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I'm on ao3 | 27 | queer | he/they | Judas | we post naruto, haikyuu and jjk here, sir

[a-pastel-edgelord]

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Ju Jutsu Kaisen

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Yankii! Sukuna x Sukeban Reader

One—Two—Three—Four—

"Satoru Gojo does not love you." Gojo x Geto!Reader

Megumi Fushiguro x FWB!Reader

One —Two —Three—

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The Ancient Dream — Sorcerer Sukuna x Reader - Heinan Period

Naruto

AO3 Fanfic

Ankle Biter Rated: E

Hey, Sakura-sensei! Rated: E

Haikyū!!

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"Rinatro Suna believes there are absolutes in life." (Suna x Reader)

"You are the closest thing Atsumu has ever had to a best friend." (Osamu x Reader)

"Shinsuke Kita is a man who likes what he likes—" (Kita x Reader)

"Despite all the commonly held beliefs about him—" (Atsumu x Reader)

"Aran knows how to keep his head." (Aran x Reader)

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

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Fanfic

Series: Love After it's Over

Sanemi Shinazugawa X Reader

Traveler: One—Two—Three—Four—Five

.

Tomioka Giyuu X Reader

Hospitality: One—Two—Three—Four—Five

[rolfmans]

Looking like :D Inner sakura au!! 🌸

Warning for transphobia!

[pa3-art]

[mintmatcha]

happy valentine’s day! do you think aizawa and inevitable reader do anything for the day?

YES OF COURSE OUR MAN WOULD NEVER EVERRRR LET OUR GIRL NOT HAVE A GOOD DAY

the first year they're dating and it's still not out at the company, she gets a couple flowers for her desk. the interns are gone at this point (minus one of them who got a full time job there!) so they arent questioning it, but a couple of other people around the office ask her about her new boyfriend and her pretty new earrings-

(and she gets her pussy eaten for a looonggg time that night)

[mintmatcha]

I think after they tell everyone its like lowkey weird how much Aizawa does for reader. The office is terrified of this harassment and meanwhile he's leaned over his girlfriend's desk asking if she likes the matching slippers he got them

[peachdues]

new Kyojuro drop coming soon??

@stuckinthewrongworld pspspspsps

[mintmatcha]

Have you ever heard of like the old tradition that executioners were sometimes allowed to pardon a female criminal if she agreed to become his wife since it was harder to get married as an executioner. I feel like you’d go crazy for that premise. Also I love you.

ive been brewing over this all daaayyy its plaguing meeeee

he's a quiet man. he does this solely because its a necessity. maybe he's heavily scarred under the mask, unable to hold any other job or wife-

so when you beg for your life, he gives you an out.

"it's death," he says quietly. "or a prison with me."

the ones who sentenced you fight, of course. they call you a witch, a monster-

but at the end of the day, his axe is clean and he calls you his wife.

[mintmatcha]

I dont think you see his face for a while. he settles into bed after candlelight is out and leaves before the sun rises. he doesnt sleep next to you, asks you nothing, silently eats the food you make.

"If you're not going to treat me as a wife," you say. "Why even marry me?"

He moves his spoon in the glop you had made for dinner. You were never a perfect housemaker.

"Better than being alone."

[mintmatcha]

when you do see his face, its worse than you imagined. its scarred, teeth exposed through his cheek, skin pink and shiny. It's only for a moment and he moves quickly, snuffing the fire.

"Don't-" he warns in in the dark.

"Come to my bed tonight," you say. "Snow is coming and the house gets cold."

[mintmatcha]

the first time you two have sex, almost no words are exchanged. you're awakened by his arm coming over your form, simply resting on your hip. Tonight hes pressed into your back, soft breaths tickling the back of your neck. hes a large man, thick and barrel chested, soft around the middle and softening still the longer he is married to you. his touch is innocent, but you dont want it to be.

you carefully guide his hand up, letting it cup your tit. For a moment, you think he's fully asleep and completely unaware, fingers still against you. then, he squeezes, gently, testing the feel of you under him. the beat of his breath grows warmer as he moves, breathing you in, touching you-

you pull up your own dress and push down his pants without ever turning to face him. His cock is burly, twitching and leaking against your inner thigh as you try to line him up with yourself.

"It's slippery, like oil-" he mumbles into your hair. "I've never-"

It doesn't surprise you that he's a virgin. When would he have ever? You just presses back into you until your body gives and the monstrous head of his cock pops inside you.

[thegirlontheceiling]

[bowtiepasta-deactivated20260309]

GREEK WEEK? MORE LIKE FREAK WEEK. call it brotherhood, call it perverse, but sharing you is the only tradition seijoh takes seriously—you’re their sweetheart, after all. what’s better than having one frat boyfriend? having four.

re: seijoh 4 — indulging: smut, 18+, afab and female reader, foursome, body worship, manhandling, piv, dryhump, oral x5, fingering, crėampie, eiffel tower. 3,634 words

read more | give me a kiss | send a request

“alright, she’s cheating. there’s no way.”

you laugh as the pile of cards scatter across the carpet. “how? you watched me shuffle.”

“watched oikawa shuffle,” matsukawa corrects, leaning back until the chair tips precariously on two legs. “we all know he only deals you good hands.”

oikawa scowls, sprawled behind you, legs bracketing your sides, “excuse you, mattsun. i’m fair.”

“i’m just better at bluffing than you,” you shoot back, voice dimmed by iwaizumi’s footsteps, his hair damp from the shower, the neck of his sweatshirt tugged loose as he makes his way around the couch.

“she met you playing cards, didn’t she?” he joins in, nudging a chilled water bottle at your knee. his forearms tense where his sleeves are pushed up. “was it freshman year? cleaned him out first game.”

“i did not get cleaned out!” oikawa snaps, flush proving otherwise. “it was a generous donation.”

“she bought coffee for a week with that money,” hanamaki says through a mouthful of popcorn, setting it on the table with too much force, kernels spilling onto the already cluttered surface. “donation my ass.”

oikawa’s hoodies always smell like his cologne, and one swallows you whole now, arms rolled three times over your wrists as you shuffle the deck again.

“shuffle slower,” hanamaki pipes up while he cranes forward, handful of butter dripping down his forearm. “i’m trying to count the cards.”

“you can’t,” iwaizumi reaches over to pluck the deck from your hands before you can try. “she’s been stacking the odds since the game started.”

“stacking the odds?” oikawa’s voice floats down from behind you—halfway across your shoulder to peek at your cards, laughing as you palm his face away.

