Au where wraps his scarf around Mikasa because he spilled a drink on her and now her shirt is see through and oh my god her bra is a cute light baby pink shade. Wait is that lace? Holy shit it’s lace and he can see her nipples. Fuck he needs to stop staring at her boobs. So he messly throws the scarf around her neck in a desperate attempt to cover her up as he repeatedly studders out apologizes.
He runs away mortified and so she won’t notice his boner. She totally notices.
In his attempt to run away he slips and hits his head. Mikasa has to drive him home.
THANK YOU i got an anon like this too like?? its? really not ilia’s fault?
Yeah, it’s not like Ilia was all “Oh yeah, we should all just hide our faunus traits and pretend to be human. It’s great.”
The point of her story wasn’t “Life was great when I passed as human, you should try it,” it was that these girls who were her friends when they thought she was human turned on her when they found out she was a faunus, and that’s why she’s going to fight for equality.
The first boy who ever likes me wears too much cologne and slumps like every ounce of confidence has been drained from his body. He tells me that I’m not like his ex-girlfriend and that I have a pretty face, so even though he’s boring I let him ramble on while I nod and agree. His beliefs do not in the slightest align with my own, but it seems like such a moot point as I let him speak. I don’t know yet that there’s a difference between loving feeling loved and actually loving someone, so I let him hold my hand and take me on a date.
The second boy who likes me plays with my feelings, and I am too young to realize that that is all he will ever do. He calls me bro and tells me I’m funny and I think that means more than it does, so I put too much of my heart into empty text message conversations and laughing at jokes which hold no humor. I let him take me to Prom and when we slow dance I think I feel sparks. Later, I cuddle close to him and feel his heat, purposefully ignoring the texts he sends to another girl because I don’t know better.
One of my best friends finds the bottom of a bottle and tells me that I’m beautiful. I think it is as good as I deserve so I let him kiss me, let him touch me in places that, before this, only I had known about. Later he texts me and tells me that we were only meant to be friends anyways, that that’s simply the kind of girl I am, and I agree. It makes me think that maybe I will never be loved, that I was simply not made to be loved, but I repeat lonely promises in my head to keep the tears at bay.
The sting of unrequited love first hits me when I am probably too old for such a thing, but his smiles melt my heart and his laughs fill me with light. For a while I think he stares at me across the room in Literature, and I think that means that maybe he sees a light in me too, but then I discover that his eyes have always roamed over my shoulder at the bombshell behind me and the dreams melt into nothing. I wonder how I could have ever thought that I deserved someone as beautiful as him because he is the stars and I’m nothing but a bunch of darkness, empty and void and trying to let something fill me so that I can taste what happy feels like.
After a friend tells me that I’m a girl but not a real girl, I realize that maybe my love story will never come to fruition. If no one else loved me, who would? It had always seemed like such a ludicrous thought to love yourself, and how did one even begin? I look in the mirror one day and notice the extra love on my stomach and the too many moles around my neck and dead, thin hair. I do not like what I see. I don’t know how anyone ever does, and I decide that it is simply impossible to love me.
The boy with warm eyes who works in the bookstore walks in and out so fast he doesn’t really exist at all, not in the way I dreamed of him, but he hands me some books and makes me realize that maybe I could love me. It is hard, and horrible, and the act of it is so absolutely terrifying that I think it may be a cruel joke. I have been defined by boys who find me passable, and yet I am meant to find myself as something so much more extravagant than this diluted simplicity of the past.
No boy helps me realize that I am more, because I do that myself when I get the tattoo painted on my wrist. I am fire and ice and too many puns and not enough hair product. My nails are cracked but creativity flows through my fingers and the pages of books are written all over my arms; when I laugh the whole room stops, because it dances from my lips with such abandon they long for a similar sense of concentrated joy. The boys did not realize that they were touching a hurricane who happened to have a penchant for sundresses and combat boots, and must have never learned that if you touch the sun you’re supposed to hold on to it, but instead they just decide to burn themselves and walk away.
It is a struggle, loving myself every day, but I was made to be loved. I am the perfect end of the day. I am words that excite and hands that were made to be held and tears that may be shed, but I shine like a solar system exploding and roar like the Earth cracking in two. I do not need the boys, I never needed them.