pzonnie

you were pissed.

over the passed few weeks, eren rubbed you the wrong way.

on one of the nights he stayed over, you ended up seeing a text come through from some girl he was speaking to before you.

of course, you lost it on his ass. calling him a bunch of names, shoving him around your room, and tossing his shit at him.

once he hit you with that 'i'm not even your boyfriend, you're tweaking,' you kicked him out for good.

now, you genuinely liked eren and actually wanted to be with him, so of course his absence hurt like a motherfucker.

up until you got that message.

your best friend, blessyn, sent a zoomed in screenshot from historia's story.

you had seen it earlier, the post being a picture of her and her girlfriend in a mirror at some party.

but zoomed in? eren was boo'ed up in the background with some bitch you couldn't recognize.

your heart ached seeing that, and you wanted to scream, and cry, and hurt someone. everything under the sun.

but like he said, he's not your man and he can do whatever he wants.

so you took the flexy rods out your hair, did your makeup, put on cheetah halter top you just ordered with your skimpest skirt and heels that hurt too good to walk in, and decided to show your ass at hitch's party.

"mickey look, she in the back just hot." blessyn joked lightly with mikasa from the passenger seat.

you look up at the rearview mirror, seeing the two of them take a quick glance at you.

mikasa, of course, was the driver to the party. however you knew she got too turnt at parties so blessyn would probably be the one driving you all back.

"don't even say nothin. leave me alone." you stopped them once they shared a look, mean mugging them.

they giggled, minding their business.

it doesn't take long to get to hitch's house, pulling into the empty driveway.

the loud music poured from the cracks of the house, already making you excited.

hopefully there was some fine ass nigga willing to entertain your tomfoolery for the night.

when you get in, its a party full of people bumping and grinding to the music.

"birthday shots in the kitchen!" you hear connie yell on the mic, making everyone cheer.

"girl we gotta go!" blessyn yelled, sticking her tongue out and dragging the two of you in there.

you were able to make it to the kitchen before the crowd of people could crush the three of you.

hitch was sitting on the counter with historia, mini don julio bottles in their hands with a smile.

"oh my god you made it! hi!" historia squeals loudly, jumping down from where she was and hugging you tightly.

you squeeze her back, rocking her side to side with a smile.

"onyankopon was asking for you, here! he's over by the dining room." historia informed you, handing you four bottles.

blessyn looped her arm around yours, cheesing like the fucking cheshire cat you knew her to be.

"tryna put me on to mr sexy tonight?" she asked, following you over to the dining room.

you kissed your teeth, tugging her along once you see onyankopon stand up from his seat.

"oh shit. look who came out her lil hidey hole." he teases, holding his arms out to you.

you roll your eyes at him, hugging him back regardless.

"whatchu doing out here sully? not past your bed time?" onyankopon asks, fixing your curls for you.

you knew onyankopon since fifth grade, and ended up being the best of friends since.

"fuck you yanni. i'm looking for the hoes." you joked, handing him one of the bottles from your hand.

he mean mugged you almost immediately, shoving you sideways.

one thing about him? he hated hearing you try to get on niggas, always saying you like 'actin grown' whenever you did.

as if the two of you weren't the same age.

blessyn nudged you immediately, looking between you and onyankopon.

"yanni, blessyn. blessyn, onyankopon." you quickly introduced them, stepping out the way with a eye roll.

he shakes her hand, taking her outfit in while she does the same.

while they occupied themselves, you scooted into onyankopon's seat and popped open your own bottle.

"yo, you drinking the other one?" a voice asks next to you, immediately catching your attention.

you recognize him as one of onyankopon's friends, but you never knew his name.

but whenever you had dinner at onyankopon's, you'd hear him yelling 'raga' over the headset.

he was fine wine. long locs in a low bun, goatee, perfectly round lips, and eyes that yelled 'fuck me' in your face.

maybe you could play around a little bit.

"nah, it's yours if you want it." you winked, holding the bottle out to him.

he licked his lips as he took it from your hands, opening it and drinking from the bottle slowly.

"you got a name, pretty?" he asked, leaning forward so you could hear him over the music.

you nod, biting your lip as your name slips from your mouth.

he nods, repeating it after you as if to test it.

"i know you're raga." you giggle, taking a quick look up and down.

"mm.. how you know about me?" he asks flirtatiously, making you squeal internally.

"with a face like that, how could I not?" you shoot back, tilting your head teasingly.

oh you know you got him on lock by the way he nods his head and stares down your shirt.

now isn't the time to let him know you were the infamous little sister onyankopon talks about.

your phone buzzes, making you finally look away and look down at it.

connie : come get another bottle princess!! connie : in the kitchen, mickey left you one

you look back up at raga, who seemed to be reading the messages with you.

red flag, but you'll let him slide with the eyes he's giving you.

"leaving so soon? i was starting to have fun." he asks, faking a frown.

you giggle, tucking a hair behind your ear. "i'll be back. maybe we could share the next one." you whisper in his ear.

you stood up from your seat and tugged down your skirt, sliding between people to get to the kitchen.

a hand grabs you, making you turn around and mug the person.

eren.

his hair was down, and all he had on was a wife beater.

"nigga get the fuck off of me." you curse immediately, trying to shove him away.

"stop playing with me. who you was sitting with?" eren glared you down, grabbing both your wrists.

you stopped, looking in the direction you just came from.

how long had he been watching you talk to raga, and why didn't you see him?

"you not my nigga right? it's not your fucking business." you threw his words back in his face.

you manage to get one of your hands free, shoving him back as hard as you could.

"ba-" "uh uh! fuck you nigga! you so fucking weird!" you cut him off, looking at him like he was crazy.

eren exhaled, before snatching you up and dragging you outside.

"you wanna argue? come argue then baby."

that's how you ended up in the predicament you were in now.

straddling eren's lap in his drivers seat while he laid back, looking up at you.

"talk, (𝜗ৎ). tell me what's wrong." he said softly, and you know what he's doing when he holds your waist.

what the fuck happened to standing on business?

you heart stuttered the longer you stared down at him.

he was wearing the cuban link you got him for his birthday the year before, with his muscles prominent in his shirt.

"you so fucking weird." you shook your head in disbelief, staring into his emerald eyes.

"mhm. and how am i weird baby?" he asks you, licking his lips as he waited patiently.

you took too long to reply, making him squeeze your hip in warning.

your lip trembled, all emotions you felt before leaving your house coming back to haunt you.

"y-you keep playing with me nigga." you whisper, chest rising and falling quicker than before.

eren knew you were the biggest crybaby, and knew how to get you to confess what you were feeling.

"tellin me i'm not your girl, nd you not my man but- but sleepin in my house. in my bed nigga." you sniffle, blinking your tears away.

he nods, moving your hair out of your face.

"gettin me food, buyin me shit. takin me to class. then you at parties with- with all kinds of bitches! textin all kinds of bitches!" you finally sob, fist coming down to slam right into his chest.

he doesn't budge though, just grunts from the impact and massages your hip.

"who was i at a party with (𝜗ৎ)?" eren asks you, sitting up just a little.

you sniffle, opening up your phone and bypassing all the messages from your best friends.

you showed him the picture, wiping under your eyes.

when eren looked at it, he looked over to the side and burst into laughter.

you felt more tears stream down your face, and your fist collides right with his cheek.

"fuck you nigga." you sob, tired of yelling. you immediately pull open the door to get away from him.

he grabs you up almost immediately, pulling the door back in harshly and looking up at you.

"you cryin and acting like this cuz of connie's sister? the grown one with a fiance and a daughter?" eren asked, cupping your chin so you'd look at him.

you sniffle, looking down at your phone again.

"that don't explain your ex." you bring up, letting him wipe your eyes.

"like i said before. don't know, don't fuckin care. was gonna block her before you started tweakin." eren whispered, getting closer to you.

nothing in your mind could tell you this was a misunderstanding, but the alcohol in your body doesn't care.

"y'so mean." you whimper, shaking your head.

"i know, rennie's just so mean to his baby. how could you forgive me?" he whispers into your skin, rubbing his hands up and down your butt.

he starts kissing up the valley of your breast, looking up at you with those godforsaken eyes.

"..take me home." -

"oooooh fuck! waiiitttughh!" you cried out, holding onto the pillow under your head.

eren pounded into you ruthlessly from behind, watching your ass ripple against him.

"take it baby. s'all you gotta do." eren grunted, pushing his hand into your lower back to deepen your arch.

you don't know what you expected honestly.

did you think he was just gonna take you home and leave you here by yourself? nah.

not after he had you sitting on his thick boner the entire time you were in the car.

you knew eren got off on that pouting shit, and it's even worse when you cried in front of him.

a sob ripped from your throat as he sped his hips up, thrusting upwards to get to that spot that makes you swoon.

your orgasm ripped through your body unexpectedly, hands reaching back to grab onto the man working you through it.

"give me that shit baby. cum for me." eren groans in your ear, hunching over you to hold you closer.

his hips slowed its brutal pace to a halt, letting you catch your breath.

he pulled out slowly, watching your hole quiver at the feeling.

you slump onto the bed with a quiet hum, feeling him rub up and down on your butt.

"turn over, m'not done." he demanded softly, tapping your hip.

you whine, rolling onto your back as you stare up at him.

"don't think i can take anymore." you shake your head once he spreads your legs.

eren just ignores you, pressing a few soft kisses to your sticky clit.

"look at her. just begging for me." he says just under his breath, wrapping his lips around the bud.

he pushes the hood back with his thumb and sucks softly, making your back arch off the bed and into his mouth.

eren moans at your reaction, letting your clit go and licking up around your gapping hole.

he buries his face in it, obnoxious wet noises leaving from where his mouth and your cunt was connected.

you buck your hips into him, letting him wrap his arms around your thighs to limit your movement.

eren pulls away to breathe, pushing your hips down as he sits up and stares down at you.

he pulls your lower half closer to him, slapping his tip against your clit to watch you jolt.

when he pushes his cock back into you again, you can't help but whine at the pressure.

"i knowww baby. m'just apologizing." he moans into your ear, pushing your knees into your chest.

eren takes your hands from either side of you, wrapping them around the back of your knees.

the first thrust knocks the wind out you, one of your hands shooting out by default to stop him.

"put it the fuck back." eren demands lowly, slapping your hand away from him.

you whine and listen to him, toes curling at his brutal pace returning instantly.

somehow, it was worse than it was before.

he pounds into you like he hates you, eyes never leaving where the two of you connect.

the bedframe creaked under the weight of his thrusts, making you feel like you'd fall in any second.

"you love me baby? tell me you love me." eren grunts, rubbing your pearl in fast circles.

you tilt your head back into the sheets, biting your lip to stop yourself from moaning too loud.

"asked you a fucking question, (𝜗ৎ)." eren slapped your thigh, jolting you back into reality.

"love you~ love you so much!" you moan sweetly, tears slipping from your eyes once more.

a sound you don't recognize leaves your throat when his palm increased it's pace on your poor clit, lurching forward.

eren's eyes catch your face when the sound leaves you, eyes hazy and stomach hot with pleasure.

you cum harder than ever before, squirting all over his stomach and the sheets under you.

eren groaned, bulbous tip smooching your cervix while he dumped his cum into you.

the two of you lay there after a while, catching your breaths while he caressed you softly.

"you still mad at me?" eren mutters in your ear, kissing along your jaw.

"..huh?"

That’s what you’d tell yourself every morning—muscled arm draped over your waist, your body curled into him like you were scared he’d vanish if you let go. Seven years of marriage, a daughter with your curls and his sharp stare, a farmhouse tucked deep in Baton Rouge’s countryside where the cicadas sang louder than the radio. A life he built for you—for all of you—with his own two hands.  

But it hadn’t started there.  

It started in that godforsaken hardware store you worked at part time—some tiny, dust choked place with warped floorboards and fluorescent lights that buzzed like pissed off hornets. You were always tucked behind the counter, all curves and those big brown eyes that flicked away every time his shadow darkened the doorway. He’d loom over you, smelling like pine resin and sweat, dropping nails or saw blades on the counter just to hear you stutter through the total.  

“You gonna’ look at me when you talk?” 

You’d huff, but he caught the way your cheeks warmed. Learned quickly that beneath all that shyness was a woman who’d argue with him about the difference between Phillips head and flathead screws just to prove a point.  

So he came back every day.  

Found out you hated the texture of raw lumber—“It’s too splintery," you’d whine, scrunching your nose—but loved the smell of it after it was sanded down. Learned you hummed old Anita Baker songs under your breath when you thought no one was listening. That you bit your lip when you were concentrating, left little love notes in his lunchbox when he was in vocational school, and that your fingers fit perfect between the gaps of his own calloused ones.  

Then came the farmhouse. The way your face lit up when he showed you the deed, how you squealed like a kid when you saw the porch swing he’d built just for you. The nights spent tangled up in sheets, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. The first time he held your baby girl, his life changed for the better. 

But you—you never changed. 

That was the thing that struck him most—how after all these years, you were still you. Still soft spoken, still sweet, still smelling like bourbon and vanilla even when you hadn’t touched a drop of liquor, something about your skin just carrying warmth like honey in sunlight. Still folding his socks into neat little bundles even though he’d toss them into the drawer anyway. Still humming Anita Baker under your breath while you stirred pots of gumbo, hips swaying slow to a rhythm only you could hear.  