“please, hajime. she’s been rigging us since the first time she knocked on the door with that lost little face, asking for directions to the library.”

you elbow him in the stomach. “i was lost.”

“you weren’t,” matsukawa sips from a can that hisses when he hands it to makki, who downs the rest of it. “we didn’t even tell you the right way. thought it was funny when you kept showing up after that.”

“you make it sound like we’re monsters,” iwaizumi says as he rifles through the DVD stack you brought in.

“she’s still here though? guess we didn’t do too bad.”

“she stays because,” oikawa argues, settling next to you on the carpet. “who else would let her cheat at poker and still call her sweetheart?”

“i told you i don’t cheat.” you grumble, poking at his chest now. “you suck at reading me.”

you push your tongue into your cheek, “half these are marked anyway.” his gaze drops, not subtly, to the neckline of your shirt, just as you move away from him.

“-i can see the scratches from here.” you huff.

“not from me,” hanamaki defends immediately, throwing his hands up. “that’s from when iwa thought it was a good idea to use them as coasters.”

“hey,” iwaizumi stretches out on the armchair, legs too long for the space, heel knocking at the table. “beer cans sweat. you want rings on the wood?”

matsukawa makes a dramatic noise from the back of his throat. “it’s not even real wood.”

“it is real wood,” iwaizumi counters, arms crossed over the other. “it’s just cheap.”

“okay, then you buy the next one.” hanamaki shoots back, eyes mere slits now.

“i already bought the last one!” iwaizumi’s voice rises with genuine indignation. “you think the TV stand magically appeared?”

you stifle a laugh, and oikawa gently nudges your shoulder with his knee. “this is what happens when we let them play house. they fight about plywood.”

“alright,” matsukawa says finally, collecting the beer cans on the coffee table. “let’s put on a movie before someone breaks the table for real.”

“not horror,” oikawa says instantly.

“you’re such a baby,” hanamaki sighs.

“she doesn’t like horror either,” oikawa points at you, chin lifting as though that settles it.

“what about action?” iwaizumi asks, looking at you for the first time in a while. “you liked the last one, right?”

you shrug. “as long as it’s not three hours long.”

“good luck with that,” hanamaki murmurs. “everything’s three hours long these days.”

“what’s the point in choosing?” you let the cards fall into the case, bewildered there still is one. “you’re all going to end up arguing through it anyway.”

“that’s tradition,” matsukawa says as you push yourself off the carpet, patting the spot between his legs with a lazy grin. “you don’t mess with tradition.”

oikawa, perched on the couch with a pillow hugged to his chest, cuts in. “we’re going in circles. just pick a movie before i age forty more years.”

“you already look forty,” iwaizumi says, tossing a balled-up sock that misses his head by an inch.

the arguing continues in overlapping voices: action versus comedy, subtitles or dubbed, long or short runtime. every. single. choice is vetoed.

eventually, hanamaki slips in a top gun: maverick (2022) blu-ray. 2 hours, 11 minutes.

when you blink awake, the room is different.

you come to slowly, the dark a little heavier than before, your head muzzy and warm. the bed isn’t yours. the sheets smell faintly like laundry soap and something sharper—deodorant, maybe cologne. you push yourself upright just as the door nudges open.

matsukawa slips in, shutting the door with his foot. “figured i’d find you awake,” he says, holding a glass of water out. “you missed the best part. makki tried to eat an entire sleeve of oreos in one bite.”

you take the glass. “gross.”

“yeah. he almost died.” matsukawa drops onto the edge of the bed with a long sigh. “we would’ve had to explain that to his parents. ‘sorry, your son choked on double stuf.’”

“-you drool, by the way.”

your head jerks up. “i do not.”

“you do,” he takes the glass back and sets it on the nightstand. “right here—” he tugs at a sleeve of his shirt, then the other, “—and here.”

you groan, throwing yourself back against the pillows. “why didn’t you wake me up?”

“because you were dead to the world,” he smiles, rolling over. “and because i’m not an asshole.” a beat. “well. not that kind of asshole. you were conked out.”

you laugh under your breath. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

your throat feels tight, half embarrassed, half something else. you picture them noticing you, picture matsukawa scooping you up and taking you to his room without a word.

you lean in, giving in to impulse, pressing your mouth to his. his lips taste faintly like the coke he stole from the fridge earlier and maybe a little like beer.

he kisses you back without a blink, almost as part of the conversation, hand braced on the headboard so he doesn’t tip into you too much.

when you start to pull back, he chases you for another.

it drifts into a stretch of making out—your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, his laugh breaking into your mouth when your knee knocks his.

“that was nice,” he says, eyes swimming in yours. “what’s it for?”

“‘nice,’” you repeat, scoffing, though you’re already pulling him in again. “just a thank you.”

he meets you halfway this time, deeper, wetter, testing just how far you’ll go. his teeth catch your lower lip, gentle, and his palm slides over your thigh.

“did you want me to say mind-blowing? life-changing?” he teases between kisses.

you roll your eyes, not meaning to creep your hand under his shirt but doing it by instinct anyway.

he pulls back. “you horny or something?”

“jesus. you could work on your delivery.”

“not a no,” he grins, hand flexing against your ribs, tugging you closer like he already knows your answer.

you snort, breathless, shoving at his chest but not moving away. “you’re such an ass.”

you don’t move off him, even with your hand still pressed to his chest. he runs warm under your palm, heartbeat steady, and when he shifts his weight, it drags you closer across the sheets.

his hand leaves your ribs to pull you until his knees slot between your thighs, tongue pressing deeper into your mouth, taking everything you’re willing to give him.

his thumb hooks under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up. “what’re you wearing under this?”

you pause mid-kiss, give him a look. “seriously?”

he doesn’t flinch, eyes dipping as his hand settles beneath your ribs. “mhm. tell me.”

your laugh slips out sharp and breathy, caught between amusement and disbelief. “that’s so cliché.”

“not an answer.” his palm moves up, teasing at the lace now. “c’mon.”

you shake your head, smiling. “you’re so nosy.”

“nosy?” he gawks as he kisses up your stomach. “you’re the one with your hand already on my dick.”

you shift, letting your palm squeeze him through his sweats. “what, you only wanted to make out?”

