidable

fei: confidence is not pride. gladly wear it

raiden: i suppose. old habits do die hard

raiden: you're like mother nature herself

fei: *laughs* i'm nothing but a custodian

fei: how are you so bereft of principles despite being a high mage?

rain: don't speak on things you do not know of

fei: its comical that you run with a tail between your legs afterwards

rain: i'm not above seeking repentance

rain: my storm will wash away your plants

fei: water only fosters nature.

fei: i've never faced a blind swordsman

kenshi: it'll be your first and last encounter

fei: is it possible for others to control sento?

kenshi: try it. the anticipation is killing me

kenshi: i was in the yakuza once.

fei: so you admit to having blood on your hands

fei: what does the future hold for me?

geras: that, i cannot say

fei: being only a construct must be a terrible fate

geras: why do you presume so?

geras: just as the stars are infinite, so are the grains of sand

fei: proverbial. but where are you going with this?

#mortal kombat 1 #sub-zero #scorpion #smoke #kenshi takahashi #reiko #johnny cage #geras #rain #raiden #liu kang #kung lao #baraka #general shao #havik #reptile #bi han #kuai liang #tomas vrbada

[that-fanperson-meg]

ok so I kinda went crazy and made a song analysis of “A Drink to Death” by Chonny Jash because of how much I associate it with Pleiades.

Pleiades and Dulciana belong to @loaflovesdoodling

also here’s the song if you’re curious lol

So let’s get started:

"Make sure my glass is full" "Let's crash and see how fast we go" He took a shot and held his breath  "I'm gonna drink myself to death"

These first few lines are about Ades himself I think, what with him drinking away all of his problems away and wanting to drink himself to death despite being immortal.

It'll eat your insides Your brain burns and your skin dries Bumbling through the alleys like you think you're still alive I wanna hold you closely, I wanna smell your sweat I wanna drink myself to death

I see this part as him just kinda rambling on, as seen in the bolded lines that I interpret as him wanting to have Dulciana back with him again and Ades still grappling with her death (also the mention of ALLEYS? Come on the comparisons are too easy lol)

There will be no candles There will be no romance I will be alone We will not hold hands There will be no toasting There will be no romance You are young, I am an old man

This section is a sort of continuation of the other bold lines where Pleiades is wanting back Dulci and reminiscing about how they were back when she was still alive but now knowing that he’ll never do any of the stuff that they did together ever again.

And if I pass out, wake me up I may be drunk but I'm not drunk enough And everything keeps fucking up We were nice together, weren't we, once? I'm drunk but I'm not drunk enough We were nice together, weren't we, once?

I see these lyrics as Ades fully spiraling as he keeps drinking more and more to stave off the pain and grief of Dulciana and talking to himself.

Make sure my glass is full We can laugh 'til I am blasting off From now 'til nothing's left I wanna drink myself to death (I'm gonna drink myself to death)

The chorus repeats the same things as expressed in the first time

When I woke, it was daylight and the clouds were pink The sun was coming up... or going down, I think (I'm gonna drink myself to death) You can't see their silver linings when your vision's blurred A 151-proof tear detergent to clean what's down my shirt (I'm gonna drink myself to death)

Ok now this is where it starts getting fun :]

I personally see the first lyric as Ades’ talking about Dulciana in a metaphorical sense, saying that she’s the daylight and she brought light to his world…however as said in the lyrics the sun was going down (referring to Dulci’s terminal illness) and the next lyric only enforces this by saying that his vision was blurred (which I choose to interpret as Pleiades crying over Dulciana’ passing hence his vision being blurred by tears)

Make sure my glass is full Let's make the evening magical The lies have no regrets I'm gonna drink myself to death (I'm gonna drink myself to death)

Make sure my glass is full I'll crash to see how fast I go I'll take a shot and hold my breath I'm gonna drink myself to death

Once again the chorus only reinforces Ades’ grief and him using alcohol to cope.

And the nights have lost their minds And the mornings are unkind And this, the last I see of you The glass! Don't let me see it through

OK NOW THIS IS THE SYMBOLISM I CRAVE.

Alright so let’s break this into two parts (blue and red)

So I believe that the lyrics in blue would be Pleiades taking about his parents, what his mother being the night and his father being the morning

and the red lyrics are Ades hallucinating Dulciana because of all of the alcohol with him saying “the last I see of you, the glass!” Basically him seeing her through the glass

Make sure my name is known 'Til the pain will make you wish you don't Of life, we're all bereft I just took mine before the rest

I see this as Pleiades completely loosing himself in the alcohol as also represented by the music getting more frantic and intense.