Opposites. That’s what people said when they saw you together—his towering, rough edged frame next to your smaller one, his growl against your honeyed giggles, his tattoos stark against your bare, freckled skin. But that was exactly why it worked. He needed your softness the way the earth needed rain—something to gentle the edges of him, something to remind him that tenderness wasn’t weakness. And you? You needed his steady hands, his sharp mind, the way he’d press you into the mattress and remind you that submission wasn’t surrender.  

And now? This. 

A rhythm, a life. Him coming home smelling of sawdust and sweat, peeling off his flannel to wash up before pressing a kiss to baby girl’s curls while she practiced her letters at the kitchen table. You in your little cotton dresses, barefoot on the hardwood, grading homeschool worksheets with one hand and stirring a pot with the other. Nights spent with your daughter tucked between you both as y’all read stories, her tiny fingers tracing the words as you sounded them out.  

It was enough—for the most part. 

Because every family had its cracks—little fractures in the foundation, and yours was coming in fast.

Here you are, humming again. That soft, wordless tune under your breath as you tuck the last dish into the glass cabinet—careful fingers settling porcelain into place like you’re handling something sacred. The late afternoon sun slants through the curtains, catching the gold in your tiny hoops, the curve of your neck as you glance over your shoulder.  

“Isla.” 

Your voice comes out slow, Creole curling warm around some syllables—“Back up from the TV, bébé. Sit yourself on the sofa ’fore you hurt those pretty eyes."

And there she is—your baby, his baby—all wild curls and big green eyes too sharp for a six year old. She pouts, just a little, bottom lip jutting out like she’s considering rebellion, but then she’s shuffling backward, bare feet whispering against the hardwood. 

“Sorry, Momma,” she mumbles, and your heart clenches. 

She’s a perfect blend of you both—your freckles dusting her golden brown cheeks, his sharp brows framing those deep-set eyes. Even the way she folds her hands in her lap is him, all quiet stubbornness wrapped up in softness.  

You can’t help it. You smile, “You want a snack, ’Lala?”

Her face lights up like you’ve offered her the moon.

That silky cream scarf of yours—the one you'd knotted into a makeshift top—clings just so around the full swell of your full breasts, the ends tucked neatly between where your cleavage dips. Your deep red skirt hugs your hips like it's jealous of them, swaying with every little shift as you pad barefoot across the kitchen tiles.  

You catch the clock's hands in your periphery—nearly eight—but it's fall, and rules bend like willow branches this time of year.  

The knife in your hand moves in smooth, practiced arcs—chop, chop, chop—slicing strawberries into fat little hearts before nudging them toward a small plate already dotted with cubes of melon and a drizzle of honey.  

“Do you want a snack 'cause Momma asked..." your voice lilts, teasing, as you glance down at Isla's dark curls bobbing near the counter's edge, “…Or you still hungry from dinner?"

She's stretching onto tiptoes now, chin propped on the counter as she peers at your handiwork. You watch her nose scrunch, considering, before she finally shrugs.  

"Chicken sausage gumbo wasn’t enough for you?" 

Isla grins, all baby teeth and mischief—“I got a big belly like Daddy."  

You hand her the plate with a sigh, “Yeah, baby... you do." 

Speaking of, that telltale roar of his truck cuts through the evening quiet, engine growling like a pissed off beast as he barrels down the gravel road like the devil himself is on his tail. You don’t even have to glance out the window to know he’s kicking up dust, tires spitting gravel.  

Your eyes roll skyward as Isla bolts from her chair before you can blink, her little feet slapping against the hardwood in her rush to the door. You turn the opposite way, hands dipping into the soapy water—one last dish, just to keep busy—but you feel it the second the front door swings open.  

Him. 

Loud. Heavy. Gruff. His keys hit the wooden TV stand with a clatter, his boots thudding against the floorboards like he’s trying to announce his presence to the whole damn parish.  

And God, is he a sight.  

That lumberjack uniform clings to every thick line of him—flannel sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing arms sleeved in ink, fingers decorated with blackwork that disappears under his cuffs. His dark brows are furrowed, but his bandana’s shoved back now, hair pulled into a low messy bun that only sharpens the angles of his face.  

“Daddy!” Isla squeals, arms already reaching.  

“Hey, little mouse.” 

His voice rumbles, swooping her up like she weighs nothing, pressing a noisy kiss to her cheek that sends her into a fit of giggles. His voice drops, German rough but warm as he murmurs something—“Hast du deine Mama heute gut geholfen?" 

Did you help your mom well today?

Isla nods, giggling again before she smacks a wet kiss to his own cheek.  

And then, his eyes find you. 

You keep your back to him, hands buried in suds, but you feel his stare like a brand. The second Isla’s feet hit the floor, he’s crossing the room in three strides, and before you can feign ignorance, his palm cracks against your ass—hard. 

Your breath hitches, eyes flying wide as you twist to glare at him, but his arms cage you in before you can scold him properly. All you can huff is, “‘Ren.” 

That deep, rough grunt vibrates against your back as his arms tighten around your waist—“Actin’ like you didn’t hear me come inside." 

You tilt your head just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder, voice soft but laced with warning—“I told you about driving fast. I can hear you all the way from Metairie." 

His smirk is downright sinful—“That’s how you know your man’s home, baby.”

You sigh—exasperated—but your body betrays you, melting back against his chest like you’re drawn to him by some invisible force. Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his flannel as you murmur, “…Missed you today." 

He hums, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear—“I’m knowin’. That’s why you’re mad." 

Mad? Maybe a little. But mostly just hungry—for him, for his touch, for the way his presence fills up every hollow space in this house.  

You turn fully in his arms now, hands lifting to cradle his jaw as you drink him in. Olive skin kissed by the sun, his bandana pulling his hair back in a way that should be practical but just makes him look dangerous. The tattoos creeping up his neck peek from beneath his collar, ink stark against warm skin, and you can’t help tracing one with your thumb.  

“‘'M not mad," you whisper, gaze flicking back up to meet his—“…Just wonderin’ why you came home so late." 

His eyes—dark green, almost predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail. The way your deep brown skin glows under the kitchen light, the smattering of freckles across your nose, the fullness of your lips. The deep rumble of his apology rolls off his tongue in German first—“Es tut mir leid, Schatz,” I’m sorry, darling—before shifting to English, his voice rough like gravel under tires.  

“Work almost had me cuttin’ down that old oak near Magnolia Creek. The city’s project." 

Your frown is instant, lips parting in disbelief—“What? They can’t do that. That tree’s been there longer than my granddaddy.”

Eren huffs, peeling away from you just enough to tug the bandana from his head. His dark hair spills loose before he’s twisting the bandana playfully around Isla’s tiny fists, then tying it over her curls like a makeshift crown. She giggles, mouth full of honey-drizzled fruit, and you can’t help but shake your head.  

“You’ve been sweatin’ all over that, ‘Ren. C’mon.”

He ignores you—just grins—and taps Isla’s nose, “What’d you do to Momma today, huh? She’s extra fussy."

Isla giggles again, and you watch as Eren finally relents, plucking the bandana back. He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he turns back to you.  

“‘City wants a new park or some shit. Tried to refuse, but—" he shrugs, jaw tight, “Contract’s a contract." 

The resignation in his voice doesn’t match the fire in his eyes. You know that look—he hated every second of it.

“What does the city have to say for the story behind that tree?"

Your arms cross over your chest, fingers gripping your own biceps just to keep from shaking—“The bodies that hung from it? The reminder of what this South was before folks decided they wanted to pretty it up?" 

“Me and a few others signed off on a vote before the city moved forward."

His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your cheekbone like he’s trying to soften the weight of his words—“Can’t cut a tree in the South without askin’, baby. Even then—“

You lean into him before he can finish, pressing your temple against his lips. His kiss is rough, warm—an apology without words.  

“You got fire in you," he murmurs against your skin, voice dripping honey despite the gravel in it. 

“That’s why I love your ass." 

You sigh—weak for him, always—before tilting your face up. His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive swirl that curls your toes against the kitchen tiles.Your face burns when he pulls back, lips still tingling from his kiss. That familiar shyness steals your words—a quiet that Eren already knows too well. He reads it in the dip of your lashes, the way your fingers fidget at your sides. With a low grunt, he lets you be—stepping away before the silence can suffocate you both.

He moves to the table, his heavy frame settling next to Isla with a creak of the wooden chair. 

“Does Daddy get a bowl of gumbo?” he rumbles, flexing his forearm as he props it on the table, “Or is Momma still fussy?"

You’re already pulling out a bowl—rolling your eyes as you murmur, “Hush, boy."

His grin shifts to Isla, broad and warm—“What’d you learn today, mouse?"

Isla perks up immediately. Her small hands pushed her notebook across the table—“I drew pictures!" she announces, her excitement bubbling over as she points to crayon scribbles of trees, a house, and three stick figures—undoubtedly your little family.  

Eren hums, flipping through the pages with rough fingers. Then, softer, he murmurs, “Sag mir was auf Deutsch." 

Tell me something in German.  

Isla puffs her cheeks, concentrating hard before stumbling through, “Ich... liebe... Mama und... und Papa!" 

Her pronunciation is messy, syllables slurred together—adorably imperfect. She giggles at herself before declaring, “Momma’s German isn’t as good as yours, Daddy!" 

"Ain’t nobody’s as good as mine.”

You slide the steaming bowl of gumbo in front of him with a smirk, leaning down just enough to whisper—"Küss meinen Arsch." 

Kiss my ass. 

Then, louder—“Sound about right?" 

Isla’s little gasp turns into a burst of giggles—she might butcher German verbs, but she knows a bad word when she hears one.  

Eren’s hand cracks against your ass in warning—not hard, just enough to make you jump—before he growls, “Say somethin’ our daughter wouldn’t recognize." 

You bite your lip to hide a laugh, nudging Isla gently—“Tell Daddy what you learned about his job today, baby." 

“Lumberjacks gotta know ‘bout tree types,” she announces, pointing to a crooked drawing of an oak, “An’ how to cut ‘em so they don’t fall on houses, an’—an’ you wear special boots so chainsaws don’t chop your toes off!" 

Eren’s chuckle is rich, proud. 

“Daddy’s job is hard, mouse," he admits, ruffling her curls—“But I’m glad you’re interested in it." 

Then, like the damn animal he is, he attacks the gumbo—shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth with zero grace, broth dripping down his chin as he eats like he’s been starved for weeks.  

You and Isla ignore him, turning back to her book—a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are—finishing the last page as Eren’s slurping fills the kitchen.  

Home. That’s exactly what this was.

The quiet hum of the evening settles around you as you fold laundry—freshly dried cotton still warm between your fingers. The scent of detergent lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of bourbon still clinging to your skin.  

Your gaze drifts to the kitchen, where Isla—tiny hands gripping a damp bowl—passes it up to Eren. He takes it without looking, his focus locked on wiping down the counter. His arms flex with each swipe, thick veins rising beneath ink-stained skin, tendons pulling taut as he works. Tendrils of dark hair have escaped his low bun, curling against the dampness at his nape.  

Lord. 

Eren’s voice slices through the quiet, rough with amusement—“You keep lookin’ like that, Mommy and Daddy may need some play time.”  

A soft giggle escapes you—“Eren.” 

He doesn’t glance up, just keeps scrubbing at an invisible spot on the counter. But his next words are deliberate, low—“Isla, go wash up for bed.”  

From your spot on the couch, you catch the shift in Isla’s face—her nose scrunching, brows knitting together in a way that’s all him. It’s the same look Eren wears when he’s biting back irritation, when patience wears thin but he’s trying not to snap. 

Your fingers pause mid-fold as Isla plants her feet, chin jutting out in defiance—“‘M not ready to go to bed, Daddy.” 

Eren still doesn’t turn. Just keeps methodically wiping down the counter, his voice calm but edged with steel—“‘Didn’t ask what you wanted to do, mouse. It’s nearly ten. You’re past what time you usually lay down.” 

A foot stomp. Once, Twice. Uh oh. 

 “I’m not—“ 

That’s when he pivots, looming over her with that look—the one that makes grown men second-guess their life choices. His gaze flicks to you, one brow arched—“You hearin’ her?” 

You press your lips together, suddenly very invested in smoothing out a wrinkled sleeve—“Mhm.” 

Eren’s nostrils flare—“Baby.” 

“Why do I have to get in it?” 

He exhales through his nose—“If I say anythin’ else, she’s gonna cry.” 

You sigh, surrendering—“Isla—” Your voice softens as you meet her big, stubborn eyes—“It’s your bedtime, ladybug. What’s going on?” 

“‘M not tired!” 

“Okay. Well, maybe you can stay up a little—” 

“We’re not givin’ her ultimatums,” Eren cuts in, sharp. His stare bores into Isla, unblinking—“Bed. Now.” 

He waits until the bathroom door clicks shut behind Isla. The faucet runs, muffled, and only then does he turn toward you. His broad frame blocks the kitchen light, casting you in his silhouette.  

“Teaching her ultimatums ain’t gon’ teach her respect when someone gives her an order.” 

You flick a sock into its pile, unfazed—“She’s not in basic training, ‘Ren. Relax. Maybe that’s just her expressing that she’s upset without knowing how else to communicate it.”  

Eren crosses his arms—the movement makes his biceps strain against his rolled sleeves, “That’s fine. But that’s when you correct it. She shouldn’t be upset over somethin’ as simple as brushin’ her teeth and preparin’ for bed.”  

Eyebrow arching, you meet his stare dead-on—“A six-year-old isn’t purposely trying to defy you. You do know that, right?” 

He doesn’t blink.