“…no,” he mutters, tugging you flush against him.

you press closer, kneading him through his sweats. “then what?”

he groans, jaw pulling taut. “what do you think?”

you press yourself against him, palm still gripping firmly as his hips shift under yours. your legs tangle with his, knees bumping, thighs sliding together as he grinds up into you.

your back lifts off the bed, chest flush against his shoulder as he lifts you with one arm braced behind your back. you nip the skin at the base of his neck, and he hums against you, gripping your hip with one hand while the other drags circles up your side.

the moans, the gasps, the little grunts and laughs all mix together as you both move with growing urgency, careless of the volume.

“god, you feel so good,” you confess, nails digging into his shoulder. he shifts again, pressing into you harder, grinding in sync with your movements, answering in kind, murmurs spilling past his lips.

somewhere down the hall, the voices of the others stop suddenly. a door clicks open, hesitant, before footsteps creep closer, and he smirks against your mouth.

“looks like we got company,” he whispers, gauging your reaction. “still wanna play?”

you nod, knees hooked over his thighs as his fingers slip under your panties. first one, then two, stretching and pressing into you, skimming over your folds.

“fuck you’re tight,” he bites out, thumb dragging over your clit through the fabric while his other hand cups your breast, brushing over the sensitive curve.

you arch into him, low, breathy hums escaping as he curls his fingers inside you, moving with intent. you hips roll against his hand, moaning against his mouth when he presses just the right spot.

“you good?” he noses at your neck.

somewhere in the haze, the door clicks, faint but unmistakable. you glance toward it, heat flooding even more, but matsukawa pushes his fingers in deeper.

“still good?” he laughs, being a tease.

the door swings open. hanamaki steps in first, caught somewhere between confusion and slow realization. “what the hell i- …oh.”

oikawa and Iwaizumi trail behind him, quiet at first, eyes widening as they take in the scene: you pressed to matsukawa, fingers in his hair, body moving with his, his hand down your pants.

hanamaki gives him a pointed look.

matsukawa shrugs. “she needed some help.”

his fingers pump and curl, a ragged moan spilling out of you as you come all over his hand. he slows his strokes, praises in your ear as you settle down.

the room fills with heavy breaths from the three watching—quiet gasps, low exhales. with a grin tugging at your lips, you notice they’re all visibly hard.

matsukawa pulls his fingers out gently, resting his hand on your hip. “you okay?”

he smiles as you nod, moving up to give you a peck before sitting back on his heels. he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean, eyes flicking to yours.

from the doorway, iwaizumi and hanamaki shift their weight, your thoughts spiraling until oikawa cuts through the haze, leaning close. “do i get a turn?”

you reach out, and he tilts you back by the chin, the cool metal of his layered necklaces pressing against your skin as his cologne fills your senses.

summer citrus maybe, mixed with the sharp, sun-warmed scent of his argentina tan.

he whispers something low and playful in spanish—your heart skips a beat at the soft cadence, the way his accent rolls over the word, and the warmth just below your stomach grows once again.

matsukawa settles between your legs, big hands sliding under your thighs to spread them wide, pressing you flush against his face as he nudges his nose against your folds.

you gasp softly, rocking against him.

he hums, deliberate licks mixing with soft nibbles along the sensitive spots. “shh…” he murmurs, keeping you apart. “just relax for me, yeah?”

oikawa’s lips press to yours from above, hands tangling in your hair. he teases, lips barely breaking contact. “did you want this to happen?”

“us walking in on you two… them watching.” his eyes glint between kisses, cheeks rosy as he grins.

without a word, iwaizumi nudges matsukawa aside, callouses sliding along your legs, easily taking over, eyes flicking up at you for approval.

matsukawa chuckles low, moving out of his way. “go ahead, big guy. be gentle with her.”

you feel him smirk between your legs, quickly turning into a groan as matsukawa leans over, a hand gripping the back of iwa’s head, tugging and guiding him.

it’s overwhelming, three men kissing and sucking and touching, warm palms splaying all over your body. all the things leaving their mouths are like worship, “you’re so damn pretty”… “i love that you’re ours”… so reassuring and careful that it’s almost enough to distract you from the one who hasn’t given in.

almost.

oikawa’s lips are sloppy on yours, tasting every noise you make until you’re gasping into him.

below, iwaizumi’s on his knees—jaw working hungrily as his tongue drags through you again and again.

every time your hips twitch away, a rough tug drags him back in, matsukawa’s fingers curling like reins. he looks far too content in his so-called “chair,” palming himself while watching iwaizumi eat you out all proud. “don’t let her squirm away,” he drawls, tugging harder when you cry out. “she can take it.”

it’s too much, too intense, and yet—out of the corner of your eye, hanamaki is standing still.

“greedy fucks,” he mutters finally, voice both bite and bark. “passing her around like a toy.”

it makes oikawa laugh into your mouth, smug even with his lips shiny from kissing you raw.

“if you asked nicely, she’d give you a turn too.”

the faintest smirk. “yeah?”

hanamaki’s voice dips, while his hand ghosts lazily over his crotch. “what do you think, sweetheart? they’ve had their fill. maybe you’d rather try me instead.”

the sound hooks you before the sight does: metal teeth sliding apart. then he’s got himself out, twitching on his stomach.

your breath catches, and it’s not subtle at all how your gaze drops, caught on the movement of his fist around himself. his smirk sharpens, and he leans forward, dangling the bait. “reach for me.”

and you do. almost without thinking, fingers stretching toward him, more desperate than you mean to be.

oikawa shakes his head. “that’s how it is?”

matsukawa chuckles, arms behind his head. “one flash of cock and she forgets all about us.”

your hand squeezes around him, testing, and the breath that stutters out of him makes your lips part. his cock twitches against your palm, heavy and hot, and you can feel the sharp press of oikawa’s grin against your cheek as he watches you give in.

“look at you,” hanamaki looks down at you, “all that attention and you still wanted me to keep you busy.”

oikawa grabs your jaw again, voice warm and sticky-sweet, “you like keeping us all busy, don’t you? can’t stand the thought of anyone being left out.”

your wrist flexes, grip still around hanamaki, and the words slip out before you can think better of it, half-gasp, half-plea: “…i wanna suck it.”

oikawa laughs again, “hear that? she’s making her own requests now.” he wipes your spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking down.

“flip her,” he orders, and iwaizumi is already moving, broad palms guiding you over like you weigh nothing.

the room is too small for grace—you’re pressed forward against the bed, cheek catching the cool surface as Iwa nudges your thighs wider from behind.