Make sure my glass is full Let's watch this white light turn to gold Tonight is all that's left I'm gonna drink myself to death

Now this chorus is slightly different from the others and the bolded lyric can actually fit pretty well with Ades’ hate/fear of hospitals because the most common color in a hospital is white (hence the which it’s light) and Pleiades’ blood being gold and the theme that persists throughout the song of Ades wanting to drink himself to death so he can finally be back with Dulciana

And when I pass, don't call my bluff I may be drunk but I'm not drunk enough To fight the me that's on this stuff We were nice, but now I'm coarse and rough I'm drunk but I'm not drunk enough We were nice together, weren't we, once?

and finally the music slows and so does Pleiades as his thoughts begin to slow and his own grief takes over his thoughts, and as the last lyric asking Dulciana, “we were nice together, weren’t we once?” And with that it all fades away.

So yeah TLDR: Poor little meow meow misses his wife and wants to see her again

congrats if you actually made it through all of my ramblings lol, here take a cookie :]

🍪

#kirby original character #Idk why I made this #I guess I was just in a silly mood #Spotify

[beevean]

You know, it's really funny how execution can make or break a concept.

In the Francis Ford Coppola film Bram Stoker's Dracula and Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, Dracula had a wife before he became a vampire, and said wife's death drives him to villainy. Centuries later, he meets the reincarnation of his dead wife, who he has a doomed romance with.

Yet because Bram Stoker's Dracula derailed a lot of characters not named Dracula and tried to make him out to be a tragic hero while he was still doing terrible things, I disliked the film, while the Castlevania games never pulled such a thing. It used his tragic backstory as a reason why he is the way he is, without excusing his behavior. As a result, it adds dimension to Dracula's character without feeling out-of-character.

Oh yeah, IGA clearly liked the movie and introduced elements of it with his own spin, such as Dracula descending into villainy because he returned home after an expedition only to find his wife Elisabetha dead, or him having the chance to live again with a girl named Mina (although Dracula needs to be reincarnated into a good person first lol)

Something I like about CV is that it has tragic villains, but it has a good balance between showing them in a sympathetic light and still reminding you that they're bastards. Dracula is a grieving man stuck in a cycle of rebirth, but he's also a petty monster who wants to make everyone pay for the sins of a few. Isaac lost everything he held dear through no fault of his own and fell prey to his own master's curse which lead him to a pointless death, but he's also a cruel, bitter man who unfairly caused the death of an innocent woman out of jealousy spite. Brauner lost his dear daughters in the war, but he also took two daughters from another man to turn them into vampires, and he gets called on his delusion by Jonathan. The story never tells you "look at these sad meows meows 🥺 they're not so bad after all 🥺", but they're not generic baddies either, and you come to see at least where they're coming from.

The show takes the "sad meow meow" approach when it comes to Dracula, Isaac and Lenore, and that's why I'm less than impressed. Dracula is a poor man too bereft with grief to think logically and who deserves to live again with his wife. Isaac is actually a gentle man who deserves peace after killing innocents to grow an army because he wanted to continue Dracula's slaughter. Lenore is actually a good, pacifist vampire who only wanted to protect Hector after resorting to deceit, manipulation, gaslighting and rape. You can feel the narrative holding your hand to push you to think a certain way.

Carmilla is a weird case because you'd expect her to be meowified, but she's just a generic badass #girlboss who gets no sympathy for her offscreen trauma. Still, not an elegant approach.

#castlevania #akumajou dracula #anti netflixvania #haven't watched the dracula movie so i can't say #but from what i know they did my man jonathan dirty to push dracumina #bro cmon that's lame lol #(harkula is the superior ship lmao)

[chaifootsteps]

The issues with Stella are so goddamn easy to fix it's actually painful any time she comes on screen and they have to find a way to bend over backwards to make her as unlikable as possible to artificially prop Stolas up as well as avoid the classism plot that THEY WROTE INTO THE SHOW.

Just establish very clearly AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SHOW that both of them were okay with the other sleeping around (since neither liked each other and neither wanted to get married) but have Stella get mad specifically because Stolas was caught sleeping with an imp, and that reflects badly on her. If you want her to be a villain, you don't need her to be cartoonishly evil and completely bereft of personality and likeability beyond bitch (derogatory) even as a child; she can just be classist and obsessed with status. (Also maybe don't make her stupid? Maybe don't have her creepy incest-vibes brother around at all? Give her some agency as a villain, you know? Maybe let her be funny? MAYBE LET HER TALK TO HER FUCKING DAUGHTER ON SCREEN?)