“Small shit leads to bigger shit in the future. You know that?” 

The sock in your hand crumples. You toss it down, straightening—“You don’t have to hint me in on cause and effect, Eren.”  

“I’m ‘Eren’ now?”

You give him the look—the one that’s equal parts exasperation and really, nigga? 

He exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face—“I’m not tryin’ to argue, goddamn.” 

His voice drops, gruff but controlled—“I’m just sayin’—this is shit we should be payin’ attention to before we put her in public school.”

Your frown deepens, “And when did we discuss that, Sergeant?” 

“That small interaction just showed she’s lackin’ in social cues. She’s too cooped up beneath us—thinks shit revolves around her.”

He shrugs, jaw tight—“She needs to be around other kids. Make her realize it ain’t the Isla Show.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?” 

His lips smack—hard—before he turns abruptly, grabbing the dishrag again and wiping down the counter with more force than necessary.  

Silence settles between you, thick and prickly. The faucet’s still running in the bathroom—Isla’s probably taking her sweet time just to stall.  

Okay, maybe that was a little mean.

So with that, you rise slowly from the sofa, bare feet padding across the hardwood until you’re pressing yourself flush against his back. The heat of him seeps through his thin shirt—always running hotter than anyone else.  

Your lips part, humming Sweet Love—the same Anita Baker melody you’d hummed the day you met him, the same one you’d murmured against his lips at your wedding. He tenses for half a second—then exhales, shoulders dropping as he leans into you. Still silent.  

“Li tètdi kou papa'l," you murmur in Creole—Stubborn as her father. 

No response.  

You press your lips between his shoulder blades, voice softening—“Maybe we’re all just too cooped up in this house…maybe we need a mini vacation this weekend, hm?"

Silence. But you know him—the way his breath hitches just slightly means he’s listening. 

“How about…Bayou Teche?" 

Your fingers tease the hair at his nape—“A nice cabin…weather’s perfect. ‘Means you can go fishing."

A low grunt—almost imperceptible.  

You bite your lip, sliding your hands around his waist—“You can barbecue…drink a beer…Isla’ll tire herself out at the park. And then we can—" 

Your fingers dip lower, brushing against the heavy swell of him through his jeans—already half hard, just from your voice, your touch.  

"Fuck—" 

He turns abruptly, gripping your hips as he yanks you flush against him. Your giggles die against his mouth as his forehead presses to yours, his breath ragged.  

“Devil woman," he growls, but there’s no heat in it—just hunger. 

And God, you love winning.

"You see where I'm goin’ with this?"  

Eren grunts, hands tightening on your hips—“Loud an’ clear." 

Your arms loop around his neck, hips swaying gently against his as you press closer—"So?"  

He doesn't answer. Just captures your mouth in a searing kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy, possessive growl before he yanks back, leaving you tugging at his bruised lip.  

And then—

“Sergeant Yeager’s cool with that." 

Victory. 

Your grin stretches wide, heart thumping—  

"Isla, mouse—" you call over your shoulder, voice singsong—"Daddy’s takin’ us on a trip!" 

Before you can gloat further, Eren’s arm hooks under your thighs and wrenches you over his shoulder in one rough motion. You yelp, kicking as he strides toward the bedroom, his free hand swatting your ass—hard, again. 

"Get dressed for bed, Isla," he barks, voice dripping with feigned irritation—“I’ll be there in a minute."

The bedroom door slams behind you both—your laughter echoing against the walls as Eren tosses you onto the mattress, his smirk dark with promise.  

Game over.

THE RUMBLE OF EREN’S FORD F—150 GROWLS LIKE A BEAST BENEATH YOU, tearing down the Louisiana backroads like the devil himself is chasing him. You don’t even bother fussing about his speed—just flip another page in your book, legs tucked beneath you in the passenger seat as the world blurs outside the window.  

The bassline of Helena by My Chemical Romance thrums through the truck, loud enough to rattle the damn windows—another thing you’ve long since surrendered to. Eren drums his fingers on the steering wheel, rough voice half mumbling lyrics under his breath while Isla belts them from the backseat, completely off key but beaming like she’s performing for a crowd. His daughter through and through. 

Bayou Teche unfolds in shades of deep green and honey-gold—Spanish moss dripping from towering oaks, sunlight dappling through the leaves onto the winding dirt road leading to your cabin. It’s different now—more polished than the rustic huntsman’s shacks from years past, elevated on stilts with wide porches and kid friendly docks. Still wild, though. Still Louisiana. 

You step out first, stretching as the humid air wraps around you like a second skin. Isla scrambles from the truck, tiny hand slipping into yours as you lead her toward the water’s edge.  

“Look, baby—“ you murmur, pointing to the slow moving bayou, where an old man in a faded cap casts his line with practiced ease, “See the fish jumping?”  

Behind you, Eren moves with that same efficient, muscular grace—hauling duffle bags, fishing gear, and the cooler like it weighs nothing. His brow glistens under the midday sun, tattoos flexing as he adjusts his grip, jaw set in that I-refuse-to-make-two-trips stubbornness.  

“Daddy’s gonna catch the biggest one,” Isla declares, bouncing on her toes.  

You smirk over your shoulder—catching the way Eren’s mouth twitches, that quiet pride he’ll never admit to.  

“Yeah?” you tease. 

“Bet he’ll still complain about cleanin’ it.” 

“Keep talkin’ crap ‘bout me to our daughter," he rumbles, voice dripping with mock threat—but his lips twitch, betraying him.  

You giggle as you guide Isla inside—her tiny fingers gripping yours, practically vibrating with excitement. The cabin wraps around you like a hug—rustic wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling, leather couches softened by knitted throws. A large flatscreen TV mounted above the stone fireplace plays Bluey, with WELCOME HOME, ISLA! scrolling across the bottom in bold letters.  

But it’s the table that steals her breath.  

A spread of snacks—goldfish crackers, sliced watermelon, chocolate-covered strawberries sits beside neatly wrapped gifts. One tiny box topped with a bow—pink fishing lures, another holding a book called Dragons Love Tacos, her current obsession and a third—dolls, little trinkets here and there. 

Isla shrieks, scrambling toward the table like it’s Christmas morning.  

A nudge against Eren’s shoulder.  

"You did good, Daddy.”

His lips press against your temple—lingering, warm—before he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Who’re you lookin’ this good for, huh?” 

You’re dressed like a daydream—a vintage white baby doll dress hugging your curves, spaghetti straps straining under the weight of your heavy tits. That golden heart pendant he bought you rests right between them, dipping into the swell of your cleavage like it belongs there.  

Your side-parted curls are piled up in a loose, messy ponytail, secured by a golden heart shaped claw clip—soft tendrils framing your freckled face. Knee high brown boots hug your legs, making your skin glow even richer against the pure white fabric. Southern belle meets sinful. 

Eren’s throat moves as he stares—his own outfit mirroring yours in that effortlessly rugged way. A plain white tee stretches across his chest, clinging to every thick muscle, making his tattoos stand out even more. Dark blue jeans hang low on his hips, tucked into those damn brown boots—nearly matching yours once more. His cap’s on backwards, the brim shadowing his sharp gaze, shirt half-tucked into his belt like the country boy he is.  

“Have I ever told you I love you on your days off?” you whisper, tilting your chin up.  

His nostrils flare—“You flirtin’ with me, Mrs. Yeager?” 

Instead of answering, you rise onto your toes, swirling your tongue against his bottom lip before slipping into a deep, filthy kiss—all heat and slow-dripping promise. He growls, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise as you melt against him. 

“I forgot my Hello Kitty outside, Mommy!”

Before either of you can react, Isla’s already darting past, small feet slapping against the wooden floor as she bolts out the door.  

“Isla!” 

Eren’s voice snaps like a whip—sharp, alarmed—as you both scramble after her. Your heart hammers in your chest, boots slapping against the porch steps as you rush outside—only to freeze at the sight before you.  

Isla stands frozen a few feet away, staring up at a beautifully brown skinned couple—early thirties, dressed in relaxed weekend attire—with their little boy, who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her. The boy holds her pink Hello Kitty plushie delicately in his hands, dark eyes wide with curiosity as he extends it toward her.  

“Did you drop this?” 

Eren reaches Isla first, large hands gripping her shoulders as he pulls her back slightly, his jaw tight. You exhale, stepping forward as you gently scold, “Isla Marie, you do not run off like that!” 

Her bottom lip quivers—but before she can fully pout, you shift your attention to the family, offering a warm, apologetic smile. 

“I’m so sorry—we didn’t expect her to just bolt like that. Thank you.” 

The woman laughs, shaking her head—“No worries. Boys are just as bad.”

You grin, eyeing their son—who’s still clutching the plushie with care—before asking softly, “Are you guys out here for the weekend too?”

The man nods, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist—“Yes ma’am, rented one of the cabins near the water. Figured we’d let the kid burn off allat’ energy.”  

Eren who still stands protectively behind Isla, lets out a low chuckle—“Same here.” 

For a moment, the tension eases—just parents exchanging knowing glances over the chaos of kids. 

With a gentle nudge, you murmur to Isla, “Take your toy and say thank you, ladybug." 

She reaches out carefully, grasping Hello Kitty with both hands before flashing a shy smile—“Thank you." 

The little boy grins wide, one tooth noticeably missing—“Hello Kitty’s cool," he admits, shrugging, “But not as cool as Batman." 

Isla’s eyes light up—“I like Batman too!" 

His father chuckles, running a hand over his son’s low fro—“Looks like you’ve made a new friend."

He extends a hand towards Eren, “This is Elias. I’m Malik, and this is my wife, Noelle."

You kneel down, meeting Elias at eye level with a warm hum—“Elias, hm?" Then, in smooth Creole—“Ou pale lang sa a?" 

You speak this language? 

His cheeks pinken as he nods, responding softly in the same tongue—“Wi... yon ti kras." 

Yes... a little.

You giggle, glancing up at Noelle—“He’s precious."

Then, turning back to Elias—“Well, this is our daughter Isla."

Your gaze flicks back to Eren, who’s standing slightly behind you, arms crossed, expression locked in that stoic-but-watching mode he defaults to in unfamiliar social situations.  

You smirk—“And this is my introverted husband, Eren Yeager." 

Eren’s jaw ticks—but he dips his chin in greeting, reaching a hand out with a gruff voice—“Appreciate you helpin’ with the toy." 

Isla, tugs at Elias’ sleeve—“You wanna see the fish Daddy’s gonna catch?” 

And just like that, the ice is broken.  

Eren exhales beside you while Malik chuckles—“Guess we’re all about to see some fish." 

Noelle grins—“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a playdate now, hm?”

Your voice is warm but cautious as you glance between them—“I’m sure you guys already had plans...we wouldn’t want to impose."

Noelle waves a hand, grinning like she’s already made up her mind—“It’s no worries at all, mon cheri. We have a big enough boat.”

Malik nods, reaching into their nearby cooler before pulling out a six-pack of unopened craft beer—the good kind—holding it up with a smirk, “And… I brought backup supplies." 

Noelle laughs, nudging him—“Anddd, I packed my best bottle of wine—so really, this works out perfectly. I can’t drink this all alone!” 

You hesitate, flicking your gaze up to Eren—searching for that silent yes or no in his eyes.  

His jaw works for a second, then—“…Let me grab my rods and stuff." 

Eren-approved. 

A small smile tugs at your lips as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before striding back toward the cabin—his boots crunching against the gravel.  

Noelle watches him go before grinning at you—“So. That’s Sergeant Yeager, huh?"

You exhale a surprised laugh, recounting your own words of your husband—“Unfortunately."

Isla tugs at your dress, bouncing—“Mommy, can we go now?!”  

You smooth a hand over her curls—“Yes, baby. We’re goin’, alright? Just let daddy come back.” 

And just like that—what was supposed to be a quiet weekend of fishing and cabin sex has turned into impromptu group bonding. 

You were gonna owe Eren big for this one.

The moment your feet touched the semi-large, definitely expensive boat, your stomach flipped—despite the calm water. Eren’s hand engulfed yours instantly, fingers tightening in that silent I got you way he always did when he sensed your nerves. You pressed into his side, letting his solid frame ground you as the gentle sway of the boat made your knees wobble.  

“Batman wouldn’t lose to Hello Kitty in a fight!" Elias declared, arms crossed.  

Isla gasped—“Yes he would! She has magic!" 

They went back and forth, arguing over superheroes, cartoons, and whether chocolate or strawberry milk was better—completely absorbed in their own little world. You bit back a smirk, tilting your head toward Eren.  

“See?"

You whispered, nudging him—“She’s fine."

Then, Noelle appeared with a glass of wine and a small charcuterie board, grinning. 

“‘Figured you could use this more than me." 

You hesitated—but one sip of the rich, velvety Cabernet had you sighing in surrender.  

“Oh my God," you groaned, “This is perfect." 

Noelle laughed, settling beside you as she admired your wedding ring—a delicate gold band with a vintage oval diamond. She gasped, “This is stunning, girl.”

You smiled, twisting it absently—“Thank you…Eren actually picked it." 

Her brows lifted—“Damn. Sergeant Yeager’s got taste." 

You snorted into your wine.  

The conversation flowed easily after that—Noelle mentioning how Elias had been homeschooled for a while before transitioning to public school. Your ears perked up, leaning in as she shared her own worries—too sheltered, too attached, too sensitive to noise. 

“I swear, I cried every day for a week after dropping him off," she admitted, swirling her wine, “But kids adjust easier than you think. ‘Baby girl will be just fine.”