“didn’t have to beg,” hanamaki drawls, letting you taste the salt of his skin. “asked for it herself.”

still below you, iwaizumi lets out a laugh that comes out closer to a croak, grip tight on your hips. “she’ll say anything with your dick in her hand.”

hanamaki bends close, voice dropping to a husky whisper that makes your stomach knot. “then let’s see what she says with it in her mouth.”

he doesn’t give you much room to think before he’s pressing the head of his cock to your lips. you open easily, lips wrapping soft and eager as you take him in, the weight of him heavy on your tongue. his hand curls into your hair, not rough, just guiding, a low groan spilling out of him when you hollow your cheeks.

“shit, baby…” he breathes, hips twitching forward as though he can’t help himself. “just like that.”

there’s a sharp metallic clink in the quiet—matsukawa undoing his belt, the leather sliding free in a low hiss.

behind you, iwaizumi rises from his knees, the stiches of his jeans rasping against your thighs as he slots himself up against you. he doesn’t bother tugging them down, simply pushes forward, straining under the denim and grinding between your cheeks.

the friction has you whimpering around hanamaki’s length, throat tightening as iwaizumi’s palms knead, pulling you back into every push.

oikawa, perched back to watch, lets out a laugh, tongue sweeping over his teeth. “figures,” he says, smiley. “he’s always been an ass guy.”

iwaizumi growls, not denying it—hips pushing harder until your knees threaten to give. hanamaki hisses when your throat tightens around him at the same time, eyes squeezed shut, hand flexing in your hair.

he’s breathless above you, voice breaking on another moan. “you’re drooling all over me, sweetheart,” he teases, thumb swiping the spit that escapes from the corner of your mouth.

in the corner, matsukawa’s low baritone fills the cramped room. “she’s not gonna last.”

oikawa’s gaze flicks between you and the two of them. “we don’t exactly have all night, do we?” he hums. “might as well make the most of what we’ve got.”

iwaizumi’s tip nudges against your entrance, and your breath hitches at the sudden realization that he’s already out too, pink and glistening as he teases you open for him.

he doesn’t rush, letting the head press, rotate, and stretch you, slow enough that you can feel every nerve screaming in that exquisite, sharp way.

“ohhh—fuck, it-” you gag slightly around hanamaki, pulling him gently from your mouth to gasp, “it hurts.”

iwaizumi shifts forward another fraction, inching in slowly, letting your body adjust to the fullness, every muscle instinctively clenching around him. stars burst behind your eyelids; your legs quiver, stomach twisting with the sharp pleasure-pain.

hanamaki hums in front of you, nudging his cock against your cheek, a low chuckle escaping him. “c’mon now… finish what you started,” he murmurs, coaxing you back to work without force, giving you room to return to him.

you slide back down, lips closing around him while iwaizumi inches further, half in now, thick and stretching you deliciously.

he starts to move, hips rolling forward, and your throat clenches around hanamaki as he pumps into you, thick length filling you fully.

each thrust drives your chest forward, your back bending over the heat and friction from both sides forcing your hips to tilt.

hanamaki rocks lightly in your mouth, every motion sending hot jolts through your body.

the room hums with wet friction, soft gasps, and low moans—your body squeezed between them.

your body begins to pulse uncontrollably with the double stimulation, every push, every slick glide, every throb sending jolts through your core.

hanamaki’s low groans vibrate through your jaw, pressing far enough inside to make your throat burn, and you jerk slightly, hands gripping his hips as he nudges forward again. “that’s it… all of it,” he rasps, your teeth grazing lightly along the base.

it hits you like a wave—hot, tight, and full—his release mixes with yours, every muscle in his arms and chest taut as he rides it out, making your eyes roll, toes curl, spasm after spasm driving you over.

hanamaki pulls out before he can finish too.

oikawa leans in suddenly, a hand sliding under your back, the other gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your front. “come on, you did so good,” his lips trail urgent kisses across your neck, jaw, and shoulder as the other two catch their breath, pupils blown.

you let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed, as he murmurs praise, fingers ghosting along your spine, teasing the dampness at your thighs.

the room hums with the heavy aftermath—breaths, slick skin, and the faint, steady pulse of adrenaline still coursing through you.

matsukawa crawls over you? chuckling as he cocks his head. “looks like hajime’s out of commission.”

oikawa, pressing against your back, glances over your shoulder at him, a sly grin on his face. “that’s okay,” he smiles. “we can take care of her too.”

greek life has rules. the seijoh boys? they only follow one: if she’s ours, she’s ours together.

bowtiepasta made this. do not copy repost or feed to ai. dm for permission to translate or recommend. spam interactions are a-okay.

@olivebowl @osamucide @kakuthefish @cumslut4atsumumiya @luustdovr @deltamel @cam-leaf @bxnfire @manhattanstrawberry @lipstainedgemini @noyaswrld

[olivebowl-deactivated20251125]

im here

[sleepybluehead]

Team 7 too warm comic (3/3)

Had it marinated for a year lmao

[gratytudy]

sasosaku au

[ by LuLuShirley7874 ]

[kokodrawings]

Naruto learns about his dad ✨

[mintmatcha]

omg mint rival reader is making me think crazy hard. tmi probably and cw for ed but like when i’m nervous in public i can’t eat at all, and sometimes that goes on for really long hours (and it doesn’t help that im visually different looking which calls a lot of attention which makes me more self conscious of eating)

i can imagine rival reader going to something so similar. constantly having to be this vision of beauty, keeping up a bubbly appearance for the cameras and the crowds, always the center of attention- it takes so much concentration and also nerve wracking that it twists her stomach into knots for hours. ofc when she’s alone with bakugou she’s fucking fed up, in the most horrible of moods, kinda takes it out on him but at the same time he’s probably the only person she lets her guard down for a little bit to even act this way.

and bakugou, after spending a lot of time getting pissed at every little thing she does, narrows his eyes a little one day like,, hey when’s the last time you ate? i don’t think i’ve ever seen you eat at all. what’s that about

i’m sorry the thoughts are consuming me

cw: eating disorders, catty teenaged girls

The worst thing about you, Bakugo decides, is how well your agencies work together. Your interns are eager and capable-- and having pretty girls around keeps his intern in line too. And being around you softens his image.

It pisses him the fuck off, but it softens his image.

The raps on the door to your office against his better judgment, but you don't look up, too busy fiddling with your shoes. You've changed since this morning, into a thick sweatshirt that doesn't suit the summer weather. He waits for you to look up, but you don't.

"I'm buying the kids lunch. You want something?"

"No." You're tightening the laces on your shoe. "I'm going for a run."

