Eren
Sasha's a woman of many talents. When she's not making an audience roar with laughter, she's plugging in an amp and belting out some rock lyrics. She's the lead singer and guitarist in The Mashing Ptaters, a four-piece band that straddles the genres of garage punk, pop-rock, R&B, and occasionally country. To my knowledge, their band name is a riff on The Smashing Pumpkins, and the 'P' in "Ptaters'' is silent, like in the word "pterodactyl." Somehow, it all works, especially considering the fact that tonight's concert was sold-out, weeks in advance.
Cornelius Funk has been hanging out with Sasha, a lot. A month ago, The Mashing Ptaters' drummer moved to Boston, which served as the perfect opening for Connie to slide in as a replacement. On top of band rehearsals, those two have also been meeting to punch out material for a future comedy collab. Mikasa and I have placed bets on when they'll fess up to what's really going on.
"Check and mate," I remark to Mikasa, nodding at the onstage chemistry. "They're gonna come clean in less than a month, so get ready to pay up." The Mashing Ptaters are running through soundcheck, but instead of playing their own songs, Connie and Sasha are having a rap battle back and forth across the stage. Connie's getting his ass handed to him. Sasha studied a lot of poetry in college, so she's managed to come up with a bunch of phrases that rhyme with "good-for-nothing phlegm-globber."
Their bassist—this crass, freckly chick named Ymir—is having none of it. "Jesus-fucking-Christ!" she yowls, swiping her fingers in an angry down-strum. "The point of soundcheck isn't to fuck around! Also, Sasha, you're flat. As a fucking tire. Tune up, girl. Unless you want everyone's ears to bleed!"
Ymir's super cool. Our personalities mesh well, since we're both loud and honest. After five minutes of chatting, she'd already opened up to me about her romantic troubles. "Eren," she crooned, as she was tuning her bass. "I'm a lonely bitch. I just want a cute girl to snuggle up with every night. Is that too much to ask? So if you accidentally hit on a cutie who doesn't swing your way, give her my business card, ASAP."
"I stand by my bet," Mikasa says, handing me a beer. "I think Ymir's doing an excellent job cock-blocking them. There'll be more of a delay than you think. Either cash or check works, by the way. Venmo too, but caption it: 'Mikasa's always right.'"
"Re-lax," their keyboardist drawls through the microphone. Her name is Hitch, and she reminds me of one of those petty, aloof house cats who vanish for 90% of the day but reappear right before midnight. "Why do you always have to be such a killjoy, Ymir? Let them have their moment, will you?"
"Not when Hitch is being an enabler," I say to Mikasa, reaching a hand behind her to squeeze her ass. "Also, pride comes before the fall." Mikasa's wearing an outfit that dates back to her college days: leather skirt, fishnets, choker, and a limited-edition graphic tee from Ymir's band merch store. (Don't ask me to explain the meaning, but the front of the shirt features a sketch of an oak tree with a hatchet sticking out from the trunk. Also, a pterodactyl is perched in the top branches).
"Classy," she says, slipping a hand up the back of my shirt while glancing over at The Mashing Ptaters. The four of them are still bickering over the acoustics. And then her eyes drift back to me, growing darker as she studies my face. I know this signal too well by now: she wants to kiss me.
"So when's this gig supposed to start?" And instantly, there's a foot of space between us. Armin materializes behind us with a cider in hand. "Can someone explain to me the meaning of their band name?" he asks with a cheeky grin.
By the time the show kicks off, a sizable crowd has gathered. I recognize a ton of faces from Sasha and Connie's comedy shows, mostly young people in their mid-twenties. From the looks of it, those two have built up a loyal fanbase these past couple of months. (Note to self: I need to get my hands on one of those oak tree/pterodactyl T-shirts because they're all the rage at these functions.)
In the crowd, we spot two familiar faces. Ms. Resting Bitch Face, being true to her nickname, is sipping from a foamy Porter. She's accompanied by her male friend, who looks sweaty and out-of-place here in his buttoned-up shirt and slacks. Mikasa raises two fingers in a sideways peace-sign, and Annie nods curtly.
"You invited her?" I ask Mikasa, raising an eyebrow. "Are you guys friends now?"