Your gaze drifted toward Eren, and for a moment, you were stunned. There he was—actually relaxed, sharing beers with Malik like they were old friends instead of exchanging stiff, awkward small talk. His deep laughter rumbled through the air, mixing with Malik’s as they swapped crude jokes, their voices low and comfortable.  

God, he looked good. 

Sunlight gilded his olive skin, tattoos standing out starkly against the golden hue. His jaw worked lazily around a toothpick, cap tugged backward, shadowing his eyes just enough to make them gleam when he glanced your way. And then—wink. Arrogant, knowing, all yours. 

Everything was perfect—until it wasn’t.

Eren and Malik now shifted toward the edge of the boat, settling with Isla and Elias perched on their laps, tiny hands gripping fishing rods.  

“Alright, little soldiers," Malik suddenly boomed—now playing around in a full-blown Australian accent, “We’re on a top-secret mission. The enemy? Big bloody fish." 

The kids shrieked with laughter, wiggling excitedly as the boat glided toward a spot where fish flipped wildly near the surface—massive, shadowy shapes darting beneath the water.  

Eren smirked, reaching for his bait bucket—“Gotta lure ’em in just right.”  

You and Noelle exchanged amused glances, watching as the men played up the theatrics—until—  

A sharp jerk on Isla’s line.  

Her gasp was instant—“Daddy—DADDY, IT’S PULLING!" 

Eren’s arms flexed around her, guiding her grip—“Hold on, baby—hold on—“ 

The fish gave one last violent jerk—then plop—disappeared back into the water, leaving Isla’s hook empty. Her bottom lip trembled instantly, but before the first tear could even form, Eren pressed a quick, playful bubble against her cheek with his lips—"Pffft!" 

The unexpected sensation made her squeal, dissolving her sadness into giggles as she wiped her face.  

“Daddy’s gonna get you the biggest fish in the pond, Mouse.”

Time passed lazily—laughter, clinking beer bottles, Malik dramatically retelling fishing stories. And then? 

"I GOT ONE!" 

Elias shrieked this, nearly launching himself out of Malik’s lap.  

Malik wrapped an arm around him, helping him reel in the line as a fat bass broke the surface, thrashing wildly before landing with a wet smack into their bucket.  

Cheers erupted—you and Noelle clapping, Malik lifting Elias onto his shoulders in victory while the little boy waved his arms like he’d just won the Olympics.  

But then—  

You saw that look on Isla’s face.  

The same one from days ago—when Eren had told her to go to bed. The unflinching, determined, plotting look.  

Isla's little voice cuts through the laughter—“That was

my fish!" 

Malik chuckles, “It's alright, baby girl. We can catch you one soon—" 

“NO!" 

Isla lunges forward, tiny hands snatching the rod right out of Elias' grip with a strength that shocks you. Her green eyes—Eren’s eyes—narrow into slits, her voice firm and indignant—“MY fish!" 

Noelle's expression shifts from amused to concerned instantly. 

“Hey, Isla," she says gently but firmly—“That's not okay. We don't do that."

But Isla doesn't care.  

Her face scrunches up, cheeks flushing red, and before you can even react—she explodes. 

“IT'S MIIIIINE!" 

A full blown tantrum erupts—screams, flailing limbs, tears streaming down her face like a damn hurricane. Your eyes widen in horror as you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around her writhing little body before she accidentally smacks someone with the fishing rod.  

"Isla Marie Yeager!" you snap, trying to keep your voice steady despite the utter shock coursing through you.  

She kicks, screams louder—“DADDYYYYY!"—like he’s her last hope.  

And when you look at Eren, begging him with your eyes to step in? He just...  

Takes a slow swig of his beer.  

And says completely deadpan—“This is how she expresses herself." 

Malik blinks. Noelle's mouth drops open. Elias looks terrified. 

And you?  

You stare at Eren like he’s just grown a second head.  

"Eren,” Your voice is lethally calm. 

“What?” 

Oh, you were gonna kill him. 

You bit your cheek—hard—clutching Isla tighter against your chest as you forced the politest tone you could muster. 

“Can we be let off?" 

Malik doesn’t argue—just nodded silently and swung the boat back toward the dock. You were off that deck before Eren could even blink, storming down the pier, Isla hiccuping against your shoulder.  

The cabin door slammed behind you.  

You set Isla down, kneeling instantly to meet her watery gaze—“That was absolutely unacceptable, Isla!” 

Her tiny chest shuddered, tears spilling over freckled cheeks as she whimpered, “‘M sorry, Mommy…" 

You exhaled sharply, cupping her face—“I know you are, baby. But you just can’t do things like that!—“ 

The door opens, Eren strolling in like he hadn’t just watched his child lose her damn mind in public.  

“I explained the situation," he murmurs, tossing his cap onto the couch—“Malik says they’re grillin’ later—we can head back out around seven." 

You stood so fast your knees popped.  

"Are you serious?” 

Your voice was dangerously low, “You’re not gonna say anything about what just happened?" 

He raised a brow.

“Is there somethin’ I was supposed to do?” 

Your body physically vibrated. 

For one glorious, violent second, you imagined yourself lunging across the room. Instead, you scooped Isla back into your arms, murmuring through clenched teeth, “Alright, Eren," and headed for the bedroom.  

His heavy footsteps followed—“What’s the attitude for, huh?" 

You whip around so fast Isla’s little arms tighten around your neck in surprise. Hot Creole words rise like fire in your throat—  

“Ou wè sa k pase, epi ou fè tankou ou pa konprann? Sa k nan tèt ou?!"  

You see what’s happening, and you’re acting like you don’t understand? 

But you stop yourself—swallowing the language thick with fury—and force it into English before it explodes out of you.  

“Eren, I begged you for help—and you take what I said days ago and spit it back in my face? In front of a family we just met. What’s wrong with you?” 

Eren’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays low.

“I saw what happened. I left the chastisin’ up to you—cause when I say somethin’, I’m the ‘mean dad,’ right?"

Your hands shake.  

You gently place Isla down, murmuring “Go play with your toys, baby,” without even looking—too locked into Eren’s infuriatingly blank expression to notice her still standing there, wide-eyed, gripping the hem of your dress.  

And then—  

“You’re fucking ridiculous."

Your voice seeps with venom. 

“You did this to prove a point? Are you a goddamn child, Eren?” 

His nostrils flare—finally, “It didn’t take shit for my point to be made.” 

Your vision tunnels red, every muscle in your body coiled tight as you stalk forward—“Ou vle blagè? Mwen ka twò komik!" 

You tryna’ be funny? 'Cause I can be hilarious! 

Eren doesn't retreat—he never does—just leans down into your space, voice dropping into rough, warning German—”Pass auf, was du sagst." 

Watch your mouth. 

“Ou menm, ou pa bon anyen!" you hiss—hands flying up to gesture sharply.  

You—you're no damn better! 

Eren’s jaw locks, temple throbbing—“Du bist kurz davor, mich richtig wütend zu machen."

You're about to make me real fucking mad.

”Alò fè sa!" you snap—nose nearly brushing his, ignoring the way your pulse screams at the danger—“Mwen pa pè ou!" 

Then do it! Ain’t nobody scared of you! 

A thick silence. And as sniffles come below both of you, reality hits as you feel a tug on your dress. Eren exhales sharply through his nose—eyes flicking down to Isla, who’s now openly crying.

“…Scheiße." 

Damn it. 

He runs a hand over his face, “We're scarin’ her." 

And just like that—the fire gutters out.  

Behind you, Isla sniffles—”Papa...Mama...pe pa fache?" 

Daddy...Mama...no mad? 

Eren's entire posture softens. He crouched down, opening his arms—“Kommen Sie hier, kleine Maus."

Come here, little mouse. 

She doesn’t hesitate—barreling into his chest as he tucks her close, pressing a kiss to her curls.  

You’ve always clashed with Eren—always survived the disagreements that burned hot behind closed doors, where the echoes of arguing never reached innocent ears. But this? This was different. This was the first time Isla saw the fire between you—really saw it—and it scared her. 

Your breath catches. Without hesitation, you lean into her, pressing yourself close against Eren’s chest where he holds her, voice trembling—“Mwen regrèt anpil, ladybug—okay? Mommy’s so sorry."

Isla’s arms fly around your neck shortly after, her face burying into you, dark curls spilling over your shoulders. She doesn’t say anything—just holds on tight, tiny fingers gripping your dress like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then, finally, she rubs her teary eyes against your skin and sniffles—"‘M sleepy, Mommy."  

Your throat burns.  

You nod, scooping her up into your arms, crushing her against your chest like you can press the fear right out of her—"That’s okay, baby. We can ‘go nap, yeah?"

Eren watches silently—and then he sees it.  

The way your hands shake. The way your lashes flutter too fast—eyes glossing over with unshed tears. The way your whole body folds inward like you’re about to collapse under the weight of your own guilt.  

His voice was low, “Baby.” 

You tuck Isla’s face deeper into your shoulder, hiding your own tears—“No, Eren. I wanna go lay down."

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you—soft, final. It leaves Eren standing alone in the hallway with nothing but the silence he gave you when you needed him most. And yeah, that was it. 

Moonlight spills through the window hours later, painting silver streaks across the dark room. The reflection of your pendant catches in your half lulled gaze, but it isn’t what wakes you—it’s the smoky, rich scent of charred meat and spices curling through the air.  

You blink, groggy, realizing you’re curled protectively around Isla, her tiny body rising and falling in peaceful sleep. A stray sniffle escapes her—remnants of earlier tears—and your chest aches. You press your lips gently into her wild curls, whispering, “‘Love you, ladybug." 

You carefully slip out of bed, feet padding silently across the cool hardwood floor. The house is dark, still—except for the faint glow flickering from outside— a sliver of golden light cutting through the shadows of the cracked front door. 

You step forward, pushing the door wider—and freeze.  

Eren set up everything. 

String lights zigzag between the trees, casting a warm glow over the small outdoor table draped in a checkered cloth. Two plates sit waiting—one with a tiny pink fork you instantly recognize as Isla’s, and your own Eren had specially made as a wedding gift. The grill smokes beneath its closed lid, embers glowing beneath.  

And then? There’s him. 

Shirtless, tattoos on full display under the moonlight, backward cap snug over his messy bun. A towel drapes over one shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusts the grill vents with a flick of his wrist.  

He doesn’t turn around, but he knows you’re there.  

“‘You hungry?" 

You wrap your arms around yourself, watching him. 

"What’s all this?" 

“‘Just cookin’ for my family." 

He pauses—then glances over his shoulder, lips quirking around the cigarette, “Hold on—" 

Before you can react, his large hands are on you—gentle but firm—guiding you toward the table and pressing you onto the bench. His voice drops into that ridiculous, exaggerated nobleman’s drawl—“Relax, m’lady. I’m at your service." 

He flicks the towel over his arm with dramatic flair, “Steak? Hot dog? Burger? What would madame desire this fine evening?"

You press your lips together, fighting it—but the smile tugs free anyway. 

“Steak is fine." 

"Ah! A woman of refined taste!”

He snaps his fingers, rushing back to the grill with exaggerated urgency before returning with a plate piled high with perfectly charred steak, veggies glistening with seasoning.

“And would the lady care for a glass of our finest vintage?"

He gestures grandly to a cheap bottle of red wine sweating beside two plastic cups.  

A giggle slips out, “That’s perfect." 

He beams, setting everything in front of you before leaning in, voice dipping low—“And a tip… for your humble waiter?" 

You roll your eyes—but your fingers curl around his jaw anyway, pulling him down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips.  

Eren howls—loud enough that you swat at him, giggling—“Shh! You’ll wake Isla!"

“I missed that smile,” he roughly admitted, “‘Can’t have my woman cryin’ ‘cause we argued over stupid shit anymore.” 

Eren’s words settle between you, soft but firm. You exhale, replaying the scene—the shouting, Isla’s tears, the way your anger swallowed reason whole. Regret claws at your ribs.  

Before he can grab his own plate, your fingers curl around his wrist—gentle, silent—tugging him toward you.  

He doesn’t hesitate.  

Eren swings a leg over the bench, straddling it backward, knees spread wide as he pulls you flush against him—nestled right between his thighs. His hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles.  

“…I hate when we fight," you murmur, forehead tipping against his.  

His breath is warm, laced with smoke and sincerity—“I was bein’ an ass." 

“Yeah, you were.”

He grunts, playful but chastised—“‘Heard you the first time, woman." 

You giggle. 

Then, quieter—“I don’t make choices as a father just to be a dick. I know what it’s like—bein’ that awkward kid at school, feelin’ like you don’t belong. I just don’t want shit like that happenin’ to Isla."

Your fingers trace the ink on his collarbone.  

“And I know what it’s like goin’ from homeschooled to public,” you murmur, “Full of memories, but full of trauma too. I don’t want her to live that either.” 

Eren nods, calloused palm cradling your cheek. 

“She’s a big girl, baby. We just gotta learn to let her fall—let Isla have her own experiences.” 

A beat.  

“I’m sorry." 

You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips to his forehead—“‘M sorry too." 

Outside, the grill smokes. Inside, Isla sleeps.  

And between you two—nothing but quiet, and the weight of love heavy enough to crush every argument left unsaid.

Creak.

The front door nudges open.  

Isla stands there in her little nightgown, curls wild from sleep, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. She doesn’t speak—just stares at you both, searching for the reassurance she craves.  