"A run? Seriously? We've been on the case since this morning." You've been running around the city since eight with no breaks; the high schoolers are basically flattened with exhaustion and hunger. "I just wanna take these fucking boots off and sit."

"That's why I'm ahead of you on the charts." Standing, you adjust your outfit again, fluffing the fabric away from your form. "I actually work."

"You're only ahead of me 'cause your ass is always hanging out." Bakugo rolls his eyes and leans back, trying to bite his anger away. "I'm serious, though. I'm buying for all your interns-- might as well get you something."

"I said no."

"You didn't have lunch, you gotta be hungry."

"I said no, Katsuki."

The sound of his given name shocks him. He didn't even know you KNEW it. Your shoulders touch when you brush by him, bullying your way into the hall.

"I'm trying to be nice for once, damn," Bakugo spits. "Do you not even eat or something?"

And you whirl around so aggressively that he holds his hands up in surrender. He's never seen you so furious, shaking with anger, and he is struck with the fact that he may have hit the nail on the head.

"I //eat//." You've rocked on to your toes, trying to gain some height on him. "I just don't wanna watch you stuff your face."

Later, he brings up the conversation to your interns, who both exclaim "oh my god" at him. They're both lounged themselves on his floor, shoes abandoned and costumes partially undone for comfort.

"Oh, she's on a diet." Your pink haired follower uses a couple air quotes and an eye roll to get her point across.

"Yeah, the two finger diet," the other chimes in.

Bakugo takes another bite of his burger and chews for way too long. His throat just can't seem to swallow. "What's that supposed to mean? The two fingers thing."

"You know, like-" She holds her pointer and middle finger up and pantomimes sticking them in her mouth and gagging. "Only thing she puts in her throat."

Bakugo had never liked you, ever. But nothing has ever made him broil faster than the way those girls laugh, like it's funny. Like you possibly suffering is funny.

"Don't say shit like that." He pushes to his feet and they both look up with wide eyes like kicked dogs. "Don't spread rumors."

The two girls exchange a sly look, but stay quiet until Bakugo marches out of the room. They aren't right. He's seen you eat. That one time, when--

No, you hadn't eaten then.

What about the party? Around all those cameras you must have--

Oh.

Shit.

[sakamoto-daysarchive]

JUJUTSU KAISEN – Season 3 Trailer!

[nxctern]

Back to my low effort narutos

[polytherian]

hey look what i made

100+ picrews. more to come. all organized and categorized with different tags. fully intended to update with more tags and more features

click here. and hit reblog. (please)

[ofmermaidstories]

the sooner people understand x reader as a literary device and not a blank slate for you get mad at for not actually being a blank slate, the more fun we’ll all have. the reader-insert will never be a perfect empty canvas. even without character and world motivation it’s just the sheer fact that these things are written by imperfect humans—some of them do it better than others but all of them will leave their dirty filthy thumbprints on ur precious mirror of a entryway, that’s literally just how creation works. it will never perfectly include everyone, it’s not meant to, they work exactly the same as other characters—the degree to which you relate to them will depend on the story, what they do, and who’s writing it (and you who’s reading it, of course).

[tiramistupid-deactivated2026012]

(DON'T) BE CARELESS WITH ME | PART TWO

✦ content: eren jaeger x female reader, modern au, angst, alcohol, background death mentions, explicit language, sexual content, reader discretion advised. 18+

✦ word count: ~4.8k

read part one here

You stared at his name on your phone screen for so long that it no longer looked like a word but symbols from a strange language you’d never seen before. It looked wrong, almost. 

Are you home?

Above Eren’s text was the last one you sent him years ago. One he hadn’t replied to. 

You sent him a picture of the diner he swore was the best. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. Evidenced by the giant PERMANENTLY CLOSED sign plastered across the front door. 

You snapped a picture one day and sent it to Eren with the message: Looks like they’ve missed their favorite (and only) customer. 

When you didn’t hear from him then, you took it as final confirmation he’d given up on your friendship and figured you should probably do the same. Whatever version of Eren you still clung to no longer existed.

Seeing that ignored message drudged up all sorts of old feelings. Your stomach soured how it had the first time, and every time you thought about it after that.

At one point or another, you probably would have said the few years Eren was in your life were not some of the best but the best. You liked your life then, really truly, would have shouted it from the rooftops, liked it. That wasn’t to say you disliked your life now, but nostalgia has a knack for fuzzying up the past, doesn’t it? Making everything all sunshiny and warm and irreplaceable.

You liked being on your own, without a roommate, for the first time, and you liked how comfortable you felt in solitude. There was a strange sort of independence you had back then that you’ll never have again, because you’ll never be in your early twenties again. Faux-dependence. A juvenile naivety that empowered you enough to believe you could manage blurry-lined feelings for a friend while continuously skirting and straddling that boundary, and it would never go any further than that because you wouldn’t let it. You were different; you were strong enough to handle such a touchy, temperamental situation. You could balance an over-bloated balloon on the tip of a sewing needle and absolutely nothing would ever blow up in your face. 

It sounded pretty dumb now, but they say ignorance is bliss for a reason. And it was bliss, pure and unadulterated. You could drink more beers than you could count on one hand and not wake up with a hangover. You could nod off with your head on Eren’s lap (it was okay because there was a pillow separating you) and you wouldn’t spend the following day wondering if he was still thinking about it, too. You were carefree, you convinced yourself. Nothing could keep you tied down. 

Since then, one stupid night colored that entire season of your life. What was once bubbly and rose-tinted—nights spent together on the snug loveseat you had back then (since sold for the low low price of a six pack) with your legs draped over Eren’s lap; him, unbothered by this, happy to lift and replace your weight every time he had to stand; eating microwavable popcorn, two bags, two bowls, because he’d drizzle hot sauce on his—were now swathed in grays. Murky, wet paint billowing across frail paper, smudging what was once, in your opinion, a fine-looking painting. Now, you couldn’t remember the last time you bought popcorn. 

You shoved the sick feeling down the same way you shoved your phone into the very back of your junk drawer, amongst the loose change, hair scrunchies, and old receipts you thought you might need again but never did. Dramatic? Perhaps, but it was the only semi-helpful solution you could come up with to forget about the stupid text. Pushing him back into the depths of your brain, both metaphorically and quite literally.

Admittedly, you never truly stopped waiting. For what, you weren’t sure. Much like last night, you had this gnawing in your gut that this wouldn't be the last you’d hear from Eren. 