But fixing Stella would force the show to actually acknowledge the classism that they've set up and have been trying to ignore in lieu of writing fluff one shots of their favorite ships. And it sucks because she could be a really, really interesting and entertaining lens into how the upper-crusts of this setting actually behave. She SHOULD HAVE BEEN the face of that plot. If you want her to be this evil scheming funny girlboss bitch (affectionate), LET HER BE ONE. Hell, she can even be sympathetic and redeemable if you play up the fact that her behavior comes from a fear of being othered by the Goetia.

As a side note, why are arranged marriages even a thing when divorce exists and vice versa? If it's a eugenics thing for blue bloods why is marriage even a factor when they could just have the kids without it? If they're immortal outside of specific weaponry why do they need heirs in the first place? How DID Striker get all of his angelic weapons? How did Stella even meet Striker, who HATES the upper classes? Why does Striker even work for her when she's the ONE CHARACTER explicitly shown in-canon to embody the things he hates about the system at large?

I guess my point is that fixing Stella's writing would kind of cascade out into actual worldbuilding, stakes, more screen time for female characters, and more coherent better-constructed plots so Spindlehorse won't do it because they want to focus exclusively on a middling romance between two characters who have ZERO CHEMISTRY. If they wanted to focus on that, great, but why on EARTH did they set up all of this other shit? Season one set up conflict and interest and season two has done nothing but blue-ball me by dangling those plot threads in front of me and yanking it away at the last possible second. I WANT the show to be good, but it desperately needs better editing at the script level which I am CONVINCED only goes through one draft and are written several weeks apart.

ALSO THE LATEST EPISODE GAVE ME MOTION SICKNESS WHY WAS THE CAMERA MOVING SO MUCH WHEN THE CHARACTERS WERE STATIC HOW MUCH BUDGET AND TIME GOT WASTED WITH THE UNNECESSARY FUCKING SHAKY CAM?

(Sorry for dropping this huge chunk of text on you, it was supposed to just be about Stella originally but holy fuck that last episode made me nauseous and I got a bit carried away.)

No apologies needed; it was an excellent chunk of text.

Stella deserved better, and we as an audience deserved better, which isn't to say she needs to be redeemable or even likeable. But she does need to be human...to do something outside of scream and drink wine and exist. She needs to do more than just prop up the show's main ship. Give her something she thinks about, cares about, and like you said, let her talk to her fucking daughter.

Nothing about this shaky-cam show makes sense or feels fleshed out. Agreed completely that there's no way it's going through multiple drafts, and the longer these 30 car pileups of plot holes and characterization problems continue to go on, the closer the show gets to a point where no amount of revising is going to save it.

#Anonymous #hb stella #Helluva Boss #Helluva Boss critical #vivziepop critical #actual blog post

[a-few-of-my-favorite-mangas]

Romantic Killer

Story by Wataru Momose

Manga Volume 1 (Based on a Web comic, in color)

Shoujo, Romance, High School Setting, Comedy

Story   ★★★★☆   ||   ★★★☆☆   Art

Summary

When gamer Anzu gets transported to a world of hot guys, it’s like she’s in a dream... someone else’s dream! High schooler Anzu Hoshino has a great life. Every day she plays video games, pigs out on snacks, and pets her beloved cat. But this blissful existence is turned into a confusing mess when a magical creature transports her to an altered reality bereft of her favorite things. Now she’s stuck with hot guys instead! How can she possibly survive in such an awful world?!

Anzu must play along in this altered reality before she can return to her normal life, so she begrudgingly makes friends with Tsukasa Kazuki. He unfortunately happens to be one of the hottest and most popular guys at school, and what’s worse, she realizes that he might not even be that bad of a person!

Review

This is a comedy from the winner of the Shonen Jump’s 2nd Vertical Scroll Manga award. This is a spoof on shoujo mangas. Basic premise, because the birth rates are low in Japan, the magic fairy’s don’t get enough of the energy from all the children’s hearts that help fuel their wishes and they need to take desperate measures. Fairy Riri has selected Anzu for the magic restoration project where they pick young people who are too distracted and prioritize hobbies over romance and sets up Anzu life like a ideal shoujo romance manga, with several hot guys to fall head over heels for her, she just needs to select one! Until she falls in love, all of her favorite distractions - her games, her snacks, and her cat have been removed so that she can concentrate on love!