"Aww, ladybug," you coo, voice dripping with tenderness—"C’mere." 

She doesn’t hesitate—practically scrambling toward Eren’s lap, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she climbs up. You watch as he adjusts her effortlessly, one arm cradling her close while his free hand wipes a stray tear from her cheek.  

Then? Pfft. 

She blows a wet, sloppy raspberry against his jaw, her way of testing the waters—Is Daddy still mad?  

Eren huffs a laugh, his voice dropping into low, steady German—“Du bist nicht in Schwierigkeiten, kleine Maus."

You’re not in trouble, little mouse. 

He exhales through his nose, fingers gently combing through her hair before his voice drops—low, but firm.  

"Ladybug… there’s somethin’ Daddy needs to talk to you about, though.” 

Her little head tilts up, wide, forest green eyes blinking at him—innocent and waiting.  

Eren adjusts her in his lap, cupping her cheek with one rough hand—“Listen. Tantrums and attitudes ain’t nice, pretty girl. You wouldn’t like it if someone snatched somethin’ from you, right? Or if Mommy and Daddy screamed at you every time you asked us for somethin’—how would that make you feel?" 

Isla’s lips quiver—her tiny face scrunching as she shakes her head no, burying herself against his chest with a muffled, “…’Wouldn’t like that.”

Eren rubs slow circles on her back, pressing a kiss to her crown—“I know you’re sorry. But you gotta use your words—tell us what’s goin’ on in that big, smart head of yours."

A pause.  

“But today? With Elias?" His tone hardens, just a fraction—“That wasn’t nice, Isla. He was excited to spend time with you—with us. How do you think he felt when you snatched that rod, huh?” 

Isla sniffles—her tiny fists balling in his shirt.  

“He’s…sad?" she whispers.  

Eren nods.  

“Yeah, baby. ‘Real sad." 

Your chest tightens as you watch—her little shoulders curling inward, the weight of guilt hitting her in waves.  

Eren’s thumb swipes under her eye—catching a tear—before murmuring, “But you know what?" 

She peeks up.  

He grins—suddenly playful—“If you say sorry, I bet he’ll still let us catch the biggest fish after.” 

Isla’s eyes light up—just like that, the storm passing—and you exhale, reaching over to tuck a curl behind her ear. 

And that apology? Well, that’s exactly what happened. 

The walk to Elias’ cabin is quiet—Isla swinging the little yellow paper bag in her hand, her fingers occasionally tightening around Eren’s as nerves flutter in her tiny chest.  

When the door swings open, Elias stands there—one cheek smeared with melting ice cream, the cone dripping in his other hand. His eyes widen when he sees Isla, and for a second, nobody speaks.  

Behind him, Malik leans against the doorway, brows lifting in amusement, while Noelle wipes her hands on her apron—already smiling before a word is spoken.  

Eren clears his throat, nudging Isla forward gently—“Hey, Elias. We came ‘cause Isla had somethin’ to say to you." 

Isla takes a deep breath—then holds out the yellow bag, her voice small but sincere—  

“…’M sorry for bein’ mean, Elias. I got you somethin’." 

Elias blinks. Then—because he’s seven—he immediately peeks inside the bag. His eyes light up when he sees the toy fishing lure inside—the same one he’d been eyeing at the dock’s little shop earlier.  

In true kid fashion, Elias skips straight to acceptance—“Whoa, thanks!"—before gasping, “Wanna see my bug collection?!" 

Isla glances up at you, hopeful.  

You bite back a laugh—“Maybe tomorrow, ladybug."

Malik shakes his head, grinning—“Nonsense. We’re ‘bout to put on a movie for Elias—how ‘bout she stays and watches? Got marshmallows to roast too."

Your lips part to gently decline, but before the words can form—Eren’s voice cuts in, warm and easy.  

"That’s fine. ‘Go ‘head, mouse." 

Your gaze flicks to Noelle’s—seeking reassurance. Noelle rolls her eyes playfully, waving a hand like she’s swatting away your worry. 

“Girl, stop bein’ so sweet! We got this!"

"Okay—well, just call or come knock if anything happens again, or if she needs—" 

Eren’s low chuckle interrupts you, his fingers brushing the small of your back, "She ain’t goin’ to war, baby. Relax.”   

Your eyes narrow at him briefly before you relent—“We’ll just be cleaning up and packing, okay?" 

Malik and Noelle exchange a glance—then look back at Eren, both grinning as they chuckle in unison—"Okay." 

Eren’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you back against him—as he murmurs into your hair, “Breathe. She’s good." 

You exhale.  

The door clicks shut behind you—filled with laughter, sticky fingers and forgiveness—while the two of you walk back into the quiet evening, hand in hand.

The cabin hums with serenity—the golden glow of dim lighting casting soft shadows across the wooden walls. Without Isla’s usual whirlwind of energy bouncing from couch to kitchen, the space feels almost sacred—still and warm, like a breath held too long finally being released.  

You’re folding one of her tiny shirts when you glance up, spotting Eren just outside the screen door, sleeves rolled up as he cleans the grill with methodical swipes of a towel. The scent of charred meat lingers, but soon enough, he’s ducking back inside, arms loaded with leftovers wrapped in foil.  

You smile, smoothing out the fabric in your hands before tucking it into her bag—  

And then, beneath the quiet, comes the soft hum of Anita Baker’s Sweet Love—your voice wrapping around the melody without thought.  

Eren listens.

“Haven’t heard that in a couple days." 

Your smile softens, fingers lingering on the zipper of Isla’s bag.

“Had no reason to hum it," you murmur, “My brain was too busy." 

The bag gets placed gently beside the couch—and the moment you straighten up, Eren’s there.  

Large hands slide around your hips, pulling you back against him with effortless ease. His chest is warm against your spine, his chin resting atop your head as he sways—just slightly—to the rhythm you’d been humming.  A giggle slips free—your hands covering his that rest against your stomach, and you hum again, softer this time. A melody meant only for moments like this—when love isn’t loud, but deep, quiet, filling the spaces between breaths.  

“This has all been so sweet, baby. I’m so thankful for this—for our child, for you."

His arms tighten, lips pressing against your temple.  

And then, softer than the music, your voice wraps around the words—“‘Couldn’t ask for a better husband."

A low, deep rumble. 

“‘Think I don’t give you enough credit for how much you ground me.”

Eren murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with affection—“…Couldn’t ask for a better wife in this lifetime.” 

His lips press against the curve of your neck—soft, lingering, before trailing up to that spot behind your ear—the one that makes your breath hitch, the one he knows will have you react. 

You shudder, as you always do. A shaky giggle escapes as you instinctively lift your hand back, fingers threading into his hair to tug as he nips at the sensitive skin there.  

”The perfect momma," he growls, his free hand curling around your throat—his grip just tight enough to make your pulse jump beneath his palm.  

His mouth is relentless—sucking, biting, leaving heat blooming beneath your skin, until your teeth sink into your bottom lip, thighs twisting together as pleasure curls low in your belly.  

Eyes fluttering shut, you exhale—slow, shaky—your grip tightening in his hair as you arch back into him. 

Your head falls back against the solid curve of his shoulder, surrendering to the possessive heat of his touch. The vintage material of your dress slides under Eren’s rough fingers as they trace the dip of your ribcage—slow, deliberate—before curling under the thin straps and tugging them down in one firm motion.  

Your heavy tits spill free with a soft bounce, the fabric pooling at your waist as Eren palms them greedily. His calloused hands knead into your supple flesh, fingertips dragging over your nipples until they stiffen beneath his touch. A whimper escapes your lips as you twist to look up at him—only to meet his darkened gaze, his pupils blown wide with hunger.  

“Missed these perfect fuckin’ tits,” he rasps, voice thick with desire.  

Before you can respond, his mouth crashes onto yours—hot, suffocating—swallowing every needy sound as his thumbs flick over your aching nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Your back arches, pressing deeper into his grip as pleasure sparks through your veins, your thighs trembling where they press together. His lips move against yours, relentless, stealing every ragged breath as his hands claim every inch of you—rough, possessive, worshiping.

Your tongues slide together in a filthy, wet rhythm—messy and loud—lapping at each other like neither of you can get enough. The kiss leaves you breathless, panting against his lips as your gaze drops down between your bodies—Eren’s rough hands still knead your heavy tits, fingers tugging at your stiffened nipples, making you whimper even more. 

“Eren—" you plead softly, voice trembling, “Isla will be home soon..."   

"Then make sure to fuck me good ‘fore she gets here." 

In one swift motion, his grip tightens on the nape of your neck—shoving you forward onto the sofa with a roughness that sends a jolt through you. Your body bows beneath him, spine arching as he looms over you, his breath hot against your ear.  

“Take this shit off,” he orders, voice low and rough, “Hurry up." 

You don’t hesitate—shimmying out of the rest of your dress, the fabric pooling at your waist before you kick it free entirely. Your brown skin glows in the dim light, curves soft and supple—an erotic dream made real.  

Eren’s gaze burns over you, lingering on the cursive script of his name tattooed just above the dimple of your lower back—his claim, his mark.

Smack!

“Need to keep this shit movin’ like that."

Eren's voice is thick, rough with hunger as he hooks a hand around your hip and yanks you back toward him, “C’mere."

Your legs are spread more before you can even process it—his palm pressing into the small of your back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch. Your face burns as you tuck it against your shoulder, but there’s no hiding—not when he’s got you like this, your glistening folds on full display, inches from his mouth.  

Smack! Smack! Smack! 

His hand lands again—sharp, stinging—and your fingers fly to your lips, sinking between your teeth to muffle the whimper that trembles free. Eren’s thumbs snatch over your folds, spreading you wider, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.  

“Fuck," he growls, low and reverent—“Always had such a pretty ass pussy, baby." 

The words send a shudder through you—his praise filthy, his grip possessive—as he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your slit. Your thighs jerk, toes curling against the couch cushions, but he doesn’t let you squirm away. Not when he’s got you right where he wants you. Open, aching, his.

Eren never eats you the same way twice, each time is a new kind of calculated torment.  

Sometimes, he wants to drag—his tongue slow and methodical, teasing out your pleasure until you’re shaking, convinced it could last forever.  

Sometimes, he wants you desperate—laving over every inch of you except exactly where you need him, forcing you to whimper, beg, pleasepleaseplease— 

And then there are moments like this. 

Where he just wants to make you squirt right on his fucking face.  

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the plush flesh of your ass cheeks as he drags you flush against his mouth—no teasing, no build-up. Just slop. His tongue laps at you messy, loud, filthy, spit frothing against your folds as he eats you like a starving man. Your body tenses all at once, caught off guard by the sheer ferocity of it—because no matter how many times he does this, you’re never prepared for this Eren.  

Your fingers press deeper into your mouth, biting down on your knuckles as you whimper— “B—baby…"—your gasps pitched high and sweet, tortured.  

He doesn’t care.  

He just groans into your cunt, tongue swirling in a rhythm on your clit that turns your brain to mush, pleasure so mindless you forget how obscene this must look—how embarrassing—your hips arching, thighs trembling as he devours you.  

Then, his lips latch onto your folds, shaking his head side to side—  

The wet, sloppy sound echoes in the quiet cabin. Your mouth falling open in silent shock, nearly going slack. 

Pffft. 

Your pussy farts right against his lips, frothy and obscene from how drenched you are. 

“I feel you, baby.” 

Eren drawls, his voice vibrating against your dripping flesh as he keeps shaking his head—messy, relentless—letting you feel every hot exhale against your sensitive skin—“Get it out for me." 

Your frown deepens—lips pressed together, brows knitted—nearly looking mad at how easily he pulls this reaction from you. But then—your thighs jerk, a whimper breaking free as your body betrays you—  

A gush of slick spills over his chin, his lips, his nose—and Eren groans, deep and satisfied, grinding your pulsing pussy against his face like he’s savoring it.  

“Fuck," he rasps again, “That was sooo fuckin’ good, baby."

His fingers tangle in your curls as he comes up, gripping tight as he yanks your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. Dark, possessive, commanding. 

“‘Keep them eyes here." 

His other hand fists around his cock—thick, heavy, precum glistening at the flushed tip—stroking himself slow as he watches you squirm.  

This is Eren in sergeant mode—voice rough, tone brooking no argument as he orders, “Come sink down on it." 

You listen, even when you don’t want to. Your spine arches deeper, folds spreading on their own as you lower yourself—his tip catching your entrance in a suffocating chokehold before you finally sink down.  

Your pout returns instantly—“Mmmph—!"—a shuddering moan escaping as your pussy creams around him, clamping down in slick, desperate pulses.  

Eren grunts, hand cracking against your lower thigh—“That’s what the fuck I like to see."

His grip bruises as he forces you to take more, “Already ‘bout to split you open." 

Your eyes roll back the moment you’re fully seated—his cock growing inside you, hitting that deep, deep spot—your cunt lets out another wet pffft as you whimper, ”Mmmmygod, fuhhhck.” 

Eren’s gaze burns into yours—mouth curling into that evil glower as he grinds up into you, “It’s curvin’, huh?” 

You can’t even answer—too busy gasping as he drops you down again—slow, aching strokes that drag against every swollen inch of your walls.  

“Ou twò gwo…”

You're too big… 

Eren chuckles, dark and satisfied—watching your brain turn to mud as he fucks it right out of you.

Eren fucks you with the same relentless intensity as he ate you—no mercy, no reprieve. His fingers tighten in your hair, dragging your head back as he punches deep into your trembling pussy—each slow stroke deliberate, each thrust burying his cock to the hilt.  