The thing was, you just didn’t expect to hear from him that soon. Later into the evening, you heard a knock at your apartment door. Your heart skipped a beat before sinking so deep within you that it might never crawl back out. Maybe you’d talked yourself into it, or maybe you’d finally lost your mind, but you believed right then you still recognized Eren’s presence by his knock alone—learned the rhythm by heart, apparently. Some things never change, for better or for worse.

Now, there he was, standing at your doorstep and waiting to see if you’d invite him in. You would, of course. He knew that, too. 

Eren’s face softened the second he caught your eye. “You don’t want to know how many of your neighbors I just met.” 

You remained tight-lipped. Partly because you didn’t know what to say, partly because you were lost wondering how you’d explain this to your nosy, elderly neighbor later. But that was a problem for another day. There was a bigger, taller problem looming right in front of you. 

“Can I come in?” the problem asked.

You stared longer than you meant to, but your little protest stood for nothing, not after you conceded with a sigh and said, “Of course you can.”

Earlier, when you said Eren’s name looked wrong on your phone—well, he looked wrong in your apartment, too. Though you’d imagined it, this moment, before, the pieces didn’t fit right together. Like you’d torn him out of one magazine and glued him into another. Two things that never were really supposed to go together, a mishap of a collage.

His eyes meandered over the walls, the various paintings and picture frames you’d hung forever ago, taking in the tiny world you created without him, oblivious to or choosing to ignore how you studied him. You were still questioning how you could go nearly four years without speaking, then jump to him nosing through your belongings like he hadn’t gone all this time ignoring them—your things, your life, you. All of it. 

For a second, you thought it was the fact that he looked too large for the space—it was a studio, afterall. Smaller than your old apartment, but located in a more vibrant part of the city—that must have been the reason he looked out of place. Or perhaps it was because he was effectively in your bedroom. It was too intimate, in a way, him amongst your well-loved duvet and mismatched pillows, as if he had any right to be there. What you felt right then—that flitter in your heart, that acrid taste on the back of your tongue, as sweet as it was sour—meant nothing to you and it meant absolutely everything to you. You had no idea what to make of it.

When Eren finally spoke, he wasn’t looking at you. He was hunched forward, examining the books lining your shelf like he was searching for something in particular. “Sorry I came by so late.” Your eyes flickered to the digital time on the front of the oven. 10:24. “I could have been here sooner if you answered your phone, you know.”

“I lost it,” you lied before you could think it through. 

“I’ll help you find it,” he replied easily. So easily, in fact, you knew he didn’t believe you. He probably enjoyed the look on your face, too, when he pulled his phone from his back pocket to call yours. 

You didn’t even pretend to stop him. The distinct rumbling of your phone against wood echoed from your kitchenette. You winced, shuffling backward to retrieve it from the drawer. Eren gave you a strange look, a knowing smile, and the back of your neck began to burn uncomfortably. 

“It’s not like you have any room to talk about—” You interrupted yourself with a huff and tried to disarm your own defenses. “Forget it. You obviously came here for a reason. Which is…” 

You gestured for him to fill in the blank, and he did. “I wanted to make things right,” Eren said, “between us.” 

The sentence alone—no, that word in particular—made your stomach curdle.

“You keep saying ‘us.’ There never was an ‘us.’ You made sure of that.”

His face twitched like the words had grown wings and stung him like a wasp. Still, he didn’t back town, taking the pain in stride as he admitted, “What you said last night, you were right. I have regrets—one, actually—and I feel guilty as hell over it. I was so ashamed for leaving you that morning, then up and leaving altogether, that I couldn’t bring myself to face you again. I mean, after so long, how could I?” Then his voice dropped to a mumble, so low that you couldn’t tell if he meant to say it aloud. “I only hoped you’d move on, forget about everything—me. Even if I couldn’t.”

As if you were suddenly drowning, this roaring in your ears like water, you couldn’t make out what Eren said. You heard him, yes, but at the same time, somehow, you couldn’t decipher a lick of it.

“If you knew it was so wrong,” you accused, “then why run away in the first place?” 

Eren took a while to answer this one. 

“When I woke up beside you that morning, I—I don’t know. I just freaked out, I guess,” he lamented. “I looked at you and I couldn’t believe that wasn’t going to be my life anymore. That I could have had so many more of those mornings, we could have.”

How he spoke, the resignation in his voice, sobered and subdued—you couldn’t recall another time he sounded quite like that. You blinked, hard, just to stop the stinging in the corners of your eyes.

“I had the thought that if I didn’t leave then, I might never.” He snorted, just once, like he was in disbelief of himself. “I thought I was being logical. I didn’t want to make this big of a decision with my heart rather than my brain. The smart thing to do was to take the job, right?” The question was rhetorical, but he still gave pause. “I was too stupid to put it together then, but it turned out that my brain wanted the same thing my heart did, and by the time I put it together, I’d already made the biggest mistake of my life.” 

You didn’t want to hear him anymore. It hurt. You wanted him to stop talking. 

“What we did that night was a mistake,” you corrected, albeit shakily. 

Eren frowned. “Don’t say that. It wasn’t a mistake. Not to me.” 

“Then why did you leave without saying goodbye?” you cried out. You couldn’t hold back this time. Your patience with him had long worn thin; you finally let yourself snap. “You couldn’t even bother to pick up the fucking phone in the last four years. What else was I supposed to think?” 

You could yell, but you wouldn’t let yourself cry. You refused to. You were over this, over him. Again and again, you swore it to yourself, and you wouldn’t break that promise to yourself now. 

Eren took you by your shoulders so there wasn’t any mishearing him when he said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I made you think that night was a mistake.”

You were shaking, not realizing so until you felt yourself trembling in his grasp, and you prayed he wouldn’t notice. You thought he might have, though, because he released you not even a second later. 

“Abandoning you without any explanation will be the single greatest mistake of my life. I thought I would just have to go on living with that, but I decided I can’t,” Eren asserted. “Not without you, not anymore.”

You scanned his unwavering face, his eyes determined on yours without so much as a flicker of hesitation. There was a tug at your heart. How desperately you wanted to believe him, if only because such sugar-coated words tasted so sweet, palatable; not-so-cloying when swallowed and smooth on the way down. 

“Eren.”

You hadn’t forgotten how his name sounded on your tongue, how it still felt as though it always belonged there. You soaked the feeling in, closed your eyes and savored, maybe longer than you should have, but ultimately, you released it on a lengthy exhale. Rubbing your hands down your face, fingertips pressing so deeply against your eyes that you saw color behind the lids, you explained, “You have to understand where I’m coming from. I’ve only seen you, spoken to you, two out of the last thousand-odd days. I don’t even know if I can say I know you anymore, let alone believe your smooth, weirdly convenient, might I add, apology.” 