"I invited Bert," Mikasa corrects me, shrugging. "And she seems to be here as his plus-one. Also, the keyboard girl is her roommate. Small world, right?"
The Mashing Ptaters' opener is a hype cover of a noisy garage song called "Born in '77." And it slaps. Sasha's got a stellar range with her voice, Ymir kicks ass at the electric bass, and Hitch is rocking the keyboard. As far as I can tell, Connie's actually not that shabby at the drums. Around us, people are jamming out pretty hard to the music—a little too hard, for some. Mikasa's classmates have migrated towards us in the throbbing crowd, and Bert seems to have loosened up, bobbing his head to the rhythm. But he fumbles with his drink, and some beer splashes onto Annie's shoulder, who instantly rounds on him.
Before she can yell at him, Armin taps her on the shoulder, holding out an extra napkin. "Here you go!" he yells over the music.
But Annie doesn't take the napkin. She's too busy trying to interpret Armin's shirt (he's also wearing one of The Mashing Ptaters' enigmatic tees). "What the hell does this mean?!" she hollers back.
Mikasa pulls on my wrist, and we leave Armin and the two other MFA's to discuss the symbolism underlying the pterodactyl, oak tree, and hatchet over the noise of Connie's drum solo. We wind through the audience, and she leads me to a spot where we're surrounded by unfamiliar faces. The crowd cheers when Sasha whips her hair back and forth, striking a final set of chords.
"Thanks, everyone!" she howls, whooping at the last note. "We're The Mashing Ptaters, and we're here to show you a fuckin' good time! I'm Sasha, this lovely lady over here is Ymir, that glamorous gal on keys is Hitch, and tonight, we're joined by none other than the legendary Corneeeeelius FUNK!"
The band shifts into one of their more R&B-inspired songs. Hitch gets a calmer piano progression going, while Ymir plucks some steady notes on her bass. Connie goes lighter on the percussion, and Sasha eases into the first verse of an original song.
"Hey," I say, hugging Mikasa from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. I kiss her forehead.
"Hi," she replies, lacing her fingers over mine.
As we move to the music, I kiss her jaw, and she grinds against me. "Armin's not around, is he?" I murmur against her neck.
"Nowhere in sight," she replies, stroking me over my pants. She continues to grind on me, and my hand slips under her shirt, pushing under the wiring of her bra.
And within moments, she's guiding me towards the bathrooms, and I check to see if the coast is clear before popping my head out of the guys' room, beckoning for Mikasa to sneak in. I lead her past the urinals, into the largest stall, and soon after, we're kissing against the wall, struggling not to laugh when some dude comes in to take a leak.
"This is low," I remark when the door swings shut behind him. "It might just be more degenerate than the time when I brought a girl back, even though Armin was sleeping six feet away from us."
"Wasn't he awake the whole time?" Mikasa says, unzipping my jeans.
About several minutes into public bathroom sex, we decide to call it quits for a number of reasons. Firstly, HBO shows totally downplay the logistical nightmares that come with doing it in a stall. Mikasa and I have to stop every thirty seconds because dudes just keep on coming in to pee, one after the other. Secondly, the wall that we're fucking against is kinda gross with dried-up gum everywhere. Plus, there are sexist slurs and penises Sharpie-ed all over, and neither of us stand for that. Thirdly, we quickly realize that the majority of guys at this venue don't wash their hands—at all.
"Wanna just pick things up later? Like, when we get home?" I suggest, pulling out of her.
"Well, we can't just leave you like that," Mikasa remarks, gesturing between my legs.
"It's fine, seriously—" I gasp when she takes me in her mouth.
She's either generous—or downright evil. She doesn't stop when another dude uses the urinal, and to make matters worse, this fucker crosses over to our stall. "You're the man!" he says, rapping his knuckles against the door before leaving.
"He didn't wash his hands either," Mikasa comments mournfully.
When she finishes up, we make sure to scrub our hands with warm soap and water for at least twenty seconds. In fact, we decide to go for a full minute, just for good measure. But around the fiftieth second, the door swings open, and Armin skids to a stop by the bathroom entrance.
"G-guys?" he stammers, blinking in confusion.
"'Sup, Armin!" I blurt out, handing Mikasa a paper towel before getting one for myself.