Anzu isn’t amused and tries to avoid all the obvious shoujo trope moments just to make the project fail! But, Riri is diabolical and the little imp creates embarrassing situations, sudden typhoon level storms, destroys apartments, rearranges memories, and basically throws every romantic shoujo trick to get her to interact with all of these unsuspecting hot guys who suddenly show up in her life... comedy ensues. 

After conveniently sending her parents overseas, hot guy #1 Kazuki enters Anzu’s life. At first she tries to avoid him, but Riri creates a series of unfortunate events for Kazuki that make it impossible for Anzu to avoid him and they end up living together after knowing each other for one day... Riri wastes no time! LOL

Just when Anzu starts to think she can manage with Kazuki, hot guy #2 enters the scene - Junta, her childhood friend who is secretly in love with her, but wait she never had a childhood friend!! Who is he? And what did Riri do to him?!? Poor guy, what is Anzu to do!!

I really enjoyed the first volume, it looks like there will be 4 volumes in total, so it should be a funny short story with plenty of hot guys to chase Anzu - will she succumb to true love after all?

#romantic killer #japanese manga #romance #comedy #high school setting #shoujo

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

dudes....enough about the dorkling. i want to hear more of ur alina meta bc i KNOW its delicious

This is a pretty broad topic! There’s a lot I could talk about. But generally, I think, for all the flaws in the execution of the story, Alina is a very good protagonist for what the series is about. A lot of books aren’t constructed with much intent, but thematically she really carries the story— as imo is evidenced by the gaping hole she left behind in KoS.

Alina is where all of the main ideas of the trilogy come together in one person. She carries the burden of the political and spiritual hopes of the nation, of the Grisha who were left bereft when the Darkling betrayed the monarchy, of the Darkling’s own desires. The gulf between those things and who she actually is and wants to be is incredibly important. What she must do to fulfill any of these expectations put on her and who she might become on the other side of it, when the church, the monarchy, and Grisha power seem to all culminate in evil one way or another.

Her personal character arc is about her asserting her identity and struggling for autonomy— literalized by the amplifiers— against the Darkling. But everything going on with the world feeds into it and is designed to further these themes.

This is what frankly makes the ending really gutting lol. It’s a story about growth until she’s like forcibly dragged back into regression. Presumably because Bardugo realized she wrote a story about the cost and corrupting nature of power, and thought to answer that by removing the opportunity for corruption. (I’d argue the same thing happened to Nikolai in KoS with him abdicating instead of reckoning with all the moral complications of monarchy) It’s frustrating!

Her personality and perspective are really important to how the plot progresses. Her being a peasant means she’s jaded about both the monarchy and the upper class that the Grisha in Ravka have become. Her *complete* lack of ambition and political drive juxtaposes really interestingly with the Darkling’s (and Nikolai’s, Zoya’s, the Apparat’s) desire for influence and power. Her main goal is just Not This, and having the freedom to live as she pleases basically? As opposed to being under someone else’s thumb.

I’ve also talked before about how I think the first book particularly is a direct deconstruction of immortal love interest paranormal romance tropes, and that’s very integral to her arc.

But yeah the books just… don’t work without her. Things get lopsided imo! Anyway she’s my daughter and I love her and the fandom is SO mean to her! Leave her alone shdhff

#grishaverse #shadow and bone #alina starkov #i ramble sometimes #all the bendy punctuations #a mysterious stranger has appeared

[it-happened-one-fic]

His Dream That, As of Yet, Remained Undreamt - Al Haitham

Author Notes: Behold, an unplanned sequel fic that was written solely because I decide to listen to that slowed reverb edit of the Albanian Remix of "Habibi" by Ricky Rich posted on Youtube by Lunaries again while writing. Anyhow, this is the sequel to the first Al Haitham fic I ever wrote and which is linked below, but you can probably read this as a stand alone of sorts. Reader is gender neutral, but they are also a dancer. This takes place post Sumeru archon questline I hope you enjoy.

Part 1: A Dream Thus Far Undreamt

Type: Fluff/romance (implied with great interest from Alhaitham)/gender-neutral reader/post Sumeru archon questline

Word Count: 872

Sheer fabrics swirled through the air, a spiraling vision of blue and red interspersed with golden threads that made the two dancers seem like the greatest treasures that this land owned.