There was this glint in his eyes you recognized. He wanted to argue otherwise, that he still knew you like the back of his hand, maybe better, and always would. To the ends of the Earth, he would. That was how he knew you’d let him into your apartment, and also why he knew to bite his tongue. 

As fast as the look was there, it vanished, replaced with a hopeful-child plea. “Then what if we started over?” 

Eren went as far as to extend a hand toward you. You stared, thinking the last thing you wanted to do was to shake his hand and he’d be delusional to think anything different. You had to admit, though: the gesture made you laugh. A quick, one-note sound, which, reflecting on it, was most likely his goal. 

“Start over,” you repeated under your breath like a question. You weren’t sure if you could ever return to what once was, but that wasn’t what he was asking of you, was he? This wasn’t a request to jump back into life like nothing ever happened. This was a complete do-over. A chance for you to get to know this new Eren, four years older than you remembered him. “Like two strangers?”

“I would hope you wouldn’t let a complete stranger walk into your apartment this late.”

You couldn’t help your smile. Like your laugh, it was quick, close-mouthed. “Acquaintances then.”

“Acquaintances,” he agreed.

“But I’m not going to shake your hand,” you made clear before he could try to go for it again.

“Fair enough.”

In your mind, there were two ways this night could go: you could send him on his way, promising to meet for coffee before he left town but not entirely meaning it. The second, you could mean your word and give him a fair shot, just for tonight. To choose the latter meant, even if this night went to complete shit, you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life wondering what if. It also meant you’d have to meet him halfway, not inviting him in just to give him the cold shoulder. In order to do that, you thought, then you absolutely needed to loosen up with a drink. 

You inhaled a hearted breath. “Well then, acquaintance,” you said, trying to be cheeky, “I think we could both use a drink.”

He gave you a quizzical, sideways sort of grin. You took it as the go-ahead to grab the bottle of vodka you kept tucked in the back of the freezer. 

“What are we having?”

Holding the bottle by its neck, you rifled your free hand through your cabinets. You were sure you had at least two shot glasses. You found a novelty one you received during a bachelorette trip, shaped like a cowboy boot, and another you’d snagged from your favorite bar in college, its splotchy logo worn from one too many rounds in the dishwasher. 

“Shots of vodka,” you said matter-of-factly because no, you didn’t have anything that qualified as a chaser on hand. 

Eren pulled a face when you set everything on the coffee table but didn’t complain. You dropped to your knees on the rug and began filling each glass to the near brim. 

“It’s an old bottle, just so you know,” you said only to fill the silence. For whatever reason, you felt self-conscious about the quarter-full bottle in your hands and your quickness to reach for it on a weeknight. Eren joined you on the floor, sitting opposite you, and accepted the cowboy boot you slid toward him. “It’s just been a weird week with…”

He was smart enough to finish the sentence himself; you already said too much. 

With an apologetic grimace, Eren (smartly) dodged the subject further and gave the most monotone “Cheers,” that had ever been uttered in all of human existence. 

“Cheers.” You threw back the shot, swallowed, and remembered exactly why you didn’t do this often. 

“So.” Eren cleared the bitter vodka from his throat. His eyes flitted to the bookshelf in the corner and back to you. “I noticed you still love your shitty romance novels.”

“They’re not shitty,” you scoffed, though some of them totally were. “Also, I don’t think that’s something an acquaintance would say the first time they’re in someone’s home.”

Eren’s laugh unrolled from him, and yours did too. “You’re right, I'll take it back. I’m sorry.” He shifted his weight and leaned back on one arm, legs easily outstretched before him. “I guess what I should say is I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

Your heart lifted. You didn’t know what to make of the sensation, the warm flutter in your chest, so you poured yourself another shot to wash it away. 

“Yeah, maybe that’ll change when men finally stop being so disappointing,” you dead-panned. It wasn’t an intended jab at him, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that was how it came off. You chose not to acknowledge the slip-up and took the shot instead and felt how your entire face puckered as it went down. 

“Hit me,” Eren said, sliding the little boot across the table. You filled it a little too well and some vodka dribbled over the rim. He took the shot anyway and licked his thumb clean. 

“Disappointing, huh.” He chewed on the thought for a second, which made you antsy. “Does that mean you’ve been seeing someone?” 

“No,” you said, the truth, “not right now.” You could feel the alcohol in your cheeks. What you left out was the reason none of them were still around: they weren’t him. 

“But there has been someone, right? Or someones.”

“Someones isn’t a word.” You nudged his leg with your foot under the table. “And yes, obviously. Please don’t tell me you spent all this time thinking I’d run off and become a nun.” 

Eren chuckled at the thought. “Of course not. Just trying to play catch-up is all.” You could tell he was trying not to be weird about it, which, in turn, made you feel extra weird. 

“How about you then?” you asked, shuffling, ready to tilt the conversation away from your love life before he disastrously realized how lackluster it was. 

“It’s been…” He drifted off there, thoughtfully choosing his words. Thriving was what you wanted to fill in for him. He smiled with just the corner of his mouth, not a proud smile, and averted your gaze. “It’s been a challenge.” 

Your shoulders unbraced. A part of you expected to hear he had a fiancée or something. Deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be the case; he (hopefully) wouldn't have shown up at your doorstep like this if it were. You hugged your legs and rested your chin on your knees in this do tell kind of way because you sensed there was a story coming. 

“Well, for starters,” Eren leaned onto his other arm. “I didn’t have any friends for, like, the first year after I moved.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true. I don’t think I even left two-block radius around my apartment unless it was for work. That is until…” He waited before he let the second shoe drop. You couldn’t help but think he really hadn’t changed much—and that brought up even more feelings you chose to ignore. “I got laid off.”

Eren was impassive with the reveal, still you felt your brows dip with sympathy. “Oh. I had no idea.” Which was a silly thing to say considering there was no way you could have known. “That really sucks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged with one shoulder. It probably did suck, but that was three years ago, you remembered. He was well over the ordeal by now. He motioned for the vodka, and you pushed the bottle toward him. 

“In retrospect, it was for the best. Like I said, I had zero life outside of that job,” he explained as he poured a shot, then tossed it back without so much as a cough. You second-hand winced. “But I wasn’t ready to admit that moving was a mistake, so I tried to make the most of it.”

“Do I even want to know what that means?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he dismissed with a playful roll of his eyes. “Far from it, actually.” 