His voice drops into low, rough German—“Du kannst das schaffen. Du bist ein großes Mädchen.” 

You can take it. You’re a big girl. 

But you aren’t—not right now—not with the way his cock bulldozes your walls, his heavy balls slapping against your swollen clit, his thick shaft painting white streaks inside you every time he pulls halfway out.  

A broken mewl slips from your lips—Creole spilling in shaky protest—“Mwen pa...M’nottt…” 

“You think that’s gonna stop me from fuckin’ you?” 

You gasp, “‘R—Ren—“, but before you can finish, his palm cracks against the side of your face—not harsh, but firm, a warning.  

Both hands circle your jaw from behind, tilting your head back as he uses you—leverage to tug you onto his cock with every punishing stroke.  

“Actin’ like you don’ want every inch of this shit poundin’ you out,” he growls, voice fatal—hot breath against your ear as you cling to his wrist, muffling your sounds into his palm.  

They’re long, whiny, stupid—pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, your pussy clenching around him like it’s trying to milk him dry.  

And this is where you lose. 

It wasn’t just the way he handled you all the time—it was the way he talked to you. Eren knew. That sweet, patient rasp of his voice could lull you into submission, but right now? Right now he wielded his tone like a weapon—rough, cocky, mocking—and you were helpless against it.  

Your pussy relaxes, letting him sink deeper with no fight, even as your face twisted in protest.  

Eren notices.

"Look at you," he drawls, hips rolling deep, "’Not even fightin’ my cock." 

His palm smoothes over your trembling stomach—possessive.

"Daddy’s so proud of you, mommy." 

And—fuck. 

Your moans halt, just for a second—eyes watering, lips trembling—before a broken sob escapes you, your cunt clenching around him as you cream in surrender. 

Eren groans, fingers digging into your hip as he repeats it—“Daddy’s so proud, mommy. So fuckin’ proud." 

Your ass claps against him—wet, obscene—as he pounds into you, your cries dissolving into weak, defeated whimpers.  

He coos, like you’re some fragile thing—“I know, baby. Keep milkn’ me. Just like that." 

“…I’m—I’m cumming…!” 

It’s barely a whisper—pathetic—but Eren grins, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he fucks you through it—relentless, merciless—until you’re nothing but a trembling, dripping mess in his hands.

Your squeal is pitiful as you squirt again, your face tucking into the crook of Eren’s arm as he pulls you into a rough headlock. His bicep presses against your lips, muffling your whimpers as his groan rumbles directly into your ear—  

“Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Your cries are stifled, swallowed by his skin as he fucks you through your orgasm, each stroke punching another broken sound from your throat. His hips stutter—then lock as he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, his cock pulsing as he fills you up.  

You’re desperate for his mouth. Twisting in his grip until you find his lips, you kiss him sloppy, wet—teeth clashing, tongues tangling—both of you still grinding against each other like you can’t stop. The cabin air thrums with it—love, passion, heat—until the frenzy finally slows, your bodies slick and trembling.  

Eren pulls out, your body shivering at the loss. But your mouth stays on his, chasing his taste like you’re starved for it.  

Then—arrogant as ever—he growls against your lips, “‘Gonna give you another baby." 

Your giggle is weak—dazed—as you peck his swollen mouth, “Your brain is overdosing on endorphins. You don’t mean that." 

"Another girl," Eren grunts against your lips, his voice still rough with pleasure, "Iceland." 

You giggle even more, “They’d be nearly ten years apart." 

Eren huffs, nudging his nose against yours.

 “Maybe a sibling would help her social skills,” his smirk is smug as he adds, “‘See how I’m always stayin’ on topic?"

You roll your eyes but gently pull him forward, letting his heavy body settle over yours, his head nestling between your breasts with a contented sigh. The moment quiets—just the sound of your breathing slowing, your fingers threading lazily through his hair as the afterglow hums between you.  

“…She’ll get to learn all of that in school.”

Eren’s closed eyes flicker open—his head lifting slightly as he studies you.

"Like…public school?" 

You nod, watching his expression carefully.  

“What made you change your mind? 

“…It’ll be good for her," you say softly, fingers still combing through his hair—"’Like you said. Her experiences won’t be yours, or mine. They’ll be Isla’s." 

Eren stares at you for a long moment—green eyes tracing over your face—before his lips curve into something warm, something proud. 

"You’re a fuckin’ woman," he murmurs, voice thick with admiration, “My woman." 

Then he’s surging up, capturing your mouth in a deep, searing kiss that makes you giggle against his lips one more time—your heart full, your body still humming with the echoes of him.

"Iceland," Eren growls, his hot breath fanning over your inner thighs as he drags your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself between them again.

“‘Perfect fuckin’ name for my second daughter.” 

His thick tip slaps against your soaked folds, already teasing, already possessive. And then?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Mommy? Daddy?"

Panic shoots through you like lightning. You barrel off the couch, scrambling for your discarded dress, hands shaking as you yank it over you. You’re smoothing your hair, wiping at your swollen lips as you squeak out, "Coming!" 

Your eyes narrow at Eren who hasn’t moved an inch—still lazily sprawled on the sofa, half-hard and smirking. You smack his shoulder, hissing under your breath, "Eren, get dressed!" 

He just chuckles—deep, unbothered—before calling toward the door, “Hold on, Mouse. Momma and Daddy were just having a play date." 

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. Creole slips out in mortified protest—“Eren, pitié!” 

But it’s too late. Noelle and Malik’s muffled voices drift through the door now, "See? Told you they needed time alone!” 

Eren’s laughter rumbles through the cabin—warm, unrepentant—as he finally stands, tugging his pants up with one hand while the other pulls you close. His lips press a tender kiss to your temple—soft, sweet—a silent promise.  

Yours. Forever.

The only sound was your faint, heavy breathing. You watched the number run across the screen, the number you knew by heart, the number that called your phone every night and morning until three months ago. The device buzzed furiously in your clammy palms as if screaming at you to answer–daring you.

You had met him about 10 months ago. Well, met was a generous word–heard from him. It was the night of your 20th birthday, a night you would never forget for many reasons, his acknowledgment of you being one of them, much to your dismay. You had posted at least six pictures of your night out, the ones of you receiving the most love from your following. You looked beyond, darling, in your baby pink mini dress, with your white designer heels adding just three inches to your height, which wasn’t much. A tiara sat atop your rose blond install, your favorite hairstyle that year probably, giving off the impression that you were the princess you dressed like. Pretty wasn’t even the word for it.

You’ll never forget how you had climbed into bed wearing nothing but a towel after your shower, beyond tired and too exhausted to slip into some dainty little pajamas but extremely pleased with how your night went, your hot pink bonnet protecting the hair you were so fond of, ready for bed. It was a habit of yours to check your phone before sleeping, just in case you had missed anything aside from the Instagram notifications admiring you popping up every few minutes. However, one of those notifications stood out. The two of you weren’t mutual, nor did either of you follow each other, which wasn’t unusual. People find your account all the time. His username wasn’t familiar, nor did anyone you knew follow him. Yet, there was something so intriguing about the stranger. He hadn’t said anything even remotely memorable.

e.jaegarr._ liked your story

e.jaegarr._ liked your story

e.jaegarr._ replied to your story with: ‘damn am i too late to say happy birthday mama?'

You thought back to how you grinned, typing back a quick ‘no, a happy birthday is always welcome’ before inspecting the account, not having an image of him in your head just yet, but expectations of some basic guy still lingered in the back of your mind. It took a second for his page to load, janky ass student housing wifi, and when it did, there wasn’t much to see at first. Raising an eyebrow and glancing at the photography posts, you clicked through his highlights, quickly admiring his many documented adventures until you found something you could work with.

To say your mouth turned to dry cotton would be an understatement. He was not the average, medium ugly guy who stumbled across your page 99% of the time, not the slightest bit. From what you had gathered after seeing his birthday cake in a previous slide, his name was Eren, and Eren was the embodiment of fine.

His hair was long, possibly exceeding shoulder length, a mere estimate you made based on the way it sat in the messy bun in the back of his head, strands of his chocolate locs framing his handsome face, and the nonchalant expression he wore, which it seemed only he could pull off. The lighting in the pictures wasn’t the best, meaning he sucked at personal pictures outside of his photography hobby, but you could make out the color of his emerald orbs as they almost spoke to you through the phone. Not a lot of guys could pull off piercings and tattoos, art in the form of ink covering his right arm, chest, and neck, but the septum ring that hung from his nose looked too good on him, not to mention how sexy the hoop ring on top of his blush pink bottom lip. You could only imagine how the cool metal would feel against your lips.

Without knowing, you bit down on your bottom lip as you stalked, occasionally allowing your tongue to wet your lips as they grew dry from your teeth piercing them. Startled by the buzzing in your hand, you read the response, a lazy grin spreading across your face at his humor.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, given that he was just a random guy from Instagram and that he lived in Sacramento, miles and miles away from you, but damn, did that boy know how to apply pressure. It began with a few texts from your number, as he was so charismatic that he got your number the night he responded to your story. You hadn’t ever talked to a guy like him, a guy with depth, in touch with not only his feelings but the feelings of life all around him. It was hot. Hot as fuck.

Before you knew it, the two of you were calling every day, and if one of you couldn’t sleep on the phone the night before for whatever reason, he was calling the minute you were up. With these calls came intimacy.

Lots of it.

It wasn’t abnormal for you to be complimented and praised after your every move. You were a beautiful, ambitious girl. There was something incredibly addictive about how he spoke to you and admired the little details of your appearance that you shared over the phone. He noticed things, like when you changed the way you styled your edges. All of it went straight to your lower half, something you eventually but shamefully admitted, leading to an entirely different relationship than the one you planned to have with him.

“Your pussy’s so fuckin’ pretty, ma. Spread your legs more, let daddy see how wet that shit is.” he groaned out, his voice so, so raspy and enticing, only adding to the leaking mess your pussy had become from his words alone. You felt your hole clench around your fingers as you opened your legs wider, growing greedier by the minute as you watched him stroke his dick, not paying any mind to how embarrassed you were being this vulnerable for someone. Fuck, it was big. And so pretty. “There you go, baby, good girl.”

You needed him so badly that it had started to hurt. Every movement he made and every word that rolled off of his tongue went straight to your cunt, the aching becoming more and more painful as you pumped two digits in and out of yourself, your slick staining the silk sheets on your bed. The most angelic mewls fell from your mouth, your sounds causing Eren’s dick to twitch in his hand. ‘Daddy, it hurts so bad–f-fuck, I n-need you.” You hiccupped, squeezing your eyes shut.

It was sinful, the way he threw his head back and let out those grunts, cursing under his breath as he increased the speed of his stroking. He swore he’d never been this horny until he met you. “I know baby, daddy knows. ‘m gonna come see you, ma, I promise and I'm gonna fill that pretty pussy up.”

“You got me so, so wet, Eren. Fuckkkk, ‘m close,” you whined as that familiar coil built up in your stomach.

He smiled, taking a mental note of how your body reacted to the experience, every jerk or twitch, or how your eyebrows furrowed when your clit twitched. “Yeah? You close, mama?”

You sloppily pumped your fingers inside of your pussy, your release threatening to gush all down your bed. “So close, ‘ren, please.”

“Cum baby, make a fuckin’ mess for daddy.” He watched as clear liquid sprayed from your pussy, admiring how you knew to keep your fingers inside because he knew that you knew he’d want you to cum for him again. Sweet praises fell off his tongue as you came undone on his phone, not even noticing the white spewing from his angry red tip, staining his boxers.

Things were so domestic with him. His name ran through your head at least a thousand times a day, and it didn’t help that he seemed perfect in your eyes. He liked paying for your hair appointments knowing he’d be the first to see and he loved picking and paying for your nails knowing you’d be spreading your soaked lips open for him later that night. Then there were the random gifts sent, usually something you had mentioned you were saving for. And he cooked! He’d give you cooking lessons in his mom’s kitchen, where he claimed all the good seasonings were while his mom scolded him to not burn anything, always speaking to you sweetly and calling you her daughter. You loved the nights when he’d pull an all night with you while you studied, no matter how busy he was the next day, watching movies high as a kite and eventually distracting you and making you laugh. It was everything to you–he was everything to you. Naturally, you had assumed the two of you were an item, at least boyfriend and girlfriend status because anyone would. Eren was your boyfriend. You were his girlfriend.

Right?

“‘Ren?” you murmured, cozying up in one of your many blankets as you watched him fiddle with his gaming controller, his beautiful eyes immediately leaving the TV screen upon hearing you call his name.

“Yes, baby?” He set the controller down.

You bit down on your bottom lip, the artificial flavoring of your strawberry lip gloss dusting your tongue, exhaling shakily. “What am I to you?”

He grinned, looking down in an attempt to hide how quickly the thought of you made his cheeks warm and pink. “You’re mine, my girl. You know that.” He didn’t give his answer much thought as he didn’t think there was more depth to the question.

“So we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” you snorted, laughing off how childish the question was even though you were extremely nervous to ask it.

“If we lived closer, of course.”

…Huh?

You sat up, resting your weight on your elbow as you squinted and jerked your neck back. You furrowed your brows, mouth instantly settling into a pout. “What does that mean?” You spat, tone nowhere near as endearing as it was seconds before.

Eren’s brow raised, not liking your tone because it was the tone you spoke in when a nasty attitude was brewing within you. “What do you mean? Baby, we talked about this. Fully committing to something long distance doesn’t work but you know how I feel about you. I didn’t think it was something you still thought about."