Sumeru had changed since Azar had been displaced, the archon restored, and Al Haitham had become the Acting Grand Sage. The arts were no longer frowned upon, and the bazaar, with all its exotic scents and rousing music, was almost constantly filled with students from the Akademiya.

They were like starved men. Partaking in artistry that delighted both their eyes and ears for the first time as they consumed every form of art as if this were their only chance.

The smell of spices filled the streets, and voices could be heard everywhere, forcing one to strain to hear the music that the two women danced to. Each a different form of beauty and elegance in the way they interpreted their music.

Nilou was, without a doubt, the fan favorite. Kaveh himself had begun composing shoddy poetry that poorly described her flaming red hair and the blue silks of her robes. 

Unaware of her word bereft fan, Nilou smiled widely as she looked towards her fellow dancer, who joined her on stage in deep red robes that swirled gracefully around their form.

You were the less popular of the two for reasons beyond Al Haitham. Perhaps it was because he, unlike Kaveh, was not nearly as rabid in his affections, nor did he struggle amongst the throng of students in a wild attempt to watch the performance. Instead, he watched as he ever did, from a distant and raised position on a restaurant’s balcony.

Al Haitham was no fool. He knew that no mere words could ever describe the way you moved, looked, and even spoke. 

While Nilou’s smiles were like the bright sun that lit up the daytime so that workers could see their crafts and people could go about their lives, you were different. 

You were more like the moon. Possessing a gentleness that was at odds with warm-hued clothes you wore.

Yours was a beauty that seemed more mysterious and enchanting to Al Haitham. Perhaps this was the true reason you did not possess the fame of your fellow dancer.

Nilou was more recognized, and people were comfortable with her charms. It was less otherworldly and inexplicable.

Your charm, on the other hand, was more of the spellbinding variety. Something that few possessed and Al Haitham doubted he would ever truly understand. 

And that was why he suffered through Kaveh reciting his poetry while he remained silent and observed, as he always did.

The heavens had not recognized you as they had Nilou for her art and embodiment of beauty, but Al Haitham did. 

Al Haitham did and would continue to do so for a lifetime, even as your performance ended. 

Both you and Nilou gracefully spun to a stop as your hands interlocked, and you both stopped. Chest to chest, with your smiling faces toward the crowd who cheered and showered you both with flowers.

You both waved. Nilou, with endearing shyness that seemed to make the crowd rave still more. You, holding back and staying slightly behind your fellow dancer. 

But then it happened, and you caught Al Haitham off guard as you looked up and made eye contact with him, a gentle smile crossing your face as your eyes met his.

A tiny wave followed by a graceful inclination of your head was all you gave before your attention was taken by Nilou, who grasped your hands and pulled you to the front of the stage alongside her. Obviously wanting you to receive the same praise she was showered with.

The Acting Grand Sage was silent as he continued to gaze down at the two of you. Stunned that he had not only been noticed, but that you had smiled in a way that spoke of recognition.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who remembered your meetings in Port Ormos long before he’d known anything about the state of Sumeru’s Archon. Brief meetings, each of them, but they had made him intrigued by the possibility of a little thing called fate.

Because meeting you hadn’t seemed like an accident. It had seemed more like the beginning of a long path that had slowly been winding its way through numerous brief and often startling moments of seeing you through a crowd up until this day.

Al Haitham sat back, a smile crossing his features as his vision tunneled until you were his sole focus. It seemed that he had been noticed by his dream, that as of yet, remained undreamt.

The crowd slowly began to disperse, waved off by some of Nilou’s friends, and you were briefly left on stage alone, your head tilting back so that you once more looked up. Your sparkling eyes met his two-toned gaze as a knowing smile crossed your face again.

And it was then that Al Haitham knew this unspoken design of his would not remain wordless. It was high time that he at last approached his dream, which stemmed from days when the people of Sumeru did not dream unless it was wished for by the gods themselves.

#ah #Unplanned sequels #Genshin impact imagines #Al Haitham x reader #Kaveh mentioned #I felt like Kaveh would a fan of Nilou and kind of ran with it #Nilou mentioned #fluff #romance #dancer reader #gender neutral reader #Al Haitham #Sumeru #Kaveh #Nilou #Acting grand sage #Genshin impact #Genshin impact x you #Genshin impact x y/n #Genshin Impact as reader #Al Haitham x you #Al Haitham x y/n #mywritings #fic #Habibi #fanfiction #music

[fandom]

Big week for houses, huh?