He studied the chintzy glass in his hand. If you had to guess, you’d say his mind was a million miles away from here, thinking about everything in the world besides the teeny cowboy boot. 

“The first time I—” He cut himself off before he phrased things poorly, “brought someone home—hold on, just follow me here.” You wondered what your face must have looked like for him to say that and quickly fixed it. “So, we were about to, um, do it when I…” Then he muttered the last bit.

“You what?” you urged.

“I fucking cried,” he finally spat out. He appeared as mortified as he was shocked, like he couldn’t comprehend why he started this story in the first place and would surely blame this blunder on his back-to-back shots tomorrow.

You slapped a hand over your mouth and hoped your laughter wouldn’t slip past. You wished you could say you had more tact—oh, who were you kidding?

“Don’t laugh!” Eren said, half-laughing himself. 

You had to screw up your lips to stop yourself. Between fits, you asked, “What type of cry was it?” 

He groaned. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Was it a sniffle?” you tittered. “Or was it more like a full-on blubbering thing?” 

“It was not a full-on blubber.”

Sure, but that still didn’t answer the question. You didn’t linger any further and moved on for the sake of more pressing details. “What happened next?”

“I hate how invested you are in this.”

You held up your hands innocently. “Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Whatever.” He pointed his shot glass at you. “You’re behind. Drink.”

Your head was spinning, not unpleasantly, from the two shots and the giggles, and you found it hard to say no. 

“Anyway, humiliating, right? I don’t even know what came over me.” You heard him say as you swallowed the vodka in two regretful gulps. You gasped a breath, not paying him any mind as the alcohol blistered down your esophagus. He rambled on about something—what, you didn’t hear—before you caught him confessing, “To be honest, your face popped into my head and all I could think about was how I wished it were you again.” 

There was this beautiful blink-and-you-miss-it moment where you could have sworn no time had passed between you and Eren. No awkward acquaintance bullshit, just two friends drinking middle-shelf liquor, sprawled out on the roughly stitched rug, laughing and giddy and hoping that time will pass a little slower for one night. The moment was over now, and you already felt a pang of nostalgia for it. 

“Eren,” you said quietly, “don’t do this.” 

He dropped his head between his shoulders. “You weren’t supposed to react like that.”

You barked an almost cartoonish ha! that surprised you. “Oh yeah? Tell me then, how was I supposed to react?” 

When he lifted his chin, you finally noticed the ruddiness of his cheeks and deduced that the alcohol must have caught up with him over the last few minutes. You watched his expression bloom once he realized you weren’t upset but wearing an interested grin, thinking this ought to be good. 

“You were supposed to say.” He straightened out before doing the impression of you he’d done a million times before. “Oh, Eren. That’s so sweet—” Before he could get anything else out, you flipped him your middle finger, and he began laughing. “No, but I at least thought it might soften you up.” 

“So did that actually happen, or was that just a made-up story to try to get into my pants?” 

“No! It actually happened, I swear,” Eren assured, hands waving and eyes big; you could see the whites all around. “And I’m not trying to get into your pants.”

Without thinking, you asked, “What are you trying to do then?”

“What do you think?” 

The two of you stared at each other until his face became a blurry blob of gold in the buzzing light of your table lamp; the world around you dissolving into deep bass that thrummed against your skull, deafeningly loud for something that wasn’t really there. 

Your skin prickled in anticipation, waiting but not participating, as Eren crossed the coffee table to get to you. Propped with one palm supporting him, inching closer and closer, his other hand warmed the side of your face. Your eyes fluttered shut, if only for a second, and his lips were nearly to yours. 

“Eren, this…” The bridge of your nose brushed against his ever so gently. “This doesn’t feel right.”

He didn’t move in, but he didn’t move away either. You felt his forehead tip to yours, his whisper against your mouth when he asked, “Doesn’t it?” 

A shudder racked through your body—as if you didn’t feel pathetic already—and it answered his question enough. To preserve any semblance of self-control you had left, you pressed a hand to his chest to put some distance between you. 

“No. Not like this,” you told him with a heaving sigh. “I’m drunk, you’re drunk. This is the second time we’ve seen each other in years and, Jesus Christ, you’re here for your dad’s fucking funeral.”

Reality smacked Eren across the face like it had you—perhaps you could have been gentler in your delivery. He ran a grounding hand through his hair and sat back on his heels, a safe distance from you once more.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded but said nothing else, fearing that if you didn’t allow your heartbeat to steady then the organ might burst from your chest. Once it had, and you decided there was nothing else left to say, you stuttered, “I’ll go to the funeral with you on Friday, by the way—if that’s something you think you’d want, I don’t know.”

Whether or not Eren deserved your kindness was yet to be determined. Still, that didn’t negate the compulsion you felt to be there for him, even if, should the roles reverse, he didn’t have the same sense of obligation. 

Everything aside, Eren smiled softly. “Yeah. I would like that.” He placed a hand atop yours and gave a gentle squeeze, but to you, it felt more like he held onto your heart in his bare hand. 

There was no chance in hell you would send him out to find a ride back to his hotel, not in this state, not after what just transpired—mainly, you just didn’t want to be alone yet. Either way, you fetched a spare blanket, fluffed some pillows, and tried half-heartedly, drunkenly, to make the couch-bed appealing before giving up.

Eren thanked you and meant it. You hugged him (did you mention you were drunk?) and only held him there for a second, your face nestled in the soft cotton of his shirt, before reaching on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek—for no other reason than he looked like he could use it. 

You told him goodnight even though you wanted to take his hand and lead him back to your bed, merely a few steps away. You tucked yourself in, wanting to kiss him until he could only think about his bruised bottom lip instead of his bruised heart. To swap breaths back and forth until you were high off your own supply and absolutely dizzy with it. 

You shared this bed before, and if you focused on the thought for too long, you could practically feel Eren beneath you again, inhale the very same heady scent that still stuck to his t-shirt. In just a pair of boxer briefs, he sat perched and pleased, you straddling his lap, with his hand shoved down the front of your underwear. Head thrown back, your hands pinched the muscles of his shoulders as you clung to him while you came undone. He smiled against your chin, you remembered that well. He nibbled your jaw and kissed down the thin skin of your neck before throwing you onto your back to devour you whole. 

You stayed awake until you were sure he was asleep, after his breathing had slowed and become melodic, hitching at the top of each breath. Only after you knew there wasn't a chance of you asking him to crawl into your bed with you, just this once, please, did you let yourself doze off.

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