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes. “Do you mean when we talked about this shit months ago because in that case, we didn’t talk about a fuck thing? Since when were a couple of miles an issue for you?”

He sat up, eyes piercing into you through the phone because one, the two of you did talk about it, and two, he hated it when you spoke to him like you didn’t have any sense. “Watch your mouth, not about to say it again either. We did talk about it, [♡].” Aggravated wasn’t even the word to describe how you were feeling. Long distance wasn’t an issue when he introduced you to his mom or when he promised to take care of you, so why was the label such a big deal?

“Man, whatever, Eren. You think you’re about to lead me on and have me looking stupid and you’re not.”

“Nobody is leading you on or making you look stupid, what the fuck are you talking about? I’ve meant every word I’ve ever said to you. What about a label changes that?” He groaned, growing a bit irritated himself.

You laughed but you were nowhere near amused. “You know what, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ll talk to you later or somethin’.”

He huffed, reaching for the phone knowing you were about to hang up in his face to piss him off. “Nah, ain’t no later–”

“Goodnight, Eren.”

That was three months ago as of tonight. Eren tried for days to get more than one word responses from you, but everything you said to his paragraphs was nonchalant and cold. No matter how much he called, texted, or emailed you, it didn't make a difference. Nothing seemed to change how you felt about the ordeal. At the time, you didn’t think you were being dramatic. For fucks sake, he had seen your entire body, knew you like the back of his hand, and been the first man you had uttered the words ‘I love you’ to. However, as the messages came, they eventually stopped. He stopped calling, no longer trying all around. As weeks passed, he accepted that things might’ve been over between you guys as much as it hurt him to admit it. You would’ve reached out if he didn’t seem to be doing so fine without you. Just as you had started to get over the issue, he started posting more, traveling to cities with people you had never seen him with, and even getting another tattoo. It was like he didn’t give a fuck, like there wasn’t a girl states away grieving his absence.

Your reminiscing was cut short when the numbers lit up the screen of your iPad once again. It never dawned upon you that you had never officially blocked his number after blocking him everywhere else. You picked up the remote control for your LED lights, changing the color from lavender to white. Your fingers shook profusely as you propped your iPad up enough so he’d see nothing past your bonnet. Swiping the phone button to the left, you let out a shaky breath as the connection went through. In seconds, you experienced the same awe as months ago, just as you did when you first saw him.

“Mama,” that familiar yet foreign raspiness making your heart skip a beat. Half of his long hair fell on his broad shoulders that poked through his black t-shirt while the other half was in his usual man bun. He’d never cut it. Those low, piercing eyes focused on whatever he was doing in his lap, his slender fingers likely rolling a blunt. Half his arm sleeve was visible, but it had been touched up. He sat pretty in the driver's seat of his blacked out Jeep, the moonlight bleeding through his cracked windows emphasizing just how stunning he was. “Where you at? I want to see you.”

See you? “Hello to you too, Eren.”

He chuckled, eventually looking up from his la. “Hi, baby. Why can’t I see you? I didn’t call to see your ceiling, lil’ girl.”

You huffed, biting back a smile as you adjusted the angle of your iPad, revealing everything he had missed so dearly. You always looked so pretty, your lips greased up with whatever lip gloss you had in rotation for the month. The wavy curls from your braids that had come out of your bonnet framed your round face, making you look too soft. Your reading glasses were slightly crooked, but it didn’t matter because they still sat adorably on your face like he remembered. He did his best not to look down at your breasts bursting from the little white tank top you wore, but he couldn’t help it.

“Happy now?” You sucked your teeth, avoiding eye contact.

“Very,” He licked his lips. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are you?”

You hadn’t thought about it when you answered, but where Eren lived, the sun didn’t set for another two hours. He looked so good in the moonlight you hadn’t realized that the moonlight was supposed to be a sun setting on his pale skin. “Home… Where are you?”

He laughed softly, grinning. You were a smart girl, he knew you’d figure it out. “You know where I am, mama. I still remember your address.”

“Eren, I know you’re not in my fuckin’ city right now…”

“You know I am. I’m about to be on my way to you. What floor are you on again? That apartment complex is big as hell.” He talked so cooly about coming to see you as if it was something he’d done before as if he didn’t live in California. You knew Eren well, and from what you learned about him, he wasn’t bullshitting, and frankly, that’s what scared you the most about this whole thing. He was serious, maybe more serious than he had ever been.

“Why?” You spoke out, attempting to conceal how nervous he was making you.

“Ain’t no why. You’re lucky I didn’t pull up and knock on every door in that building. You know exactly why, I’m coming to see you. Like I asked you before, what floor do you live on?” You watched as Eren started his car, muscles flexing so deliciously as he moved. Focus. You knew there was no talking him out of his plan, he was stubborn like that and truthfully, you did know why he was asking. You wanted to talk to him, you had for a while now.

Taking one last look around the room and back at Eren, whose wheels were already rolling, you sighed. “The sixth floor.”

The pit in your stomach was something similar to the Mariana trench. It had been around ten minutes since Eren hung up, and it only took fifteen to get to your apartment from where he currently resided in the city. In that ten minutes, you had done a lot. Eren started sharing his location with you again, so you didn’t have any additional time to sit on the bed in disbelief because you knew he was coming, so you did your best to prepare on such short notice.

You lathered your body in an additional layer of cocoa oil and vanilla-scented lotion, reviving that fresh aroma from your shower two hours ago. The bonnet was staying on, but you did your edges to add extra flare and applied a layer of the lipgloss you wore.

Now, you told yourself he wasn’t coming into your room. Whatever talking the two of you would be doing could be done in the living room, on the couch, at a friendly distance. At least, that’s what you repeated to yourself as you straightened up your room, storing away your school supplies and picking up laundry. You didn’t care to change either, not wearing more than some little pink shorts and a white tank top with care bears printed on the fabric. No bra, no panties. Revealing, but Eren could look, not touch.

While making sure your living room was presentable. Three loud knocks echoed through the space, each adding to how intensely your heart thumped against your chest. Your jaw fell slack, hands anxiously gripping the fur on your couch pillows. Another knock. Eren wasn’t supposed to arrive for another five minutes, not to mention the elevator ride and the walk to your unit. The walk towards the door gave you a sense of impending doom if that phrase had a positive connotation. Each step on the cold wood floors sent chills up your spine, and you thought you would fart by the time you got to the front door. With a trembling handle, you flipped the locks, taking a deep breath as you twisted the knob.

You smelled him before you saw him, the scent of his cologne, likely the one you bought him, mixed with a faint trace of weed, overwhelming your sense of smell. He was tall, you knew that, all of him and his lean yet muscular structure standing at an accurate 6'2, but it was different in person. You felt those eyes, his green eyes lined with rings of silver and pools of curiosity and a hint of nervousness. His chest was moving up and down, poking through his shirt, seemingly matching with the black sweatpants that loosely hung on his hips. He was even more attractive in person, all of his features unique.

You stood frozen in the doorway, just like he was. Though he seemed better at concealing his nerves with his body language, he felt just as anxious as you did. He had imagined what it would be like to see you in person a million times, but nothing could compare to how gorgeous you truly were, no matter the circumstances.

“You look pretty, baby.” Eren slurred, shamelessly eyeing you as a predator did its prey, like he wanted to devour you right there. It made you feel small under him. You swallowed the thick pool of spit in your mouth, biting back yet another smile as you shifted your feet. 

“Thank you.”

“Can I come in?” You nodded, stepping aside for him, your legs feeling weak as you inhaled his scent. His head hung low as he walked over to your couch and took a seat. He lowered his gaze, eyes sinfully inviting as he watched your figure as you walked towards him. Eren almost chuckled, remembering that he knew what you looked like underneath those little ass clothes. If the mood were better, he would’ve been six out of eight inches deep into you right now, as he promised.

You sat on the couch, closer than you planned, somewhat avoiding his eyes, folding a leg under your bottom as you stroked the fur on your couch pillows. You were so cute.

“Damn, mama. I know we haven’t talked, but I thought you’d have more to say. What’s wrong, hm?” He teased, twirling a strand of his hair.

You scoffed, jerking your head back. “You’re the one in my city claiming I know why you’re here, so you should be talking. Talk, Eren. Why are you here?” He sucked his teeth, reminding himself to address your little attitude later as if he even played with you like that. Eren sat up, his attention entirely on you. Deep down, he hoped his appearance would settle this little feud once and for all.

“In all honesty,” he started. “I’m here because I took a job at an art gallery in the city. If we’re being real, I only took the job to run into you because I didn’t need it. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted to see me before but I couldn’t take this anymore. I missed you so bad, [♡]. I felt like a piece of my soul was missing without you, I can’t imagine being one of the losers who lost you physically. I understand why you reacted the way you did but I can’t go another fuckin’ day without having you in my life.” Tears welled in your eyes as you listened to him speak, all of your old feelings resurfacing. He scooted closer, taking you by surprise.

“Eren–”

“No, listen. Distance was never in the way of my feelings for you. I just didn’t want to hurt you by not being here with you physically all of the time because I know how you are. You know that was my reason for not making things official, as stupid as it sounds.” You did know that. He had told you that a few times. You felt a little embarrassed listening to him explain things to you because honestly, you hadn't thought of a few points he was making, and you couldn’t help but think that if you did, the entire separation could’ve been avoided. Eren would’ve been yours physically in no time.

During the lengthy conversation, he was so careful with his words, never once invalidating how you felt while ensuring you understood things from his point of view. Whatever question you had, he had an answer for. It was captivating to watch his facial expressions as he spoke, something you had always wanted to experience in person. You noticed how he focused his gaze on you, how he blinked when he was confused, and how quickly his cheeks flushed when he felt strongly about something. “I’m sorry, [♡]. For everything.” His head hung low, the deep brown strands of his hair working as curtains to hide the emotions on his face. Pretty boy, you thought. 

“Eren.” You whispered. His head shot up, eyes full of nothing but guilt he didn’t even need to feel. Your heart felt tight in your chest seeing him like that. “I forgive you. I’m sorry too. It wasn’t right for me to not hear you out.”

“C’mere, mama.” Eren huffed, spreading his legs and opening his arms for you. You didn’t hesitate, moving closer to and straddling him. You smiled and wrapped your arms around the nape of his neck, the same aching between your legs from months ago reappearing as he placed his hands on your lower back, rubbing at the fat right above your ass. He smelled so damn good. His presence alone turned you on. “Let me look at you.”

He grinned as he let his hands roam your waist, not quite touching your ass yet. “I can’t believe I finally got my hands on your pretty ass after all this time. Fuck, you’re so pretty, even when you’re mad at me.” He leaned in, pressing his lips against your own, stealing whatever gloss remained on your lips. You cupped his jaw in your hands, deepening the kiss. It was innocent at first, his lips embracing you and your presence. Stroking your thumbs against his soft cheeks, you hungrily chased his lips, wincing as he bit down on your bottom one. You felt his lips turn up against yours.

At first, you hadn’t realized you were rolling your hips against his, too enticed by the feeling of his lips against yours for the first time. It was when your fingers started to toy with the hairs on the nape of his neck and when his hands had started pawing at the fat of your ass that you knew where things were going. And what did you look like stopping?

“Fuck,” Eren hissed, the movement of your hips applying pressure to his already growing hard-on. “What are you doing, mama?”

You licked your lips, placing a kiss behind his ear. “I need you, ‘ren. Now.”

He pulled back and scanned your features, looking for any signs of doubt on your face before he gave in. “Yeah? Want me to show you how sorry I am, pretty girl?” The smirk that spread on his lips was telling. You shyly nodded, gripping at his shirt. He placed pecks on your jawline, moving down to your neck, every kiss growing sloppier until the angelic moans he missed so much slipped from your lips. Eren’s hands were rough, rocking your hips against his and slapping at your ass every time you moaned in his ear. You knew he had a big dick, but feeling it harden against your cunt, the wet spot in your shorts growing by the second.

His hands slid up the back of your tank top, prompting you to remove it altogether before he did. You sat on his lap, tits in his face, nipples hard from the friction and cold atmosphere in the living room. Eren murmured curses under his breath as he rubbed his thumb across your nipples, sloppily placing his mouth on the left one, and he continued toying with the other. “So fuckin’ beautiful, baby, fuck.” You whimpered, throwing your head back, the pleasure only adding to the pool of arousal you were sure he could feel by now. 

“Feels so good, ‘ren, shit.” He sucked at your nipples like he was starving. He needed to taste them. 

“Let me take you to your room,” He breathed out, voice an octave deeper. “Please.”

Giggling, you stood up, holding your hand out. “Come on.”

“E–eren wait a second–fuck,” you wailed, fingers desperately clutching handfuls of the hair between your legs as you threw your head back. He hummed, attentively observing your face change expressions as he greedily sucked your clit. It had been like this for around thirty minutes now, him sucking your juices out of you until you were pleading for your release. The moment the two of you stepped into your bedroom, he nearly consumed you as you were, his soft pink lips leaving marks from your neck to your thighs as he thrusted three digits into your soaking cunt until you were clenching around his fingers. You barely had time to recover from the intense pleasure, quickly ending up where you were now, about to cum for the second time if he wanted you to. “Too m-much, baby.”

His eyes darkened as he pushed your legs further back, slurping and licking every little bit of slick that dripped out of you as he inserted two of his fingers again. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet, mama. Wait just a little longer for Daddy,” he mumbled. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull as he curled his fingers upwards, hitting every nerve in your walls, making you clench around his fingers so, so tight.