"What… what's happening—oh… I, ah," Armin hiccups. "Don't mind me, I'm just… gonna go, you know, use the, uh—"
"Yeah, man. We'll catch you outside," I say, steering Mikasa towards the door. "Do you need a drink or anything? We're gonna swing by the bar."
"I-I'm good!"
"You sure? I heard the Belgian tripel is really great—"
"We should probably just let him pee," Mikasa says, pulling me outside.
"Guilty as charged," I say two hours later, clapping a hand on Armin's back. The audience has largely cleared out, and it's just The Mashing Ptaters and close friends, drinking a last round of beers to celebrate one wickedly solid performance.
"I should've guessed," Armin replies, kicking my foot lightly. "Is it bad that I'm desensitized to these things by now?"
"You won't ever let go of that sorority girl incident, huh?"
"Never. I'll take it to my grave."
"Love ya, buddy," I say, looping my arm across his shoulder.
Armin heaves out a sigh, and we watch Ymir coax Connie into doing a trust fall off of the stage and into her outstretched arms. Annie, Hitch, and Sasha are in a huddle, gossiping about something, while Bert and Mikasa stand off to the side. Bert looks like he's losing it, and Mikasa's patting his back.
"You were talking to Ms. Resting Bitch Face for a long-ass time, you know," I remark to Armin, who stiffens instantly.
"That's a terrible nickname, Eren," Armin retorts, writhing out from under my arm.
"Blame Mikasa," I shrug. "Also, Bert looks threatened."
"For your information, the three of us were having an interesting discussion about symbols and motifs," Armin replies, pointing at the cryptic drawing on his T-shirt. "Did you know that oak trees can represent resistance? You learn something new every day."
"Did Annie tell you that?" I tease.
He has a comeback locked and loaded, but at the last minute, Armin holds his tongue.
"What?" I demand. "Say it."
"I'll let you off the hook this time," he says, shaking his head.
"No, just say it."
"You're just gonna dodge the question, though."
"Pinky swear, I won't."
"She's coming back. Remind me later," Armin says.
Mikasa sways towards us, and her cheeks are rosy from drinking. She almost walks into a barstool, but she catches herself, giggling. "Hey, you. Ready to head back?" she asks, sidling up next to me.
Armin catches me smiling like an idiot, but before he can say anything, I cut in front of him. "I'm guessing you're not leaving with us? Trying to squeeze in a couple more lines of convo?" I press, tipping my chin in Annie's direction.
"Oh, get out of here, you two," Armin replies, shooing us away. He winks at me as I head towards the exit with Mikasa in tow.
There's a women's health article pulled up on my phone, and this diagram is clearly not drawn to scale. "Wait, I'm so confused," I say, squinting down at the image. "Where the fuck is your leg supposed to go? This doesn't look right."
"Trust me, we're supposed to be perpendicular like this," Mikasa reassures me. We're trying out the Pretzel Dip. She's laying on her side, while I'm on top of her, but her left leg is bent across my hip, while my own left leg is between her thighs. "Just put it in, Eren."
I try to lean down to kiss her first, as I always do, but when I press the weight of my torso against her bent leg, she yelps in pain. "Sorry," I say. "Femurs don't like moving in that direction, huh?"
"I might need to start doing yoga to get more flexible," Mikasa remarks, propping herself up higher with her elbow, and she meets me halfway to press her lips against mine. We both like going for the bottom lip, so when we kiss, it's a matter of who gets there first, as well as who fights harder for it. Usually, she wins.
She gasps when I enter her slowly. Experimentally, I thrust a couple of times, and Mikasa stretches her neck back, her lips parted. They weren't kidding about how deep we can go with this position. "So," I say, rubbing circles against her clit. "How are we feeling? Yes, no, maybe so?"
"It feels really nice," Mikasa says, her breath hitching on the last syllable. "Your thoughts?"
"I like being able to see you," I reply, and when she blushes at this, she's too fucking cute. "But here's the thing. I wanna kiss you, except your leg's in the way."
"You can kiss me all you want afterwards," she replies, smiling. "But for the purposes of a good fuck, I'd say this is solid, though."
"You make a valid point."
"What should I do with my arm? It feels awkward just… hanging here." She pokes my chest with her free hand.