Season 3 of The Owl House aired, leaving fans simultaneously grateful, bereft, and counting down the days and weeks until the second episode next year. The highly anticipated anime adaptation of Chainsaw Man finally premiered and it’s as intense as everyone had hoped. Bells Hells are having a doozy of a time in Critical Role and the next episode is sure to be a stunner. The final episodes of The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power and She-Hulk: Attorney at Law both featured some familiar faces. Finally, beloved actor Robbie Coltrane passed away at the age of 72. This is Tumblr’s Week in Review.

The Owl House

House of the Dragon

Chainsaw Man

The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power

My Chemical Romance

The Magnus Archives

She-Hulk: Attorney at Law

The Super Mario Bros. Movie

Archive of Our Own

Critical Role

Minecraft

Supernatural

Artists on Tumblr

Stranger Things

9-1-1

Robbie Coltrane

Aemond Targaryen | House of the Dragon

Luz Noceda | The Owl House

BTS

Daemon Targaryen | House of the Dragon

#week in review #10/17/2022 #robbie coltrane

[pomefioredove]

Hi there! I’d like to ask for a match-up please!

Pronouns-She/Her/They

Star sign: Virgo

Personality-

I’m a pretty introverted and spacey person who doesn’t go out of her way to interact with others IRL and am perfectly fine being on my own—I thrive on living in my own imagination anyways. INFP would best describe me. However if someone starts a conversation with me first, I don’t mind engaging with them either. I float from social group to social group, and as such, I don’t really have a set group of friends.

I consider myself a good judge of character and am not quick to trust others. It takes alot for me to open up to someone (bc I’m very anxious and nervous), and loyalty is very important to me. In fact I’d say I’m too suspicious of others at times and that makes me appear paranoid, cold, or stand-offish. On the other hand, I can be trusted with whatever secret you have. I’m the type that others tend to turn to for advice, even though I don’t necessarily think I’m good at providing it.

Another thing I pride myself on is my work ethic. I may procrastinate a lot and have a strange way of thinking, but I always get the job done. I don’t like letting others down and hate it when I am underestimated. I’m not a leader and prefer to follow, but can take charge if needed.

I hold grudges easily but forgive just as easily too. I have a big need for personal space and am not openly clingy or affectionate, and prefer more subtle or low-key ways of affection. All in all, I’m a flexible person who can adapt to many things.

Likes/Hobbies-Theater (particularly musicals), ancient history and mythology, Gothic literature, horseback riding, ice skating, photography, image editing, journaling, board games such as DnD, video games (mostly single player games, RPGS, visual novels, and otome games), cosplay, traveling, warm weather

Dislikes-Math, bigots, cold weather, rain, insects, seafood

For match-ups, I prefer not being matched with any staff or Sebek or Azul.

Thanks!

I match you with 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫

The First Impression:

Being a decent judge of character himself, Silver is able to guess many things about you from the start. Your seemingly cold demeanor doesn't bother him in the slightest, especially as someone who's had the same judgments made about him.

Why He Fell:

Silver's life is rather chaotic already. Between school, family matters, and his training, he rarely gets the time to breathe... which he's sort of trained himself out of needing, anyway.

Perhaps it's you, your caution and your space, that helps him slow down for a moment. It takes the both of you some time to become comfortable around one another (and Silver isn't one to push you into anything), though over time, you both recognize that there's something good in both of you.

Silver deeply admires your work ethic (as unconventional as it may be), your wide array of skills and interests, your trustworthiness, and your need for loyalty... the former of which he's happy to provide.

The Relationship:

Silver is stable, he's reliable, and he's devoted even to the point of beating himself up when he lets others down. Being surrounded by such powerful mages from childhood to present has left him with some high expectations for himself, which often leaves him feeling inadequate.

You're each other's "safe person", a breath of fresh air for when the guilt of letting other people down weighs on the both of you.

Love with Silver is simple. It's soft. It's bereft of the expectations and perceptions of others, which makes it feel special beyond words. There's no pressure to be a perfect couple, or to do PDA (he actually likes that your style of affection is more subtle), or to be good at it at all. Silver is patient, he's kind-hearted, he's loyal, and he's not going anywhere. He's just as new to this whole romance thing as you are, and he'll be glad to take his time working through the anxieties of it with you.

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚matchups! #hope this is okay!