The sounds he made against your pussy were downright filthy as he buried his face in your heat, fingers now coated in a layer of cream. You were so wet for him, at least three times wetter than you were on the phone, and it drove him crazy to see your pussy so nasty for him. Soft whimpers fell from your mouth as you felt your release coming, the feeling seemingly more intense than it was before due to his edging. “Daddy, I can’t hold it, please, I need to c-cum.” With every plea, his tongue swirled so intensely around your clit. He made it so hard to hold it.

“You’ ready to cum for me, pretty girl? Tell me how bad you need to cum, and I’ll let you.” Eren whispered, leaving faint kisses against your throbbing clit as he pumped more of your wetness out of you.

“I need it so bad. Let me be good and cum for you, please, ‘ren.” You wept, legs trembling like leaves in the wind.

He grinned, emerald eyes locking with yours as he nodded. “Atta girl, go ahead, mama.” The nastiest moans came out of you as you finally let go, vision going blurry as your head fell back into the sheets. You ground your cunt against his face, unknowingly adding to the aching in his boxers as you cried out his name. He whispered praises between your legs, biting down on his lip as he watched your body react to the pleasure, taking in every little twitch or jerk your body made.

“You look even sexier doing that shit in person. Come here, [♡],” He sat up, pulling you closer to him by your ankles. You were so fucked out already you hadn’t even realized he hadn’t been inside of you yet. He laughed as he took in your expression, in awe at how beautiful you looked. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Eren pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the tattoos you had longed to see on his toned stomach. His body was so sexy, muscles flexing while doing such a simple task. Spit pooled into the cavern of your mouth as you watched him pull down his sweats and boxers, nearly moaning at the mere sight of his dick springing out. His tip was pretty and an angry shade of red as it slapped against his stomach, making a ‘thud’ sound. He was so big, all eight inches of him falling against his thigh. “Shit,” you whispered. Eren only chuckled as he pulled the rest of his clothes off his ankles. “Eren…”

He rested his big hands on the back of your thighs, thumbs slowly stroking the skin. “You’ gonna be good and take this dick for me like you promised?”

The way he talked alone made your stomach churn. You nodded, tucking your bottom lip under your teeth as you eyed his length. Fuck, that was a lot to take in person. “Yes, ‘ren.”

He leaned in, sucking at the marks he previously left against the canvas of your neck as he positioned himself at your entrance. He was so rough as he licked and tongued the bruises he had left, hoping to distract you from how big the stretch was. With a wet squelch, you felt the thick head of his dick enter you, instantly clenching around what little you were given as you gasped. He groaned against your neck, murmuring curses at the feeling. “Oh my god.”

“Shit, you feel good.” He wasn’t all the way in, maybe four or so inches deep, but the feeling of him sliding into you was already too much. Your arms wrapped around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as your eyes nearly bursted from the sockets. He moved steadily, as he pushed the rest of what could fit into you, the pulsating of your gummy walls driving him mad. God, you felt as good as you looked, all wet and warm like a hug. You cried out his name in response, clit throbbing as you looked down and watched him enter you. It felt incredible, but it was a scene so dirty. You were almost gushing against the veins that decorated his dick, your pussy gripping around the shaft each time he pulled out. “This pussy feels too good, mama, damn.”

He increased the speed of his thrusting, each movement prying those beautiful noises from you as he hit the spots none of your toys had located. You were embarrassingly wet for him, the sounds of your moans clashing with the sound of your cunt greedily sucking him in. He groaned at the feeling and gripped your thighs tighter, watching a white ring form around the base of his dick. “There you go, cream on that shit, good girl.”

“You’re makin’ my pussy feel good, Daddy,” you cried as your nails clawed against his back. His balls harshly slapped against your ass, adding to how loud the two of you were. Between his breathy moans and your long, drawn out whimpers, you were sure you’d be getting a noise complaint sooner or later.

“Fuck,” He could feel you getting ready to cum as he pushed in and out of you, pussy making the sweetest mess against him. The feeling of you gripping him like you needed him inside of you was nothing he had ever felt before, causing his hips to stutter. You looked gorgeous as you made those pretty faces, calling out for him as his tip kissed your sweet spot. “You look so pretty right now, mama. Takin’ this shit like a good girl, ‘m so proud of you. I'm so, so sorry for leaving you, ma.”

That familiar feeling consumed your lower half for the third time in almost an hour. The assault on Eren’s back only worsened as he fed you those long, deep strokes, your pussy leaking onto the sheets at this point. “D-daddy.”

Eren looked down at your wet eyes, unable to resist the smile on his lips. He could feel you getting close, and he loved it. He loved feeling you so much that it was about to make him cum too. “I feel you, baby. Fuck, this pussy taking me so good, daddy bout’ to cum too.”

You closed your eyes, gripping the hairs on the back of his neck as you came again. “Oh my g-god, Eren.” You cried as your toes curled in the air. His movements grew sloppy as you gush around his dick, making him whine. 

“Come here, ma.” Unexpectedly, he pulls out, a loud ‘pop’ bouncing off the walls as he pats your quivering thigh. He groaned, slowly stroking himself with one hand. His eyes were dark, his hunger for you growing as the two of you locked eyes. You shivered as you sat up into a kneeling position, legs almost giving out on you in the process. He smirked as he removed his hand from his dick, wrapping it around your neck and giving it a good squeeze. “Let me fuck your pretty ass face til’ I cum?”

You nodded eagerly and opened your mouth, letting his sticky shaft fill up your mouth as he kept his grasp on your throat, wasting no time as he bobbed your mouth up and down his wet shaft. The view from above was amazing. You looked divine looking up at him with those big doe eyes as he fucked your throat. A mixture of your cum and spit ran from the sides of your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks and down his balls. Eren moaned loudly as your throat tightened around his tip as it hit the back of your throat. “F-fuck, look at you eating that dick up like a fuckin’ good girl. I love that shit.”

He pulled you off his length, hand still firmly around your neck as he looked down at you. You swallowed, breaths heavy. He tapped your cheek, muttering an ‘open’. His dick visibly twitched when you followed his order and stuck your tongue out. Curling his tongue, he leaned down, a thick glob of his spit sliding off the wet muscle and into your mouth.

“Swallow that shit.” You swallowed, the action adding to the mess between your legs. He smiled and pushed his dick back into your mouth, now thrusting harder than before making thick spit bubbles form around the base. You brought up a shaky hand and stroked whatever didn’t fit in your mouth, not once letting your gag reflex stop you. His chest rapidly moved up and down as he got louder and breathier. Your mouth felt so good around him. “Shit–’m cumming, mama.”

You hummed, closing your eyes as he shot warm, white ropes down your throat, a thousand curses falling from his lips as his hips jerked. The two of you were making a mess as his hips slowed down. Streams of white dripped down your chin as he pulled out of your mouth.

Giggling, you held onto his thigh. “You taste good.” 

His breaths were heavy as he chuckled, leaning down and wrapping his lips around yours, spit and cum making the kiss sloppy. “You did so well for me, you know that?”

“Mhm, ‘m your good girl, Daddy.”

“If you keep talking like that, I’ll have you up all night, keep playin’.” You smiled as he cupped your cheeks, peppering kisses across your face. “I’m gonna clean you up and get you some water, okay?”

“Okay, ‘ren.”

“And, [♡]?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.” He said with his chest, attention locked on you as a blush crept onto his cheeks.

the difference was the shape of your tummy. as her dream continued her mind began to pick up the alterations of your body, how your stomach was fuller, and not in the way it usually is after you ate a full meal and end up a bit bloated. no, it was rounder.

perplexed, she walked closer to you and it was then she picked up on the setting her mind conjured up. it was your shared bedroom, but as she looked past you, she noticed a little addition in the corner between the closet and the window.

a small, wooden crib.

inside there were small baby pink pillows and a linen blanket with floral patterns embroidered on the material. plushies of varying animals could be seen inside as well.

as her eyes scanned the display, your soft voice finally broke her out of her reverie:

“you excited, honey?” you asked, your eyes fluttering up at her, and there was a glow to your face that she couldn’t quite place. you were radiant, and she was enthralled.

your hands smoothen over your belly before you reached up and touched her cheek.

“I love you so much,” you said, your voice merely a whisper “thank you for making me a mommy.”

she woke up in cold sweat that night.

ever since she’s been acting weird around you. asking you certain questions that raised an eyebrow or two, being extra handsy whenever you’re in the kitchen and she’d sneak up behind you, wrap her strong arms around your waist, which she’s always done whenever you were washing the dishes or cooking, but this time you noticed her hands were extra attentive to your belly.

how her palm would smooth over your midsection, kissing the pulse point below your ear, and nuzzling her face in the crook of your neck. holding you in a way as if she was scared that at any moment, you’d slip away.

yeah, something was definitely up with her.

you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly the issue was but you’d notice how her attention would drift off to certain things she never would’ve paid any mind back then.

you noticed it when you went to the market and brought sevika with you, too busy scanning the aisles of fresh vegetables that you didn’t pick up on the way sevika’s eyes wandered elsewhere.

specifically to the little kids playing far off into the distance chasing each other around with huge smiles on their faces, making sevika’s chest flutter and she was so fixated on the sight that her ears drowned out your voice and didn’t even notice you were calling out her name.

“sev,” you snapped your fingers in front of her face which finally caught her attention “are you there? I was asking if you’d like chicken soup for dinner?”

she cleared her throat and just nodded “y-yeah, it’s up to you, honey.”

you weren’t dumb. you noticed where her eyes drifted to and it was only a matter of time before the topic was brought up. but of course, she was stubborn, not to mention quite shy when voicing out her interest on a matter as serious as children.

regardless, you persisted.

“something bothering you, baby?” you asked her as you settled in bed late one night.

she shook her head “no, I’m fine.”

you hummed, your hands rubbing her forearms as you moved to straddle her lap.

“it doesn’t seem like you are. you’ve been distracted.” you said as you leaned down to pepper kisses down her neck “you know you can tell me anything…”

her chest tightened at your soft tone before she finally lets out a sigh “I had a dream a few nights ago.”

you listened intently as you motioned with your head for her to continue.

“it was weird because the idea never even crossed my mind before but… I dreamt you were pregnant. with my child. it’s crazy, I know. it’s not like it’s possible anyways but… I just can’t it get out of my mind.”

“the thought of having kids?”

she nodded as her flesh hand gripped your waist “and just… you. carrying my child. fuck baby, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

her voice dropped several octaves lower as she recalled the entire dream by memory “your belly was round, and you were glowing. you know that pregnancy glow they talk about? you had that. and your tits were all swollen and you looked so happy…”

you bit your lip as you started grinding lazily on her thighs, and you swore her eyes darkened.

“yeah? you liked the idea of knocking me up, honey?” you whispered, leaning down to press your mouth against hers “like the idea of making me a mommy?”

it was as if she was transported back to that dream, and she couldn’t help the primal need that suddenly uncoiled inside her hearing your words and how pliant you became.

“you like the idea?” she asked, her tone husky and it took a while for you to answer as you pondered.

after a minute or two, you nodded “if I’m being honest, it never crossed my mind either. thinking about it now though…”

her palm gripped your ass, making you squirm as she sat up a little so her face was closer to yours.

“you wanna have my kid, sweetheart?“ she asked “be my little housewife who walks around taking care of our baby while I go out and provide for our family?“

your eyes practically rolled to the back of your head as you gripped sevika’s shoulders.

“please daddy,”

and that’s how you found yourself on all fours, face pushed against the mattress as sevika plowed in and out of you with her strap. your juices dripping off her cock as she throws her head back and moans, the harness hitting her clit just right and causing the perfect amount of friction.

she reaches forward and takes you by your hair and pulls “that’s it. take it. take it for me, mama. such a good cunt that’s gonna take all my cum. you’re gonna take it won’t you?”

you nodded, drool gathering at the corners of your mouth “please, daddy. it feels so good.” you were basically slurring your words at this point and sevika couldn’t help but chuckle at your state. so cock drunk as she took you by your arms, and held you up so your back was against her chest.

she gripped both your tits with her flesh and mech hand, the cold texture of her metal fingers pinching your nipple and a shiver ran down your spine at the sensation. all the while you jostled violently in her hold as she kept hammering into you.

“pussy’s so fucking tight,” she groaned, reaching down with her right hand as she fingered the hood of your clit and rubbed, making you cry out “gonna fill it to the brim with my cum so you’ll have no choice but to carry my fucking kid. you will won’t you, sweetheart?”

you panted heavily as the fast strokes of her fingers and the harsh thrust of her cock inside you made your head spin “daddy, please. fuck. it feels so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. put a baby inside me please. make me a mommy.”

“oh, I’m gonna give it to you, alright. I’ll have one, two, three and heck, ten fucking children running around this house by the time I’m done with you.” beads of sweat slid down her forehead as she felt the throes of her orgasm approaching.

“because that’s all you’re good for right? to have your tight little cunt stuffed and bred?”

your climax tore through you so hard all you could do was whine in a silent cry, meanwhile sevika kept battering in and out of you still as your slick pooled down your thighs, the loud smacking of wet skin filling the room as she chased her own release.

“that’s it…” she muttered, holding you close “if only I could, I’d fuck this pussy just enough to get you pregnant on the first try.”

you sighed, blissful as you continued to let sevika use you, thinking if she really could. you’d let her.

over and over and over again.

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.