"Show me how you wanna be touched," I suggest, and her lashes hang low over her eyes when she starts massaging her own breast. I start moving my hips again, and soon after, she's moaning my name.
Mikasa has two favorite sex positions. According to this online women's health magazine, the first one is known as the Scoop Me Up. In reality, it's not actually a favorite of Mikasa's, but rather, it's what she tells hookups when they ask her how she likes it. She's not a fan of eye contact with strangers, so she curls up as the little spoon, facing away as the guy comes in from behind. Also, if the dude happens to just suck, she can pretend to have an orgasm without having to fake any facial expressions (I reiterate: she's a terrible actress). And in a matter of minutes, she can be fully-dressed with an Uber on its way.
But secretly, she's super into doing it doggy style. However, she doesn't tell one-night stands this because she likes it done a certain way, at a certain angle, following a certain tempo, with pillows propped up in certain places. "It kinda ruins the mood to lay out all the details, you know?" she confessed to me a couple of weeks ago. But I managed to figure it out—which is why we got a strongly-worded email from our landlord about "noise levels."
Nowadays, sex with her feels different. When we first met, she hardly made a peep. She made a conscious effort to keep the volume down, sticking to quiet, breathy gasps, and I used to mentally pat myself on the back whenever I scored a rare moan from her. "It's kinda humiliating to make these sorts of noises," she confided in me recently.
"I think it's hot, though," I argued back, and she buried her face in her pillow, embarrassed.
Slowly but surely, she started loosening up after I told her that—and weeks later, here we are, getting complaints from the neighbors. This new Mikasa I'm seeing is less self-conscious and much more honest. And she's irresistible.
"I know you're not into it, but can we try eye contact?" I asked one day, when we were doing Cowgirl. "If you don't like it, we can go back to what we've been doing." Thankfully, it grows on her. I've always liked eye contact because it lets me keep tabs on how I'm doing.
And also, she's Mikasa. I can't not look at her.
The Pretzel Dip might be the perfect compromise for us. For her, it feels almost as satisfying as her favorite sex position, and for me, I get a great view of her pretty face (as opposed to just the back of her head). And as an added bonus, it lets us multi-task and get some manual clit action in there.
We've tried a bunch of other positions, and we've weeded out the Corkscrew (too impersonal), the Wheelbarrow (it gives her headrush when she stands up), the Golden Arch (this gave me a cramp in my leg), and Magic Mountain (we tried, but we just couldn't get that one to work). We didn't even bother trying the Butter Churner.
"Yeah, no," Mikasa said after a single glance at the diagram. She immediately erased her Google Chrome search history, cookies and all.
"That's just… a lot," I remarked, trying to purge the image from my memory.
"We'd be putting a lot of faith in gravity. And your gluteal muscles."
"I mean, I could totally do it, but…"
"I'd rather not risk getting a neck brace."
"Okay, yeah. Let's just pass on this one."
But if I had it my way, I'd push for the Reverse Scoop. It's the one where we're on our sides, facing each other, our legs all intertwined. I get to hold her close and feel every inch of her skin—and it lets me kiss her properly. There's strategic importance behind this too. No matter how many times I call her out on this, Mikasa always hogs the comforter, leaving me shivering in the night. But with the Reverse Scoop, she falls asleep in my arms, which means I get blanket coverage too.
However, I wouldn't categorize this as a position for "a good fuck." Instead, it serves an entirely different purpose.
I'd say that it's more meant for something along the lines of... "making love"?
A/N: I had to scrub my search history clean when I was writing this last section. BRB, gonna go repent like hell.
Tree, that outfit that Mikasa wore to The Mashing Ptaters' show was inspired by your artwork and your cosplays and just your essence in general. You fucking rockstar. Y'all, go check this stunning gal out. Also, you've inspired me to go online shopping for chokers. Looks like I'm reverting back to my punkier days, HAHA. Any previous attendees of Warped Tour here? God, what an era.
Damn, I'm getting nostalgia for my mosh pit days from this chapter. Also, a lot of this last part was inspired by Sex Education on Netflix. I just LOVE… brutal honesty when it comes to portraying love and sex and relationships, and Sex Education is just so scathingly candid about the flops and pitfalls.